25 WALTER H-.BAKERfir CO- , 
 ^ BOSTON * "L 
 
GIFT OF 
 
Ten Boys' Farces 
 
 With an Introduction on 
 
 Impromptu Dramatics 
 
 By 
 EUSTACE M. PEIXOTTO 
 
 Notice 
 
 These plays are published for the free use of amateur players 
 and organizations only. Professional actors or companies pro- 
 ducing them in any form or under any title, without the permis- 
 sion of the author, who may be addressed in care of the pub- 
 lishers, will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 WALTER H. BAKER & CO. 
 
 1916 
 
Ten Boys' Farces 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 INTRODUCTION IMPROMPTU DRAMATICS - 
 Origin 
 
 Effects on the Boys 
 Psychologic Fitness 
 Possibilities of Impromptu Drama 
 The Part of the Adult 
 Plot Sources 
 Scenery and Properties 
 
 DlNG-A-LlNG ...... 
 
 THE LAST REHEARSAL 
 
 ROSIE, THE GIRL FROM PARIS - 
 
 THE TEACHER'S PET ..... 
 
 LOST BUT FOUND 
 
 POLITICAL PROMISES 
 
 WHEN THE CAT is AWAY .... 
 THE EVIL THAT MEN Do LIVES AFTER THEM 
 CHIPS OFF THE OLD BLOCK - 
 THE TRAMP BARBERS , 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY EUSTACE M. PEIXOTTO 
 As author and proprietor 
 
 PAGE 
 
 3 
 
 23 
 35 
 43 
 5i 
 
 57 
 67 
 77 
 85 
 9i 
 99 
 
 All rights reserved, including moving picture rights 
 
Impromptu Dramatics 
 
Impromptu Dramatics 
 
 ORIGIN 
 
 The farces that follow in this little book are no more by me 
 than is the Iliad by Homer, if we are to believe modern critics 
 of ancient classics. They have grown up in much the same 
 way that the Iliad grew, at first spoken many times until there 
 came to be a set way of speaking them, and then written down. 
 Fortunately, their origin is not as remote as the days of Homer, 
 and we can trace it rather directly, although to acknowledge 
 their complete authorship would involve the inclusion of so 
 many names that this book would be mainly title-pages. 
 
 These farces are for boys, and they are largely by boys. 
 They represent boy speech, boy action, and boy psychology. 
 Naturally, in consequence of this, they will not come up to the 
 highest standard of excellence from the point of view of the 
 dramatic critic. Nor do they teach lessons. Most plays that 
 are written for boys by grown-ups try to. In other words, 
 many people who are working with boys are so busy educating 
 them that they forget to amuse them ; they are so busy trying 
 to cultivate their tastes that they forget that boys have tastes, 
 and that if these tastes are not catered to there will be little 
 progress in cultivation. Our theatrical managers know that 
 they cannot fill their theaters all the time with problem plays 
 and Shakespeare. The public will not stand for it. Neither 
 will the boy stand it if his club always supplies him with plays 
 that teach a moral. That is why many boys' clubs attract 
 very few boys. They get the " highbrows," the boys that cor- 
 respond to their elders who patronize the problem plays, but 
 the boy in the street stays there, gets his passive drama in the 
 nickelodeon and his active drama with the policeman as villain 
 and himself as the pursued hero. 
 
 The type of farce here exemplified furnishes an amusing 
 substitute. They do amuse both the boys and grown-ups. 
 
6 TEN BOYS' FARCES 
 
 Tne average adult goes to a children's performance under com- 
 pulsion, or because his child or his friend's child is in it. He 
 manages to sit it out unless he can make some excuse to get 
 away early. He persuades himself that it was " very well done 
 for children," and showers compliments on the performers for 
 their work, making them think they can really act a play when 
 they cannot. In consequence of this kind of plaudit, many a 
 highly praised amateur dramatic "star" has been led to sad 
 and sometimes serious extinction on the professional stage, 
 while the general effect on children of telling them they have 
 done something well which they have not done well is certainly 
 harmful to a proper self-appreciation, which is an essential of 
 socially bearable character. 
 
 Now it is a fact that boys have performed the farces in this 
 book before many thousands of grown-ups in many towns in 
 America, and even in other countries, and the audiences have 
 shown their appreciation by laughing heartily and by coming 
 again when the boys that presented the farces have revisited 
 their town. These facts have led me to believe that while their 
 literary worth may be doubtful, there might be some value in 
 publishing them in a land where Recreation Centers, Play- 
 grounds, Boys' Clubs, Y. M. C. A.'s and Settlements are all 
 doing dramatic work, and therefore seeking suitable plays. 
 
 I have often heard people say how hard it is to find or to 
 vrite good plays for boys to act. This is probably true because 
 few grown people have a real understanding of, or real sym- 
 pathy for, a boy's mind, his likes or dislikes. However, the 
 boys can be their own authors quite successfully with a little 
 adult direction and assistance, and this combination has pro- 
 duced the farces to be found in this volume. 
 
 In the Columbia Park Boys' Club of San Francisco, in which 
 all of these plays were originated, the boys meet every after- 
 noon and evening after school in group-clubs of twenty-five, 
 and after a business meeting and an hour's manual training work, 
 comes the time for the "schrade," as the boys call the acts. 
 
 This boys' name for them tells something of their origin. 
 Many years ago in the Club some one, tradition saith not who, 
 started Acting Charades as one among many other well-known 
 parlor games that were used to amuse the boys. Acting Cha- 
 rades became popular, and talking as well as acting was intro- 
 duced. Then, gradually, the acts that were used to represent 
 the syllables became more and more elaborate, and charades 
 began to supplant all other forms of amusement as an attraction 
 
IMPROMPTU DRAMATICS 7 
 
 after work hour. After a while, the idea of representing a word 
 disappeared entirely, and the "charade " became in reality an 
 impromptu act, though the old name still stuck and, though a 
 misnomer, still obtains in this Club, the boys pronouncing and 
 even writing it "Schrade." 
 
 " What is the ' schrade ' going to be? " " Who has a good 
 idea for a ' schrade '?" are the questions one may hear any 
 afternoon or evening. Some one has an idea an insurance 
 office, a tramp barber, a plot gleaned from some story read, the 
 daily newspaper, or some local event the action is mapped 
 out, a climax or " ending " decided upon, the boys are assigned 
 their parts, there is a rush for the costume room where a large 
 assortment of miscellaneous old clothes is collected, and the act 
 begins. The words are entirely improvised as the play pro- 
 gresses. 
 
 Fully fifty per cent, of the impromptu acts so produced are 
 lacking in good plot, the boy actors do not put much sparkling 
 wit into them, they are not much good from any point of view, 
 and are never performed again. Some score a success and are 
 repeated on another night. That is, the same plot is used, 
 though the dialogue will naturally be somewhat different, as 
 different boys will have the parts. Some are repeated over and 
 over again until the words as well as the plot become pretty 
 well fixed by tradition. "Rosie, the Girl from Paris," for 
 example, was originated somewhere about 1900, and has been 
 performed thousands of times both in the Club and in public, 
 but I venture to say that no boy has ever taken a book and 
 studied his part. In fact, the play was never written down 
 until a year or two ago. 
 
 For "The Last Rehearsal, " I claim original authorship, that 
 is, I "had the idea," and with some of the boys gave its first 
 performance (made up as we went along, of course) somewhere 
 about 1903, if memory serves me. However, the ending was 
 different, there were many more interruptions, and there were 
 not half the funny lines that are in that farce as it will be found 
 printed here. These improvements have grown up in the lit- 
 erally two thousand times that this has been acted in the Club 
 itself and in public performances given by the boys all up and 
 down California, across the United States, and all through 
 Australia. That farce, perhaps the most popular of all, will 
 probably be given many times again by the boys of the Club, 
 but I cannot vouch for the fact that it will be given as it is 
 written down in this book ; in fact, I strongly suspect that, 
 
8 TEN BOYS* FARCES 
 
 although a performance now would follow the " lines " pretty 
 closely, as the words as well as the act have become tradi- 
 tional, no single performance would follow them exactly, and 
 that no two performances would be exactly alike if one were to 
 report them stenographically. This statement applies to public 
 performances just as much as to those in the Club itself; in 
 fact, it is this very quality that gives the public presentations 
 the spontaneity that makes them so much enjoyed by those who 
 see in them a natural expression of happy boyhood, rather than 
 the outcome of long, wearisome rehearsals. It is this quality 
 that makes the giving of public performances a pleasure and 
 not labor for the boy actors. 
 
 EFFECTS ON THE BOYS 
 
 What then is the effect of these acts upon the boys that take 
 part in them, other than to amuse? Have they any educa- 
 tional value in addition to a recreational one ? I believe so. 
 Being spontaneous expressions and not repetitions of somebody 
 else's words, the boys quickly lose all shyness and self-con- 
 sciousness before an audience. They never think of stage 
 fright. No one ever forgets his lines, because if some one 
 makes a mistake and says something he should not, the other 
 fellow has to cover it up by new lines made up on the spur of 
 the moment. Having to improvise their lines, the boys learn 
 to think quickly and speak quickly, and in this way this type 
 of play offers a far better method of training in public speaking 
 than the average boys' debating club, where the boys try in a 
 stilted manner to discuss subjects far above their heads. It is 
 a fact that any boy, and many of them are men now, that has 
 ever had this training can get on his feet before an audience and 
 express his thoughts without halting and blundering about. 
 
 Moralists will probably note that practically all of the farces 
 given as examples in this book are unmoral, many of them 
 almost immoral in showing the success of deceit and similar 
 outcomes. " Acting such plays will have no good, and per- 
 haps a bad, effect on the boys 1 characters," I can hear them 
 say. Empirically, I can answer that it has not over a period 
 of some fifteen years. I know of no case where a boy has been 
 tempted to wrong-doing or active crime by these acts, as they 
 are sometimes by seeing moving pictures. That is my empiric 
 
IMPROMPTU DRAMATICS 
 
 answer, but the reason is not hard to find, theoretically and 
 psychologically. 
 
 PSYCHOLOGIC FITNESS 
 
 If we bear in mind the psychology of boys about the ages of 
 the usual actors in these farces, ten to sixteen, we will note that 
 the farces themselves are eminently characteristic of that period. 
 Following the Recapitulation Theory, which seems now to be 
 che most generally accepted one, boys of this age are considered 
 by such psychological authorities as G. Stanley Hall and Pro- 
 fessor George W. Fiske as having the same mental make-up as a 
 man of the tribal and feudal periods in the history of the race. 
 Let us note some of the characteristics of these farces. 
 
 In the first place, they are traditional, like the literature of 
 the tribal and feudal periods. Writing is perhaps easier for the 
 boy of eleven to-day than it was for the average adult of those 
 stages of development, because he is forced to learn it in our 
 twentieth century schools, but it is nearly as distasteful, and 
 the boy of that age does not naturally express himself in writ- 
 ing. He is not yet composing verses on the sly and contrib- 
 uting stories to the high school paper. That comes later. As 
 writing is distasteful, so is reading to many, and the sitting 
 down and memorizing a part is as unpleasant as a lesson in 
 school, and school is pretty unpleasant for most boys of this 
 age. In fact, most of them are spoiled for higher education at 
 this period of life by acquiring a distaste for school or anything 
 that resembles it. The traditional side of these plays therefore 
 appeals immensely, though unconsciously, to the boy. He 
 must follow the story, but he can add quavers and variations 
 of his own, just as each itinerant minstrel did in the days of 
 traditional songs and stories. He acts a part, but that part is 
 a little bit of himself, and that is why he acts it well, and the 
 boys do act these farces well, as a rule far better than the av- 
 erage group of boys, even when they are drilled by a good 
 dramatic coach. 
 
 Then again, an analysis of the subject matter of even the few 
 examples of the dramas here published throws further light on 
 the reasons for their popularity. In practically all of them there 
 is a " rough house." Usually that is the grand climax and 
 ending. Most of the humor is horseplay. Naturally, one can- 
 not expect boys of this age to appreciate Shavian wit. In fact, 
 
IO TEN BOYS* FARCES 
 
 how many of us adults fail to laugh when one comedian 
 " swats " another with a broom ? It is old, but it still fills the 
 houses. Practically all of Shakespeare's humor is of the horse- 
 play variety, and he makes free use of the pun on words and 
 the misunderstanding of words that one finds all through these 
 farces. The humorous passages may not be considered the 
 highest expression of his art, but the plays that contain the most 
 of them are the most popular to-day, and probably were in his 
 own time. 
 
 What I am driving at is this : These farces may not be a 
 high type of literary expression, but they are all boy, they are 
 the stuff that boys understand and appreciate, and most of the 
 plays that are written for boys are not. The average adult who 
 sits down to write a play for boys wants to elevate them, so he 
 concocts a play which he himself would not go to see had he 
 not written it, but which he thinks will be a good thing for 
 boys to act, and the boys do act it for lack of something better. 
 A boy cannot understand love scenes, because he has never felt 
 love, and boys usually act these very badly, but, because such 
 scenes are indispensable in the average play for grown-ups, a 
 love plot is often put into a play for boys where it has no place. 
 " Rosie, the Girl from Paris," might be said to have a "love 
 plot," but it is burlesqued into just what the average boy of that 
 age thinks love is, something awfully silly. On the other hand, 
 the average boy understands all about robbing, deceiving, play- 
 ing tricks, and the like juvenile court records attest that fact 
 and he can act scenes of this kind on the stage even if he 
 does not off it. Some people no doubt think it wrong that boys 
 should act such scenes, but to my mind there is less danger 
 when they have acted them on the stage that they will act them 
 in real life. It is folly to say that a boy is going to grow up 
 without a knowledge of these things. Every one has certain 
 bad tendencies, and if he can work them off in imagination, he 
 is far less likely to attempt them in real life. 
 
 POSSIBILITIES OF IMPROMPTU DRAMA 
 
 I do not wish to be understood to claim for the farces that 
 follow even that they represent the highest possible expression 
 of boys' dramatics : far from it ; but I do maintain that they 
 represent a real expression. The important thing is their im- 
 promptu nature and origin, the fact that they are boy produc- 
 
IMPROMPTU DRAMATICS II 
 
 tions, not produced for boys. The field of expression in the 
 Columbia Park Boys' Club has been so far almost entirely lim- 
 ited to farcical comedy. Occasionally melodramatic acts have 
 been attempted, but none has ever been really successful, that 
 is, none has ever been so developed by tradition that I or any 
 one else knows it well enough to write down. There has been 
 a beginning, however. In the annual " charade competitions " 
 between the various afternoon and evening clubs for the last two 
 years, attempts have been made by the boys to produce more 
 ambitious plays. This opens an interesting field for experi- 
 ment, as yet practically untouched. I remember, as a boy my- 
 self, I was steeped in mythology. Bulfinch's Age of Chivalry, 
 the Boy's King Arthur, and the like were my delight, and I 
 used to act on my own account great tragedies and heroic 
 scenes from these stories, dressed in sheets and home-made tin- 
 sel helmets, with visors that really could be raised by means of 
 bent hairpin swivels. I did this by the hour, and for a num- 
 ber of years, but either entirely alone or with my playmates. 
 We had no adult audiences or adult assistance ; in fact, we 
 avoided grown-ups, for we felt rather silly and conscious 
 when they were around, but now, looking back at it from the 
 point of view of one interested in children's plays, I am not a 
 bit ashamed of it ; in fact, I am rather proud of my early dra- 
 matic instincts. I would like to see other boys doing likewise, 
 for I think they would get lots of fun out of it, and at the same 
 time, I think it would be a good thing for them, and they could 
 do better things than I did, if they were assisted by a little 
 sympathetic adult suggestion. There is quite a movement to 
 interest boys in books of chivalry, why not let them act them ? 
 Some day I hope to try this experiment with a group of boys : 
 First, to get them interested in King Arthur, Roland, or some 
 hero of romance, and then to work out with them, impromptu 
 fashion, a pageant that will be a real pageant, real because the 
 actors will be really trying to express their historic feeling, in 
 their imagination putting themselves back into a past age and 
 speaking as people of that age. They will not be merely mouth- 
 ing properly words written for them by some erudite person who 
 has delved into ancient lore. 
 
 We are thinking nowadays of amateur dramatics as a means 
 of education and of self-expression on the part of the actors, 
 even more than for the amusement of the audiences. In fact, 
 as in modern amateur athletics, we are trying to bring all the 
 people in as actors, not as spectators. The Drama League of 
 
12 TEN BOYS* FARCES 
 
 America has some such purpose, but I am told one of their 
 chief difficulties is in finding suitable plays for children. Why 
 not let the children make them up with the adult merely a guide 
 and mentor ? 
 
 THE PART OF THE ADULT 
 
 The part of the adult in this work is worthy of special men- 
 tion. As in other forms of organized play, which is what these 
 farces really are, an adult leader is necessary to achieve the 
 best results. Naturally, such a leader should have some quali- 
 fications, just as any other play leader must be qualified. He 
 must have a certain ability as an actor and some dramatic sense. 
 In producing impromptu farces, an adult usually takes an im- 
 portant part, and thus keeps the dialogue moving, while in the 
 preliminary " making up" of the act, adult advice plays a 
 major role. 
 
 Often, boys come with an idea that has none of the elements 
 of a good farce, and a more experienced head has to turn it 
 down. Then again, an idea will be suggested that is fairly 
 good in itself, but needs amplification and working out. An 
 ending has to be added and characters introduced that will best 
 work out the ideas and that are best adapted to the actors that 
 happen to be available for that afternoon or evening. In this 
 way, characters in a farce are often changed. One boy 
 may impersonate a good Irishman, another a good Italian, 
 and so on. In many of the farces, such, for example, as 
 " Ding-a-Ling " and " Political Promises/' it matters little 
 whether one of the characters is an Italian or an Irishman, 
 therefore the part is frequently adapted to the actor. It must 
 be remembered that character parts are much easier to portray 
 than "straight " parts, that is why so many of them are to be 
 found in these farces. Talking with an unnatural accent takes 
 the boy out of himself, and he acts the part better than if he is 
 just talking naturally. All this the adult leader must know and 
 make use of. 
 
 There is a whole series of farces in which there is the plot 
 skeleton of " The Boss and Business." The scene opens show- 
 ing a "boss" and some kind of an office boy. Several char- 
 acters come in, are deceived, and go out, then find out their 
 deception and return for revenge, the execution of which, or 
 the escape of the deceiver, being the climax or "ending," 
 
IMPROMPTU DRAMATICS 13 
 
 usually a "rough house." This plot skeleton furnishes the 
 bones for many and varied farces, three of which are printed 
 in full here, viz., "Ding-a-Ling," "Political Promises," and 
 "Lost but Found," just as in the ordinary drama the plots of 
 the rival lovers, the unfaithful spouse, the person changed at 
 birth, the forbidding father, and the case of mistaken identity 
 furnish the bones for three-fourths of the plays that have been 
 written and are being written. 
 
 This type of farce " The Boss and Business " I have called 
 it has been made to include acts of almost every kind of trade 
 and profession. The "Boss" is usually the adult worker or 
 an older boy, first, because this is a "straight" part in most 
 cases and therefore harder to act, though occasionally varied 
 by being a deaf man as in "Lost but Found," and again be- 
 cause the dialogue is mainly between the "Boss " and each of 
 the other characters in succession. This gives the "Boss" 
 command of the situation, and by judicious use of question and 
 retort he is able to bring out the other characters and make the 
 play a success. More complicated plots are adapted only to 
 the older boys who have had some years of experience in this 
 type of acting. For the younger lads who are just starting in, 
 the plot must be very simple and there must be some one on 
 the stage all the time who is able to keep talking and keep the 
 act going so that it will not lag. For these ends, "The Boss 
 and Business" type has proven best adapted. 
 
 When it comes to the actual presentation of the act, the 
 worker or older boy tells the others the plot or "idea of the 
 act" and assigns each boy his part, as "You are an Italian 
 wine-maker. You come in to get a man to make wine." The 
 boy must then work out his own dialogue with the aid of the 
 " Boss," who tries to draw him out and make him say quite a 
 bit, and offers hints in "asides" when that is necessary and 
 the boys are new at the game. An example of how the part 
 assignment just given as an illustration might be worked out 
 may be found in " Pietro Vannucci's " part in " Ding-a-Ling." 
 . Through the use of the adult organizer in ways such as are 
 suggested here, a better type of play is produced than the boys 
 alone could evolve, just as in our playgrounds we are able to 
 get better results with proper supervision than we can where 
 the children are left entirely to their own devices. It is an- 
 other case of directed self-expression, influenced perhaps, but 
 not ordered. After all, is this not the key-note of the latest 
 thought in education, which says that education means " to 
 
14 TEN BOYS' FARCES 
 
 draw out " the best we can from the child, not to cram in a lot 
 of facts we think it ought to know? I believe impromptu 
 dramatics to be a practically unused means for such a "draw- 
 ing out," founded upon an instinct ages old, and being psycho- 
 logically fit for the period of life of the children for whom the 
 work is planned. The farces printed here only represent a 
 development in one organization, and not even there a finished 
 development. They are the first stage of a dramatic experi- 
 ment. I trust that their publication will produce some interest 
 in that experiment, and that it may stimulate others to work 
 along these lines, by having boys act the farces here published, 
 and then go on and improvise others, for these printed ones are 
 only intended to be suggestive. I trust some one will even 
 carry the idea further, and when the boys get into the swing 
 of the thing, try to work out the idea of impromptu dramatics 
 upon different lines and to see if the idea may not be applied 
 successfully to other forms of the drama than the farce. 
 
 But even the farce, the crudest and most easily produced 
 type of the drama, gives some training to the dramatic instinct, 
 some training in the study of character, and some training in 
 oral expression, and if the actors go on to more serious dra- 
 matic work later on when their minds are really ready for it, 
 they will be better able to appreciate its difficulties, as they will 
 see how much more difficult real acting is than the production 
 of these farces. The farces themselves have value because they 
 are the most natural expression of the happy and boisterous 
 boy, and because they lend themselves most readily to plots of 
 every-day life, to things which boys know and understand. 
 
 PLOT SOURCES 
 
 To enumerate completely the sources of plots for impromptu 
 farces is as impossible as it would be for the regular drama, for 
 the final source is the same, the human brain, the ingenuity of 
 which has not yet been fathomed. However, there are certain 
 categories from which have come many of the acts that have 
 been produced at the Columbia Park Boys' Club. The enu- 
 meration of these categories may be of some value to others who 
 would like to carry on this type of work with boys. A story 
 read, an actual incident, either seen or read in a newspaper, a 
 joke or anecdote, a business or trade, an unusual character, a 
 
IMPROMPTU DRAMATICS 15 
 
 new invention, an important current event, a new article of 
 furniture or a new costume, a play or sketch seen at the theater, 
 a moving picture all of these have given ideas that have ger- 
 minated into impromptu acts. 
 
 How an idea evolves into an act, and how the act may be 
 something quite different from the original idea is illustrated by 
 the following description by one of the older boys of the Club 
 of how he once worked up a farce : 
 
 " I got the idea from some story of Dickens'. All I remem- 
 bered was that a poor Italian who was hungry and ill dropped 
 on the street, and was taken into the home of a wealthy man 
 and cared for. I got thinking over that, and one day I met 
 one of the fellows, and asked him what he thought of it as a 
 plot to work up a funny sketch on. We thought about it a 
 long time, and finally worked up a 'charade. 1 We had two 
 tramps taken into a home. One fellow played sick, and the 
 other asked passers-by for help. An old man comes along and 
 takes them both in. He sends one of the tramps for a doctor, 
 but instead of taking the message, the tramp goes out into the 
 hall and disguises himself with the coat and hat that he finds 
 on the hat-tree, and comes back to diagnose the case. He 
 examines the man and says he has had nothing to eat for several 
 days. He orders a good meal of cream puffs sent in imme- 
 diately. There is a fine chance for a good scene to be worked 
 up here. Both tramps manage to eat all they want, and then 
 they have to invent a way to get out without giving the scheme 
 away, so the false doctor examines the patient again and orders 
 his leg off. In order to get rid of the old man, he tells him to 
 go for his instruments. The old man happens to have a case 
 of instruments in the house and brings them. Of course, the 
 victim has to declare himself, and the finale is a tableau." 
 
 I might go on and give many similar illustrations. Often 
 an idea is suggested by a boy, who comes with a farce made 
 up that the worker sees is worthless, yet the worker can take 
 the idea and use it for an act that will "go." The ability to 
 recognize what will work up into an act and what will not de- 
 mands a natural talent, but the history of the Club has proven 
 that many persons have such a talent, so that I doubt not but 
 that many outside its walls will find they can make up acts 
 along these lines if they try. 
 
 Following is a list of suggestive titles of a number of acts that 
 have been produced, and of which the plots have been noted 
 down in brief form in the Club where they were originated. I 
 
1 6 TEN BOYS' FARCES 
 
 have grouped them under various headings, both to suggest 
 their character and the fact that one general plot skeleton lends 
 itself to many variations. Of course, the incidents in the acts 
 are varied even more than their general substance, but I believe 
 that relegating them to various categories may help others to 
 think up new acts along these lines. In fact, I am quite sure that 
 if any one takes any of these titles as a suggestion for an actual 
 act, it will be a very different one than the act it is supposed to 
 be describing here. That is no matter. This list is intended 
 to be suggestive only ; it is far from being exhaustive even of 
 the hundreds of acts that have been produced in the Columbia 
 Park Boys' Club. 
 
 THE Boss AND BUSINESS. 
 Actors' Bureau. 
 Getting an Ambulance Driver. 
 Dentist Office. 
 Hotel Pile Inn. 
 Insurance Ike. 
 Employment Bureau. 
 Recruiting Office. 
 Renting the Store. 
 Country Grocery Store. 
 Charities. 
 
 Messenger Boys' Strike. 
 Home for Lost Boys {Lost but Found). 
 Hiring an Office Boy. 
 Lightning Photographer. 
 Lunacy Commission. 
 School for Book Agents. 
 Si Perkins Gets a Boy for His Farm. 
 Ding-a-Ling. 
 
 Before and After Election (Political Promises). 
 Breaking in New Policemen. 
 Carmen's Strike. 
 License Bureau. 
 
 THE STUPID ASSISTANT. 
 Dentist's Assistant. 
 Lady Barber. 
 Noisy Burglar. 
 Janitor Santa Claus. 
 
IMPROMPTU DRAMATICS 17 
 
 
 
 PLAYING TRICKS. 
 Bad Boy. 
 
 A Farmer's Visit to the City. 
 The Elopements. 
 Chips Off the Old Block. 
 
 THE PHENOMENALLY STRONG MAN. 
 The Escaped Lunatic. 
 Rosie, the Girl from Paris. 
 
 TRAMP FAKERS. 
 
 Alibazoza, the Fortune Teller. 
 
 Thief in Undertaking Parlor. 
 
 Hiring a Valet. 
 
 Fake Telephone. 
 
 Tramps Replace Hospital Patients. 
 
 Fake Minister. 
 
 Fake Phonograph. 
 
 The Tramp Barbers. 
 
 The Busy Brokers. 
 
 FRIGHTENING PEOPLE. 
 
 Getting an Ambulance Driver. 
 
 The Miser's Grave. 
 
 The Haunted House. 
 
 The Evil That Men Do Lives After Them. 
 
 SCHOOL. 
 
 The Teacher's Pet. 
 Visit of the School Trustees. 
 The Substitute Teacher. 
 Graduation Exercises. 
 
 HIDING PEOPLE. 
 
 Servant Girl's Fellow. 
 Dodging the Cop. 
 When the Cat is Away. 
 
 SWINDLE. 
 
 Lively Statues. 
 
 Dies to Get Insurance. 
 
 Do My Nephews Love Me? 
 
 Two Men Run Same Business. 
 
1 8 TEN BOYS* FARCES 
 
 GETTING EVEN. 
 
 Rival Sandwich Stands. 
 
 Rival Candidates in Same Hotel. 
 
 Walking Delegate. 
 
 Killing Farmer Cornstalk's Prize Pig. 
 
 The Reversed Tape Measure. 
 
 SUDDEN EXALTATION. 
 Out in Society. 
 Janitor Becomes Baron. 
 The Social Secretary. 
 
 WONDERFUL INVENTION. 
 Electric Wires. 
 The Hypnotizing Machine. 
 The Patent Bore Ejector. 
 
 SCENERY AND PROPERTIES 
 
 Scenery in the usual sense of the term is practically unknown 
 in the production of impromptu plays at the Columbia Park 
 Boys' Club. The " Theater" is the same room in which the 
 business meetings of the various clubs are held. A sort of 
 proscenium, like the arch around folding doors, divides a por- 
 tion of the room where four tiers of benches rise, each bench a 
 step higher than the one in front, from the portion where there 
 is a small table for the president and a desk of equal size for 
 the secretary. When the time comes for the "schrade," the 
 rolling curtain, which heretofore has been hidden by the top of 
 the proscenium, is let down, a string of electric lights, also hid- 
 den by the proscenium, is turned on, and the president's and 
 secretary's furniture become stage properties, if needed, or are 
 moved out of the way entirely. Within this room, with no 
 scenery, have been enacted scenes in air-ships, princes' pal- 
 aces, robbers' caves, in heaven and in the lower world, for 
 nothing is impossible to the boys' imagination. 
 
 It is really this quality of imagination that makes the wide 
 variety of acts possible, for if any attempt were made to prop- 
 erly produce acts with regular scenic effects, it can be seen at 
 once how their field would be limited. A table becomes any- 
 thing from a bed or the support of a throne to the bridge of a 
 
IMPROMPTU DRAMATICS ig 
 
 ship. An old tin horn or the bell of a broken musical instru- 
 ment is a phonograph, telephone, an ear trumpet, the orifice of 
 a sausage machine, and many other things. I remember one 
 act where an ingenious illusion was made use of. The act was 
 a license bureau, and a fellow comes in to get a license for his 
 dog. The dog never appears on the stage, but growls and 
 barks in the next room and tugs on a rope, the end of which 
 his master holds. His tugs, the master's soothing words, and 
 the comments of the official in the bureau, who gains a view of 
 him through the open door, furnished much of the fun of the 
 act. He finally pulls his master down-stairs (outside), the noise 
 of which is the denouement of that episode. 
 
 Sometimes a dog comes on the stage and is remarked about, 
 is petted, bites people, etc., although the dog is wholly imag- 
 inary. The audience gets all his doings from the conversation 
 and antics of the actors. Occasionally, an animal is produced 
 in one of the more conventional ways, crudely done of course, 
 as by a boy crawling on all fours, or two boys together with a 
 sheet over them, some rope for a tail and some handy article to 
 suggest a head. I am sure that if some one were to present the 
 Club with a deer's head, it would in a night or so appear on 
 the stage, with two boys and a sheet behind it, in some act in- 
 spired by its advent. 
 
 The way in which properties suggest acts is worthy of special 
 note. As I have illustrated above, any unusual piece of furni- 
 ture or object that comes into the Club is almost sure to be the 
 motif for a farce. At one time after the fire of 1906 the Club 
 was in temporary quarters where there was a loft above the 
 " stage " with a trap door and a ladder leading to it. The ex- 
 act acts in which this trap door figured have escaped my mind, 
 for they fell into disuse with the trap door, but I remember that 
 they were many and varied. 
 
 Occasionally, boys work up elaborate scenic effects, camp 
 fires with an electric light in them, sausages that move about 
 on strings, college rooms profusely decorated with pennants, 
 and they take as much delight in this kind of preparation as in 
 giving the act. Of course, such " effects " are crude compared 
 with those of the regular stage, but they seem great by compari- 
 son with the usual lack of stage setting. 
 
 There is something fundamental in this quality of make-be- 
 lieve scenery. It is akin to the other primitive qualities of this 
 type of dramatic work. It reminds one of the Morality plays, 
 of the Chinese drama, of Shakespearean drama itself as it was 
 
2O TEN BOYS' FARCES 
 
 originally produced. We perhaps forget that there were no 
 fairies flitting through beautiful painted trees and wonderful 
 electric light effects on the "first night " of the "Midsummer 
 Night's Dream," yet I daresay the audience reconstructed these 
 things in their imagination on the platform upon which the 
 notables sat. They must have, for history tells us the play was 
 a success. Boys, like those Elizabethans, have not yet lost 
 their imaginations in a matter-of-fact world. 
 
 The fact that these acts call for imagination is a point in their 
 favor, for to my mind we are not far off the right track when 
 we are stimulating imagination and idealism, its first cousin, in 
 our boys, rather than the realism to which our modern stage is 
 painfully, though often most beautifully, subservient. The 
 modern stage carpenter and electrician have made many a poor 
 play into a successful production by accenting its scenic rather 
 than its dramatic quality. With boys, the dramatic sense is so 
 keen that scenery makes but little difference. 
 
 As for scenery, so for costume and make-up. Cast-off cloth- 
 ing, of which a goodly stock of all varieties is kept in a small 
 room at the Club, does for acts within its doors. For public 
 performances, better costumes and more careful make-up are 
 employed, but these are mere externals. In public performances 
 or in productions in the Club's theater, there is the same im- 
 promptu spirit in the actors, the same spontaneity, the same 
 quality of self-expression rather than poor expression of some 
 one else's thoughts, which to me is the chief characteristic of 
 these farces and their chief value as boys' plays. 
 
Ten Boys' Farces 
 
Ding-a-Ling 
 
 CHARACTERS 
 
 MORGAN SHYSTER, an employment agent. 
 
 FRITZ KATZENDOODLE, who wants a job. 
 
 PIETRO VANNUCCI, a wine maker. 
 
 GEORGE BONES, a bell-boy. 
 
 REUBEN CORNTASSEL, a farmer. 
 
 HEINE GRAUERHOLZ, a sausage manufacturer. 
 
 SCENE. An employment agency. Desk, L. ; entrance door, R. ; 
 a screen rear c., with a stool behind it invisible to audience. 
 A chair or two. 
 
 (MORGAN SHYSTER is discovered sitting at the desk opening 
 his morning mail. He looks at each letter hurriedly with 
 an expression of disgust and throws it down on the table.') 
 
 SHY. I never saw such a thing. Everybody around here 
 seems to want to get some one to work for them and nobody 
 wants to work. Here are all kinds of jobs, and not a man on 
 my list to fill them. I am never going to collect any fees this 
 way, and all these chances for business. It's enough to drive 
 a man crazy. (Knock outside.) I suppose some one else wants 
 to get a man. Come in. (Enter FRITZ KATZENDOODLE with 
 a slow walk, taking in the room and its furniture. SHY. 
 rises.) Good-day. 
 
 KATZ. Evenink. 
 
 SHY. I suppose you want to get some one to work for you ? 
 
 KATZ. York for me ? No, I vant to get a chob. 
 
 SHY. You want to get a job ! Just the man I have been 
 looking for. (Shakes his hand violently.) How do you do? 
 Glad to see you. 
 
 KATZ. Yes, yes ; let go my hand. Ouch ! Say, vat do 
 you think I am ? 
 
 SHY. (refarntng to his desk). I have all kind of jobs here. 
 Here's a fellow wants a man to clean out stables. 
 
24 DING-A-LING 
 
 KATZ. Do you think I vant to get kicked ? 
 
 SHY. Well, here's a fellow wants a mixer for concrete work. 
 
 KATZ. No, dat's too hard. I might get mixed. 
 
 SHY. Well, what kind of a job do you want ? 
 
 KATZ. Vat kind of a chob do I vant ? Veil, I vant to get 
 a chob vere dere's lots of money and very little vork. 
 
 SHY. Lots of money and very little work? Well, I don't 
 
 think you will find many jobs like that in (name of 
 
 town). 
 
 KATZ. All right, den. (Turns to go.*) 
 
 SHY. (running after him and seizing his arm). Hey, wait 
 a minute. Let me think. Maybe I can fix you up. Let me 
 see. (Suddenly.*) I've got an idea ! Come here, Dutch. 
 I've got a great scheme. All you have to do is to hold down 
 a chair in this office and I'll pay you well. 
 
 (KATZ. proceeds to literally hold down a chair.*) 
 
 KATZ. Dat's easy. How much do I get ? 
 
 SHY. (drawing him to front of stage). No, no. You don't 
 understand me. Let me explain. 
 
 KATZ. All right, explanation. 
 
 SHY. Well, you see this is an employment agency and peo- 
 ple come in here to get men to work for them. Every time I 
 get them a man they pay me a fee. Now, you're the man. 
 
 KATZ. I'm de man? 
 
 SHY. Yes, every one comes in here ; you take the job. 
 
 KATZ. But I thought I didn't have to go to vork? Just 
 stay in the office. 
 
 SHY. You don't understand. You don't go to work. That 
 is, you go to work, but in reality you don't. 
 
 KATZ. Vere'sdat? 
 
 SHY. Where's what? 
 
 KATZ. Reality. 
 
 SHY. Don't be so stupid. (Goes over to desk.*) Now, you 
 see, this is how we work it. You're out there behind that 
 screen. Here's a telephone. 
 
 KATZ. Vere? 
 
 SHY. Right here. (KATZ. looks all over the top of the desk 
 and under it.*) Sometimes it's here and sometimes I put it 
 over there. 
 
 KATZ. Veil, put it over here so I can see it. 
 
 SHY. You don't understand. There is a telephone but in 
 reality there isn't. It's just imagination. 
 
DING-A-LING 25 
 
 KATZ. Chuck 'em out de vindow. 
 
 SHY. Chuck who out the window ? 
 
 KATZ. Reality and Imagination. 
 
 SHY. Oh, don't you understand? We just make believe 
 there is a telephone. Now I sit down like this and I ring you 
 up like this, "Ding-a-ling-ling-ling. Send up number eight, 
 please." 
 
 KATZ. Who's number eight ? 
 
 SHY. You're number eight; one, two, three, four, five, 
 eight, any number. 
 
 KATZ. One, two, three, four, five, eight, any number? 
 
 SHY. Yes, when I call any number you come up. 
 
 KATZ. I come up? 
 
 SHY. Yes. Now get behind that screen quick. I hear 
 some one coming. 
 
 (He rushes KATZ. behind the screen and quickly resumes 
 his place at the desk and pretends to be busy with some 
 papers as PIETRO VANNUCCI enters.) 
 
 VAN. Bona sera. 
 
 SHY. How do you do ? What can I do for you ? 
 
 VAN. I want to get da man to maka da jambo. 
 
 SHY. Make the jambo ? What's that ? 
 
 VAN. You know ; maka da foot juice, sqeeza da grape. 
 
 SHY. Oh, 1 know ; you mean make wine. 
 
 VAN. Sure, vino. Dasa da word, vino. 
 
 KATZ. (standing on stool with head coming above screen). 
 Do I come up yet ? 
 
 SHY. (to KATZ., in loud aside). No, no. Get down. Wait 
 till I call you. (To VAN.) I think I have just the man for 
 you. 
 
 VAN. Got da bigga da feet. 
 
 SHY. Oh, yes, very large feet. 
 
 VAN. Cleana da feet ? 
 
 SHY. Oh, yes, he washes them every day. 
 
 KATZ. (poking head up over screen). I do not. 
 
 SHY. (aside to KATZ.). Sssh ! (To VAN.) Just a mo- 
 ment. I'll call him. Have a seat. (VAN. sits in a chair so 
 that his back is to the screen. SHY. goes to desk and talks into 
 his hollow hand t resting his elbow on the desk as though he 
 were speaking into a telephone.') Hello! Ding-a-ling-ling- 
 ling. 
 
26 DING-A-LING 
 
 KATZ. (behind screen, very loud'}. Ding-ling-ling-ling-ling- 
 ling-ling. 
 
 SHY. Hello ! Send up number fourteen, please. 
 
 KATZ. {poking his head up over screen}. Hey, dot ain't 
 my number. My number's one, two, three, four, five, eight, 
 any number. 
 
 SHY. That's what I said, any number. 
 
 KATZ. Number eight, then ? 
 
 SHY. All right ; number eight, then. 
 
 (Motions him down behind screen) 
 
 KATZ. Do I come out now ? 
 SHY. Yes, you come out now. 
 KATZ. Yet? 
 
 SHY. Yes, come out in a hurry. 
 KATZ. All right, here I come. 
 
 (As KATZ. comes around the screen, SHY. and VAN. both 
 rise and come forward to c. SHY. stands in the middle 
 with VAN. on his left and KATZ. on his right. In this 
 position he is able to cut off KATZ.'S sallies and asides, 
 his actions in doing which should form the main fun of 
 the farce. This relative position is the one maintained 
 through the major portion of most of the interviews with 
 subsequent would-be employers.} 
 
 SHY. (to VAN.). Here's your man. 
 
 VAN. (to KATZ.). Bona sera. 
 
 KATZ. Evenink, Sarah. 
 
 VAN. You know how to maka da jambo? 
 
 KATZ. Hey ? 
 
 VAN. Maka da vino. Maka da vino. 
 
 (He dances up and down as though treading on grapes) 
 KATZ. Shure I can dance. Hi-lee, hi-lo. 
 (Sings and dances a bit) 
 
 SHY. (seizing KATZ. and stopping him). Of course he 
 knows how to make wine. 
 
 VAN. (reaching over and lifting one leg of KATZ.'S trousers 
 slightly]. Not mucha da bigga da feet 
 
 KATZ. Hey, qvit tickling me. 
 
DING-A-LING 2J 
 
 SHY. (/0K.ATZ.). Sssh. (To VAN.) Oh, yes he has. You 
 see his shoes are very small ; when he takes them off his feet 
 expand and cover a very large area. 
 
 KATZ. Oooh, vat a lie ! 
 
 (SHY. stops his mouth with his hand.) 
 
 VAN. Oh, I guess he all right. 
 
 SHY. Of course he's all right. Now, when do you want 
 him? 
 
 VAN. You send him down Bay Street Winery, four o'clock. 
 
 SHY. Four o'clock, Bay Street Winery ; all right, he'll be 
 there. 
 
 KATZ. (to SHY., in his ear). Hey, I thought you said I 
 stay right in the office ? 
 
 SHY. (to KATZ.). Sssh. That's all right. 
 
 VAN. (who is moving toward the door). Good-day. 
 
 SHY. Just a moment ; five dollars, please. 
 
 VAN. Five dollar ! Wha' for? 
 
 SHY. Why, for the man. 
 
 VAN. I pay da man. I pay him two dollar a day and all da 
 vino he want. 
 
 SHY. You don't understand. That is my fee for getting 
 you the man ; I have to live, you know. 
 
 VAN. I donno what you mean. Five dollar too much. 
 
 SHY. Well, if you don't pay me the five dollars, the man 
 won't be there, that's all. 
 
 VAN. Well, I guess I got to pay. 
 
 (He counts out the money laboriously.) 
 
 SHY. Good-day, sir. 
 
 VAN. Good-day. You have him down winery four o'clock 
 sure now. 
 
 SHY. Oh, yes ; he'll be there sure. [Exit VAN. 
 
 KATZ. Say, I thought you say I don't have to go to work. 
 
 SHY. You don't go to work ; that is you do, but in reality 
 you don't. 
 
 KATZ. Dere goes dot reality again. 
 
 SHY. That's all right, get behind the screen. I hear some 
 one else coming. 
 
 (KATZ. goes behind screen ; SHY. sits down at desk.) 
 
28 DING-A-LING 
 
 Enter GEORGE BONES. 
 
 BONES. Good -day, sah. De boss told me to breeze around 
 here and get a po'ter to carry the trunks up-stairs at the hotel. 
 
 SHY. Oh, you want a porter, do you ? 
 
 BONES. Yes, sah, dat's it, a po'ter. A big strong man. 
 
 SHY. Do you want a white man or a black man ? 
 
 BONES. Ah'd like to git a black man. 
 
 SHY. Well, I haven't any black men, but I have a good 
 strong white man. 
 
 BONES. Well, Ah guess he'll do. Let me see him. 
 
 SHY. All right, have a seat. I'll call him up from down- 
 stairs right away. (BONES sits. SHY. speaks through hand as 
 1 'phone.} Hello, ding-a-ling-ling-ling. 
 
 KATZ. Ding-ling-ling-ling-ling- ling-ling. 
 
 SHY. Hello, send up number four. 
 
 KATZ. Dot ain't my number. 
 
 SHY. Didn't I tell you any number? Come up anyhow. 
 
 KATZ. Oh, you changed it, eh ? 
 
 SHY. Yes, come up and don't talk so much. 
 
 KATZ. Do I come now ? 
 
 SHY. Yes, now. 
 
 KATZ. Qvick mit a rush. 
 
 SHY. If you don't come soon I'll come after you. 
 
 KATZ. Come on, den. 
 
 (SHY. starts after him, but before he reaches the screen, 
 KATZ. comes around the other side of it. SHY. glares at 
 him. BONES rises.} 
 
 SHY. (to BONES). Here's a fine strong man for you. 
 
 BONES (looking him over). Ah don't like dat bay window 
 effect. (Points to KATZ.'S large stomach.} 
 
 SHY. Why, that that's merely a protrusion. He piles 
 five trunks on top of that, takes the grips in each hand, and 
 goes right up the stairs with them. 
 
 KATZ. (to SHY.). Hey, I can't do dot. 
 
 SHY. (to KATZ.). Of course you can. Shut up ! 
 
 KATZ. (mumbling). I cannot. 
 
 BONES. Ah never saw a fellow do anyt'ing like dat. 
 
 SHY. Well, you see he's an exceptional man, just fitted for 
 the job. 
 
 BONES. Well, Ah guess Ah'd better take him den. 
 
 SHY. All right, when do you want him ? 
 
DING-A-LING 29 
 
 BONES. Have him down at de hotel at four o' clock ; dat's 
 when de train comes in. 
 
 SHY. All right, four o'clock at the hotel. (KATZ seizes his 
 ear and draws him aside. To KATZ., aside.) What's the 
 matter now ? 
 
 KATZ. Hey, I got dot oder chob at four o'clock. 
 
 SHY. That's all right, I'll attend to that. 
 
 KATZ. Hey, but 
 
 SHY. Shut up! (To BONES.) He'll be there all right. 
 Five dollars, please. 
 
 BONES. Five dollars ? Why, de boss only gave me ten. 
 
 SHY. The boss only gave you ten, did he? Well, all 
 right, seeing that it's you, we'll let it go for ten. (BONES hands 
 him the money.'} All right; he'll be there at four o'clock. 
 
 BONES. Aw right. Don't forget now, 'cos de boss he be 
 mighty angry. 
 
 SHY. Don't you worry, he'll be there. [Exit BONES. 
 
 KATZ. Hey, how'm I goin' to go dere at four o'clock, and 
 go de oder place ? 
 
 SHY. You don't go anywhere. You just stay right here. 
 Now get behind that screen and mind your own business. 
 
 KATZ. Veil, I don't know, I don't understood. 
 
 \_Exit behind screen mumbling. 
 
 Enter REUBEN CORNTASSEL. 
 
 CORN. How do you do ? 
 
 SHY. How do you do ? Glad to see you. 
 
 CORN. Be this the employment agency ? 
 
 SHY. Yes, this is the employment agency ; is there any- 
 thing I can do for you ? 
 
 CORN. Waal, you see I want to get a boy to work on the 
 farm. 
 
 SHY. Oh, I see; a boy to work on the farm. I suppose 
 you want a good strong boy, one not afraid to work ? 
 
 CORN. By heck, that's just what I do want. 
 
 SHY. I've got just the fellow you want. Wait till I call 
 him up. (CORN. sits. SHY. speaks through ' } phone.') Hello, 
 ding-a-ling-ling-ling. (KATZ. snores .) Ding-a-Hng-ling-ling. 
 (Another snore ; aside.} That confounded Dutchman must 
 have gone to sleep. (Goes behind screen .) 
 
 KATZ. (behind screen}. Help! murder! fire! thieves! 
 Oh, I'm drowning ! Save me ! Save me ! (Enter KATZ. and 
 SHY., the latter dragging by the collar the former, who is half 
 
30 DING-A-LING 
 
 asleep and acting as though he was swimming. As they reach 
 the front of the stage KATZ. straightens up and yawns.} Vere 
 am I? 
 
 SHY. (to KATZ., shaking htm). Here, wake up ! Wake 
 up ! (To CORN.) Here's a fine strong boy. 
 
 CORN, (who has been seated with his back to all this, look- 
 ing around the room). Oh, yes, yes, the boy. (Rises and 
 comes forward. To KATZ.) How do you do? Say, boy, 
 can you pitch hay ? 
 
 KATZ. Hey ? 
 
 CORN. Hay. 
 
 KATZ. Hey? Vat? 
 
 CORN. Hay. 
 
 SHY. Hay, hay, hay ! 
 
 KATZ. (to SHY.). Now vat do you vant? 
 
 CORN. Hay that you feed horses. 
 
 KATZ. Oh, you mean dry grasses ? 
 
 SHY. Yes, of course ; what did you think he meant ? 
 
 CORN, (laughing). Ha, ha, dry grasses. Why didn't we 
 think of that before ? 
 
 SHY. Well, you see, he knows all about farming. He 
 knows that hay is dry grass. Just the man you want. 
 
 CORN, (to KATZ.). You don't mind getting up at three A. M. ? 
 
 KATZ. (to SHY.). Vat's dot A. M. ? After meals? 
 
 SHY. Yes, yes, of course. (To CORN.) Yes, he likes to 
 get up at that hour, don't you ? 
 
 KATZ. Shure, dot just suits me. 
 
 CORN. I guess he'll do. Now let me tell you how we get 
 there. You see we get off at the Gerseyville station, and then 
 I take you in my buggy. 
 
 KATZ. Who's buggy? 
 
 CORN. My buggy. 
 
 KATZ. You're buggy ? 
 
 CORN. Yes. 
 
 KATZ. I t'ought you vas. 
 
 CORN. Thought I was what ? 
 
 KATZ. T'ought you was buggy. 
 
 CORN. Here, here, what do you mean ? 
 
 SHY. {pushing KATZ. out of the way). That's all right, he 
 doesn't know what he's talking about. When do you want him ? 
 
 CORN. Well, I've got to catch the four o'clock train to Ger- 
 seyville. If I don't get that one I have to wait until next Fri- 
 day. So I want him at the station at four o'clock. 
 
DING-A-LING 31 
 
 KATZ. (to SHY.). Hey, I got to go de oder place at four 
 o'clock. 
 
 SHY. (suppressing KATZ.). That's all right. He'll be there 
 in plenty of time to catch the four o'clock train. 
 
 CORN. Well, now, don't let him be late, because I've got 
 to get home to feed my cows. Good-day. 
 
 SHY. Wait just a moment, please. Five dollars, please. 
 
 CORN. Five dollars ! What for ? 
 
 SHY. Why, for the man, of course. 
 
 CORN. Why, I don't pay as much as that for one of my 
 best cows. 
 
 KATZ. Vat ! 
 
 (Starts after CORN., but SHY. restrains him.*) 
 
 SHY. Well, I'm sorry, but that is our general fee here. If 
 you don't pay that you don't get the man. 
 
 CORN. All right, then ; I've got to have that boy. (Takes 
 out and unrolls a long stocking and produces the money from 
 the toe.) There you are one, two, three, four, five. Have 
 him there at four o'clock. 
 
 SHY. All right, four o'clock. \_Exit CORN. 
 
 KATZ. I got him. 
 
 SHY. Got who? 
 
 KATZ. General Flea. 
 
 SHY. Get out of here. 
 
 (Pushes him behind screen and sits at desk.) 
 Enter HEINE GRAUERHOLZ. 
 
 GRAU. Hillo ! My name is Heine Grauerholz. I vant to 
 git a man to do de voik de oder fellow used to do, so I von't 
 have to do de voik dat he used to do. Veil, how do you do ? 
 
 SHY. Oh, fine ! But what kind of work do you do ? 
 
 GRAU. I vant to get a man to make de sausages. 
 
 SHY. Make the sausages ! I have just the fellow for you. 
 A German. 
 
 GRAU. Dot's chust vat I vant, a Choiman. 
 
 SHY. Just a moment. I'll get him for you. Have a seat. 
 (GRAU sits. SHY. "'phones") Hello, ding-a-ling-ling-ling. 
 
 KATZ. (behind screen). Line is busy ! 
 
 SHY. Here ! What's the matter with you ? 
 
 KATZ. Dey don't answer ! 
 
 SHY. Stop your fooling and come out here. 
 
32 DING-A-LING 
 
 KATZ. Drop your nickel ! 
 
 SHY. This is a free 'phone. You come out here or I'll 
 come after you. 
 
 KATZ. All right. Come on, den. 
 
 (SHY. jumps up angrily and KATZ. comes out. Walks to 
 front. GRAU. turns around and sees him.) 
 
 GRAU. Vy, Fritz! Hello, Fritz! Wie geht es ihnen 
 noch einmal. Wo wohnen sie ? 
 
 ( They embrace.) 
 
 KATZ. Hillo, Heine. Wie geht es die Kinder ? 
 
 SHY. (separating them). Here, here, you'll have to talk 
 English here so I can understand. 
 
 GRAU. Dot's Fritz. I used to know him in de old country. 
 
 SHY. That don't make any difference. I have to under- 
 stand. 
 
 GRAU. Hey, Fritz, he's a bum. 
 
 SHY. Who's a bum ? 
 
 GRAU. Dot's all right. I vas talking to Fritz. 
 
 SHY. Well, you'd better be. 
 
 GRAU. Say, Fritz, you vant to come und made de sausages 
 like ve used to in Choimany ? You know, grab de dogs by de 
 tail and choke 'em. 
 
 KATZ. Shure. Do you put de bones in 'em ? 
 
 GRAU. No, dey don't let us put de bones in 'em in dis 
 country, but ve put de hair in. 
 
 KATZ. Vat do you put de hair in for ? 
 
 GRAU. Veil, you see my broder has a brewery next door, 
 and ven de beoble eat de sausages mit de hair in, it tickles dere 
 t'roats and dey go to my broder and get a beer. 
 
 KATZ. Come on, ve get a beer. 
 
 GRAU. All right, come on. 
 
 (They lock arms and start for the door.) 
 
 SHY. (seizing KATZ.). Here, here, where are you going ? 
 
 GRAU. Dot's all right. I take Fritz out to get a beer. 
 
 SHY. Well, he can't go now. You see he has some work 
 to finish for me. 
 
 GRAU. Can't he come down to de sausage factory ? 
 
 SHY. Oh, yes, he'll be there later. When do you want 
 him ? 
 
DING-A-LING 33 
 
 GRAU. I vant him four o'clock shure. 
 KATZ. Hey, I got to go three oder - 
 
 SHY. (to KATZ.). Sssh ! (To GRAU.) That's all right; 
 he'll be there. 
 
 GRAU. All right, send him down to de sausage factory. 
 
 SHY. Where is that ? 
 
 GRAU. On Third Street, next to the Pound. 
 
 SHY. Next to the Pound ! 
 
 GRAU. Ya, ve get plenty dogs dere. (Starts for the door.) 
 
 SHY. Just a moment. Five dollars, please. 
 
 GRAU. Five dollars ! For vat ? 
 
 SHY. For that. (Points at KATZ.) 
 
 GRAU. Five dollars for dat ! Do you tink I vant to make 
 de sausages out of dat ? 
 
 SHY. Oh, you don't understand. That is what you pay 
 me for getting you that. That is my fee. 
 
 KATZ. Yes, dot's his flea. 
 
 GRAU. Veil, I don't know. I don't see vy I haf to pay. 
 
 SHY. Well, if you don't pay for that, you don't get it, 
 that's all. 
 
 GRAU. Veil, all right. I guess I got to pay. (Pays the 
 money.} Good-day. {To KATZ.) Don't forget now. Four 
 o'clock. \Exit. 
 
 SHY. That's all right, he'll be there. (To KATZ.) What 
 are you looking for ? 
 
 KATZ. For dat. 
 
 SHY. Well, you're that ! Now get behind the screen and 
 don't bother me. 
 
 KATZ. Veil, how I going to go to Heine at four o'clock ? 
 I got to go dose oder fellows. 
 
 SHY. You don't go anywhere. You're the worst dunce I 
 ever saw. Get back behind that screen. 
 
 (Pushes KATZ. behind screen and sits down.} 
 Enter VAN., excitedly. 
 
 VAN. Sacramento ! Four o'clock, no man down da winery. 
 Hey, wat's a da mat ? 
 
 SHY. Why, there must be some mistake. 
 
 Enter BONES. 
 
 BONES. Where's dat po'ter? Fo'r o'clock, no po'ter. 
 SHY. What ! Didn't he come ? 
 
34 
 
 DING-A-LING 
 
 Enter CORN. 
 
 CORN. Where's my boy? 
 ville. Where's my boy? 
 SHY. Didn't he come? 
 
 I've missed my train to Gersey- 
 
 Enter GRAU. 
 
 GRAU. Vere's Fritz ? I vant Fritz. 
 
 VAN. ^ ( Four o'clock. No man. What's a da mat ? 
 
 etc. 
 
 Where's dat po'ter ? Where dat po'ter ? 
 Vere iss Fritz ? I vant Fritz. 
 Where's my five dollars ? I want my boy. 
 gentlemen, one moment, please. You 
 
 (all , 
 \gether) 
 
 BONES 
 
 GRAU. 
 
 CORN. 
 
 SHY. Gentlemen, 
 don't understand. 
 
 CORN. I want my boy. 
 
 GRAU. Vere iss Fritz ? 
 
 SHY. One moment, please. You don't understand ! You 
 see I'm not the proprietor here, I'm only the clerk. If you 
 will just wait, the boss will be in right away. 
 
 \_Exit amid wondering looks. 
 
 CORN, (bewildered}. I want my boy. 
 
 KATZ. (behind screen). Ding-ling-ling-ling-ling-ling-ling. 
 (Pause.*) Ding-ling-ling-lmg-ling-lmg-ling. Hey, you, vat's 
 de matter ? I don't vant to stay behind here all day. Hey ! 
 
 Enter KATZ. They all seize him, shouting, " There' s my 
 boy" "Vere vas you, Fritz?" "Come with me" etc., 
 and try to pull him in all directions. 
 
 CURTAIN 
 
The Last Rehearsal 
 
 CHARACTERS 
 
 THE STAGE MANAGER. 
 THE GENERAL. 
 THE SPY. 
 THE ASHMAN. 
 THE CARPENTER. 
 THE ORDERLY. 
 
 SCENE. A disorderly stage. Scenery scattered promiscuously 
 about, with back toward audience, etc. 
 
 Enter GENERAL. Walks up to front of stage muttering over 
 and over as if learning something. 
 
 GEN. This is the day and this is the hour. This is the day 
 and this is the hour. (Enter SPY.) This is the day and 
 this 
 
 SPY. Gee, you think you're an actor, don't you? 
 
 GEN. An actor ! What are you getting so funny for? I 
 guess I'm a good deal more of an actor than you are. 
 
 SPY. You are, hey ! Well, I'm the star of this show. 
 
 GEN. What, you the star? Why, the general's part is the 
 star part. Isn't my name first on the list? 
 
 SPY. No, the spy is the star. (Enter MANAGER, reading.) 
 I tell you I was hired as the star of this show. 
 
 GEN. Here comes the manager now, we'll ask him. Say, 
 Manager, who's the star of this show ? 
 
 MAN. (looking up from book, a little absorbed at first ) . Eh ! 
 Hum ! What-er. Who's the star of this show ? (Disgustedly.) 
 Star ! Star ! Did you say star? There isn't any star in this 
 show ! 
 
 SPY. Wasn't I hired to be the star? 
 
 MAN. What ! for five dollars a week ? 
 
 SPY. Well, I'm more of a star than he is anyhow. Ain't I? 
 
 MAN. You're both pretty poor. There never will be any 
 
 35 
 
36 THE LAST REHEARSAL 
 
 star in this show as long as you two are in it ! (To SPY.) 
 .Now, you get off the stage. I want to begin the rehearsal. 
 
 SPY. Well, now, ain't I better than he is? 
 
 MAN. Get off the stage, will you ? 
 
 SPY. Well, now, manager 
 
 MAN. Get off the stage! (Exit SPY; to GEN.) Now 
 let's try that battle scene in the third act. Yesterday that third 
 act was vile ; it was putrid ; it was unspeakably bad. (GEN. 
 winces at each epithet.) Do you realize, sir, that to-morrow 
 night we give this show, that this is our last rehearsal ! For 
 heaven's sake, put all your heart into your work to-night, for 
 my reputation as a stage manager is as much at stake as yours 
 is as an actor. Now let's begin the third act. Your soliloquy. 
 (Pause.) Well, go on ! (Pause.) Well, go on ! 
 
 GEN. What's the first word ? 
 
 MAN. (in a rage). What ! the first word ! Oh ! I'd be 
 ashamed of myself. You ought to know that part long ago. 
 You've had two weeks to study. 
 
 GEN. Just the first word, that's all. 
 
 MAN. Confound you, anyhow. You ought to know it. 
 
 GEN. Just tell me the first word. 
 
 MAN. Oh. . . . Brrrr- 
 
 (Turns over the pages of his prompt book.) 
 
 GEN. You don't know it yourself. 
 
 MAN. I'm not supposed to. Am I playing the part? Here 
 it is: (Enter SPY at side.) "This is the clay and this is the 
 hour." Now go on. 
 
 GEN. Oh, I knew that all the time. 
 
 MAN. Knew it all the time ! You make me tired. Go on. 
 
 GEN. " This is the day and this is the hour when the eagle 
 of victory shall perch upon the flag of my country." 
 
 (This should be spoken very badly.) 
 
 MAN. Oh, stop that. Put some life into that. That's 
 fearful. 
 
 SPY. Gee, didn't I tell you he was rotten? 
 
 MAN. (to SPY). Get off the stage, will you? {Exit SPY; 
 to GEN.) No, you've got to put some life into this. Watch 
 me. Now, just watch me, will you ? 
 
 Enter ASHMAN ; sets down barrel ; MAN. watches him dazed. 
 
THE LAST REHEARSAL 37 
 
 ASH. Say, boss, you tella me where I finda de ash. 
 
 MAN. The ash, the ash ! What do you think I am the 
 janitor ! You go out there and ask the fellow in the box office. 
 He'll tell you where to find the ash. I don't know anything 
 about it. Out there I Do you hear ? Out there ! 
 
 ASH. Whata you say ? I don' understan' English. 
 
 MAN. Get off the stage will you get off the stage ! 
 (Drives off ASH.) Confound these interruptions. (To GEN.) 
 Now, then, I'll show you how to do that thing. Watch me. 
 (GEN. looks at audience.) Will you look at me, sir? (GEN. 
 still looks front.) If you will watch me, you'd hear something. 
 Will you watch me? 
 
 GEN. I'm staring at you, man. 
 
 MAN. That's what I want you to do. Here's the way I 
 want it done. (Heroically.) " This is the day and this is 
 the hour, when the eagle of victory shall perch upon the flag 
 of our country. " {Enter CARPENTER ; throws boards down on 
 stage and begins to hammer just as word " country " is spoken.) 
 Say, what is this, anyhow ? What do you mean ? 
 
 CARP. I'm just fixing up the stage for to-night. The man- 
 ager, he tells me to come up here and earn my three dollars. 
 
 MAN. Well, you'll have to get off the stage. I'm having a 
 rehearsal here. You'll have to get off. 
 
 CARP. Oh, yer havin' wan of them practices, are ye ? 
 
 MAN. Yes. 
 
 CARP. Ye'll excuse me interrupting, won't ye ? 
 
 MAN. Certainly. Just get off the stage. 
 
 CARP. No harm done, I hope? 
 
 MAN. No, no. Just get off the stage. 
 
 CARP. You'll excuse me, won't you? 
 
 MAN. Yes, certainly. Just get off the stage. 
 
 CARP. We're just as good friends as ever. Aren't we? 
 You and me, we'll have a beer after a while. 
 
 MAN. Yes, yes. (CARP, bows himself off.) Confound 
 these, interruptions. I'll go crazy. (To GEN.) Now go on. 
 You see how to do it. Now put some life into it. 
 
 GEN. (without expression). " This is the day and this is 
 the hour, when the eagle of victory shall perch on the flag of 
 my country." 
 
 MAN. (aside). Oh, worse and worse, the more we try. 
 {Aloud.) It's impossible, but go on with your part. We'll 
 have to let this go. Go on. 
 
 GEN . < * Forward the orderl y . " 
 
38 THE LAST REHEARSAL 
 
 ORDERLY (without). Wait a moment. I can't find my gun. 
 MAN. Can't find your gun ! You've had an hour to find 
 it. Come in anyhow. Any old thing will do. 
 ORD. (without ). All right ; here I come. 
 
 Enter ORD. with broom upside down on shoulder, and walks 
 across stage to GEN. 
 
 MAN. One moment, please. This is a military drama, sir ; 
 did you come in like a soldier ? 
 
 ORD. What did I come in like ? 
 
 MAN. You came in like some lumbering longshoresman. 
 This has to be military, military. Now watch me ; watch me. 
 ( Takes broom and shows him entrance, lifting feet high, com- 
 ing close in front of GEN., coming to order arms and saluting 
 with left hand ; GEN. returns salute.) Now that's what I call 
 a military entrance. Try that now. (Hands him broom and 
 exit ORD. To GEN.) All right now. 
 
 GEN. "Forward the orderly." 
 
 Enter ASH. in place of ORD. ; walks across the stage, then back 
 to MAN. 
 
 ASH. (disgustedly). I can't find the ash anywhere. 
 
 MAN. Will you {Controls his rage with an effort 
 
 and then speaks in a low tone, but rapidly.*) What the devil 
 are you doing here again? (Loud.) Get off the stage, will 
 you ? I'll lose my temper in a minute and do you personal 
 violence ! Get off the stage, will you ? 
 
 ASH. Sacre denio ! You don't know me. Do you? Me, 
 Pedro Bologna. Bah ! Me, President Scavenger's Union ; 
 me boycott your show. (As he passes GEN.) Bah! (GEN. 
 jumps. Exit, L., muttering.) Sacre Dio, etc. 
 
 MAN. For heaven's sake go on with this act. 
 
 GEN. < ' Forward the orderly. ' ' 
 
 Enter ORD. 
 MAN. Lift your feet ! 
 
 (ORD. does so, halts and salutes.*) 
 
 ORD. How many times do I salute? 
 
 MAN. Three times, of course. It's a general, isn't it? You 
 ought to know that much about military affairs ! 
 
THE LAST REHEARSAL 39 
 
 (ORD. salutes and GEN. returns) 
 GEN. " Take these dispatches to General Mitchell." 
 
 (Hands dispatches to ORD. ORD. faces about, shoulders 
 arms, hits GEN. in face with broom as he turns, and 
 begins to march off) 
 
 MAN. Don't forget to drop them. (ORD. throws them 
 down) Here ! Come back here ! 
 
 ORD. Why ? What's -the matter ? Didn't I drop them ? 
 
 MAN. (sarcastically). Do you call that dropping them? 
 You threw them down. Now, this thing has got to be done 
 naturally, naturally ! Now watch me, naturally ! Just as 
 though you tried to put them in your pocket and they fell out. 
 Watch me now. (Shows him how) Now, that's the way to 
 do it. Go on, try it over again. 
 
 (ORD. goes back to GEN., giving him the dispatches) 
 
 GEN. "Take these dispatches to General Mitchell." 
 
 ORD. (taking them and starting). Gee ! I forgot to salute. 
 
 MAN. Oh ! Never mind. Go on, go on. (ORD. drops 
 them much as before. MAN. gives an exclamation of disgust) 
 Go on, go on. " Hark, I hear " 
 
 GEN. " Hark, I hear the sound of battle ! Off to war ! " 
 
 MAN. (to GEN.). Wait a minute. (To outside) Say, 
 what is the matter with you fellows ? Don't you know your 
 cue yet? When he says "battle," the word "battle," that's 
 the cue. Go on, now ! " Hark, I hear the sound of battle ! " 
 (Battle outside) Hey, stop the battle ! Stop the battle, will 
 you? When he says "battle " not when I say it. What's the 
 matter with you anyhow ? Go on. 
 
 GEN. " Hark, I hear the sound of battle ! (Battle begins) 
 Off to war ! " (Draws sword and exit) 
 
 MAN. (looking in all directions, calling out). Where's the 
 spy? Where are you? Where's the spy? (Enter SPY, 
 walking slowly up to front of stage) Is that the entrance I've 
 showed you ? 
 
 SPY. Why, what's the matter ? I'm lucky to get through 
 that battle alive. 
 
 MAN. Stop your nonsense ! That's no way for a spy to 
 come in. Now watch me. I've shown you this twenty times. 
 (Exit MAN., and r centers crouching, taking a few steps, put- 
 
40 THE LAST REHEARSAL 
 
 ting right hand to eyes, looking about ; then a few more and 
 left hand to eyes. Looks at dispatches on floor, points, makes 
 a jump for them, seizes them, rushes to c. in front, holds them 
 up; SPY follows, watching him.) "Ha! Dispatches! Now, 
 General Mitchell, you are mine ! " Now, that's the way I 
 want this done. 
 
 SPY. Gee, you look like you're in swimming. 
 
 MAN. Never mind what I look like. If you could do it 
 half as well as I can, you might look like something. You do 
 it the way I tell you. {Exit SPY, and reenters clumsily like 
 MAN.) Put your hand on your eyes, not on your ear. 
 
 SPY. " Ha ! Dispatches ! Now, General Merchandise, 
 you are mine ! " 
 
 MAN. General Mitchell ! General Mitchell, not General 
 Merchandise ! 
 
 SPY. Say, what do you call this ? (Holds up the dispatches.} 
 This is only a laundry bill. 
 
 MAN. Oh, Heavens ! You don't have to have real dis- 
 patches any old thing will do. (Tears his hair, etc.} 
 
 Enter CARP., R. 
 
 CARP, (calling to man above in the flies'). Will you let that 
 drop down ? No, the other side. Not that side the other. 
 You blooming muttonhead up there, you're making me mad. 
 
 ( Various flies should be lowered and hoisted.} 
 
 MAN. Get off this stage ! (Pushes CARP.) 
 
 CARP. Take your hands off me. ( To FLYMAN.) I'm com- 
 ing up there and break your head. (To MAN.) I'm going, 
 I'm going. Don't push me when I'm excited. I'm not re- 
 sponsible. \_Exit, L. , storming at FLYMAN. 
 
 MAN. Oh, Heavens ! Where were we these infernal in- 
 terruptions. Where the devil were we? (Looks up.) He 
 don't want any scenery moved, do you hear ! Oh, yes, the 
 General ; come on. The General ! 
 
 Enter GEN., R., drawing sword. 
 
 GEN. " Ah, ha, Percy Leffingwell, at last I have you in my 
 power ! Ah, ha ! " 
 
 (Runs at him, thrusts sword under his arm and works it 
 back and forth.} 
 
THE LAST REHEARSAL 4! 
 
 MAN. Hay, there ! Don't saw him to pieces ! 
 
 SPY. Gee, you must think I'm a spring mattress. 
 
 MAN. (taking sword}. What do you think you did ? Put 
 some dramatic power into your part. If you're going to kill a 
 man, do it dramatically ! {Crosses to SPY.) Now you you 
 get your arm out just right. You see 1 Like this; so that the 
 sword will go just under it. (To GEN.) Now, watch me ! 
 Now, watch me ! (To SPY, who is holding his arm almost 
 horizontal.} What's the matter with you anyhow ? Don't you 
 suppose the audience can see that ? 
 
 SPY. Well, I'd rather the audience would see it than get 
 stuck with that thing. 
 
 MAN. Never mind about that, now. You do it the way 
 I tell you. The thing has got to be realistic, realistic. There, 
 that's better. (To GEN.) Watch me, now. "Ah, ha, Percy 
 Leffingwell, at last I have you in my power." (Rushes across 
 and thrusts sword under SPY'S arm, withdrawing it again.} 
 Now you try it. 
 
 GEN. (with much absurd gestures}. "Ah, ha, Percy Lef- 
 fingwell, at last I have you in my power ! " 
 
 (Again rushes and stabs SPY. SPY staggers a moment, then 
 falls on his face.} 
 
 MAN. Why don't you die right ? 
 
 SPY (rising slowly}. Die right? Well, how should I know 
 how to die ? I never died before. 
 
 MAN. Did you ever see a man die falling on his stomach ? 
 I suppose I'll have to show you how to die. Watch me, now. 
 (Puts hand to head, staggers, groans a bit and falls on back 
 with a flop, then sits up} Now, that's what I call dying right. 
 
 SPY. Well, you ought to know. You're a dead one ! 
 
 MAN. {jumping up}. None of your impudence now. You 
 stick to your part. None of that. I'll throw you out of the 
 company. (To GEN.) Goon. 
 
 GEN. Shall I kill him again ? 
 
 MAN. Yes, kill him again ! 
 
 SPY. Gee, that makes three times already. 
 
 MAN. Never mind, go on. 
 
 GEN. (crossing, then rushing at SPY, saying}, "Ah, ha, 
 Percy Leffingwell, at last I have you in my power." 
 
 (Stabs SPY. SPY imitates MAN. dying, with added squirms 
 and twists and at last falls near left wing ; as he does 
 
42 THE LAST REHEARSAL 
 
 so, enter ASH. and CARP., ASH. walking backwards with 
 barrel of papers, etc., on shoulder, in front of CARP. The 
 two are fighting. ASH. trips backwards over prostrate 
 form of SPY and CARP, over him. The barrel of rub- 
 bish is scattered. MAN. tears hair and flies about. Gen- 
 eral confusion and) 
 
 CURTAIN 
 
Rosie, the Girl from Paris 
 
 CHARACTERS 
 
 MR. BLUNDER. 
 Miss ROSIE BLUNDER. 
 JOHN CANDY, a strong man. 
 DUKE DE NUTTE, from France. 
 LORD DUNDREERY, from England. 
 BARON PUMPERNICKEL, from Germany. 
 SIGNOR ALIBAZAN, /r0/# Italy. 
 ROTTEN TOMMY 1 , 
 
 TOMMY ROTTEN \^ S en S er boy S . 
 
 SCENE. MR. BLUNDER'S parlor. Writing-table, L. c. ; chairs 
 and other furnishings of a well-to-do home. Entrances, R., 
 L., and c. 
 
 Enter ROTTEN TOMMY, L., with telegram in hand. 
 ROTTEN TOMMY. I guess dis is de jint. 
 
 Enter TOMMY ROTTEN, who, seeing the other messenger, hur- 
 ries up after him. 
 
 TOMMY ROTTEN. Say, wh'at you doin' here, anyway ? 
 
 ROTTEN TOMMY. Ah, what's it to you ? 
 
 TOMMY ROTTEN. Trying to dish me out, ain't ye? 
 
 ROTTEN TOMMY. Say, if you don't look out, I'll knock de 
 shingles off your roof. 
 
 TOMMY ROTTEN. Well, why don't you do it? 
 
 ROTTEN TOMMY. You want to see me, eh ? 
 
 TOMMY ROTTEN. Come on and try it. 
 
 (They start a fight.') 
 Enter MR. BLUNDER, R. 
 
 MR. B. Here ! here ! Stop that fighting in my house. 
 (Boys stop and run hurriedly to him, both crying out " Tele- 
 
 43 
 
44 ROSIE, THE GIRL FROM PARIS 
 
 gram / Telegram ! Mister / " MR. B. takes the telegrams.} 
 Two telegrams ! My ! I wonder what this means ? 
 
 ( Walks to centre of stage.} 
 
 TOMMY ROTTEN. Fifteen cents, please. 
 
 MR. B. Fifteen cents ! Where does it say fifteen cents? 
 
 (Looks closely at the telegram.} 
 
 ROTTEN TOMMY. Right dere. (Points.} 
 MR. B. It looks mighty like ten cents to me. 
 TOMMY ROTTEN. Can't ye see de coive ? 
 MR. B. The curve? 
 
 TOMMY ROTTEN. Ah, he can't see nothin* ; he's blind. 
 MR. B. Here, don't you talk that way to me, young man ! 
 I won't stand impudence from any boy your size. 
 
 (Fidgets in vest pocket and takes out fifteen cents and pays 
 TOMMY ROTTEN, who starts to go.} 
 
 ROTTEN TOMMY. Here, where's my fifteen cents? 
 MR. B. I gave it to the other boy. 
 
 (Points to TOMMY ROTTEN, who is walking away.} 
 
 ROTTEN TOMMY (rushing after TOMMY ROTTEN, grabs 
 him, calling out}. Give me my fifteen cents ! 
 
 (Another scuffle begins.} 
 
 MR. B. Will you boys stop fighting in my house? Stop it ! 
 (Boys stop, stand at side a minute.} 
 
 TOMMY ROTTEN (shouting}. Ah, what's it to you, you old 
 bloke ! (Both exeunt hurriedly.} 
 
 MR. B. Old bloke ! Why, the impudence of boys in these 
 times is staggering. Two telegrams ! (Opens one ; whistles.) 
 From my partners ! (Reads.) " Come down-town within fif- 
 teen minutes; we can make fifty thousand dollars !" My! 
 there must be some big deal on. What's in this one? (Opens 
 second telegram.) Whew! what's this? (Reads.} " Dear 
 Popsy Wopsy. Just arrived at the pier from Paris. Be at home 
 when I come. There are four noblemen following me. Lov- 
 
ROSIE, THE GIRL FROM PARIS 45 
 
 ingly, Rosey Posey." My daughter has been away for a year 
 and comes home like this. Four foreign noblemen ! My 
 gracious, to think that such a catastrophe should happen to me. 
 I've read about such things in the newspaper, but I never 
 thought such a thing would come into my own home. What 
 am 1 going to do ? Here's a telegram telling me to come down- 
 town and make money, and here's one telling me to stay at 
 home ! I have an idea ! I'll sit down and write a note telling 
 my daughter I'll be home at once. I'll hurry down-town and 
 perhaps I'll get back before she comes. (Writes at tabled) 
 "Dear Rosey Posey" that's the name I've called her ever 
 since she was that high (holding out hand) "urgent business 
 calls me away. I will be home immediately." Now about 
 those noblemen. I'll put it down so strong she cannot misun- 
 derstand my attitude in such a matter as this. " Don't let those 
 foreign noblemen enter my house ! (Pounds on table.} I want 
 only Americans here ! " Ah ! I have an idea ! {Continues 
 writing.} " I leave you a check for ten dollars to hire a strong 
 man to put them out. Yours, Popsy Wopsy." That's what 
 she's called me ever since I was so high I mean, she was so 
 high ! Now for the check. ( Writes it, rises and puts on hat.} 
 I'll go out, get a taxi, and hurry back, and no doubt I'll get 
 here before she arrives. [Exit, L. 
 
 Enter Miss ROSIE BLUNDER, R. 
 
 ROSIE (calling out}. Oh, papa! Oh, papa! (Walks to 
 L. and calls, to back c. and calls, then c. front.} I wonder 
 where he is ? The same dear old room, just as I left it ; noth- 
 ing changed. (Walks to table.} What's this? A note, and 
 for me ! (Reads.} " Dear Rosey Posey : urgent business calls 
 me away. I will return immediately. Don't let those foreign 
 noblemen enter my house. I want only Americans here. I 
 leave you a check for ten dollars to hire a strong man to put 
 them out. Yours, Popsy Wopsy." Why, I saw a strong man 
 on the sidewalk as I came in. (Runs to window.} Oh, there 
 he is. Say, mister ! You, come here. Yes, you ! 
 
 (Awaits his coming.} 
 
 Enter JOHN CANDY, dressed in jersey, with muscles well 
 stuffed. 
 
 JOHN. Yes, mum. 
 
46 ROSIE, THE GIRL FROM PARIS 
 
 ROSIE. What is your name ? 
 
 JOHN. John, mum. 
 
 ROSIE. Would you like to earn ten dollars, John? 
 
 JOHN. Yes, mum. 
 
 ROSIE. Are you strong, John ? 
 
 JOHN. Yes, mum. 
 
 ROSIE. Strong enough to throw out four men ? 
 
 JOHN. Yes, mum. 
 
 ROSIE. There are four foreign nobleman following me here. 
 If any of them gain admission and come near me I want you to 
 throw him out. 
 
 JOHN. Yes, mum. 
 
 ROSIE. Wait for my signal. I'll call "John ! " After it's 
 all over, I'll give you the ten dollars. 
 
 JOHN. Yes, mum. 
 
 ROSIE. Sit down then, John. 
 
 VOICE (outside}. Is Wosey Posey heah ? 
 
 JOHN. Yes, mum. 
 
 Enter LORD DUNDREERY. 
 
 LORD. Oh, Wosey ! Hi 'ave weally found you at last. 
 You deah, pwecious girl ! Wosey, I love you with all my 'eart. 
 Weally, Wosey, won't you be mine? 
 
 ROSIE. John ! John ! 
 
 JOHN (tapping LORD on shoulder). Hey, you're crazy ! 
 
 LORD (to JOHN). Don't touch me, wretched thing. (To 
 ROSIE.) But weally, Wosey, I will take you to Lunnon, and 
 we will 'ave one 'igh hold time ! Hi'll make you a lady, if 
 you'll only be mine. 
 
 ROSIE. Help, John ! Help ! 
 
 JOHN. You're crazy ! Get out of here. {Clutches htm.) 
 
 LORD. Unhand me, you dirty thing ! The king shall hear 
 of this ! The king shall hear of this ! I'll write to the London 
 Times. 
 
 (JOHN and LORD struggle. Both exeunt. Noise is heard 
 without.} 
 
 ROSIE. Oh! (Scream.*) Oh, dear ! I have almost fain ted. 
 That stupid fop. Why, he has no brains. I hope John didn't 
 hurt him. {Enter JOHN.) Oh, John, what did you do to 
 him? 
 
 JOHN. Yes, mum. I just busted his head. 
 
ROSIE, THE GIRL FROM PARIS 47 
 
 ROSIE. Oh, the poor man ! John, don't hit them too hard. 
 JOHN. Yes, mum. 
 
 Enter DUKE DE NUTTE. 
 
 DUKE. Ah, R-Rosie ! Et ees avec plaisir zat I find you 
 here. Ah, R-Rosie 1 eef you savez vous zat je vous adore ? 
 
 ROSIE. John ! 
 
 JOHN. Yes, mum. 
 
 DUKE. How much I love you? Ah, R-Rosie, I haf come 
 from ze grand Paree, and now I must tell you zat you must be 
 mon tresor, mon amour. Ah, R-Rosie, I will take you to ze 
 land of ze fun all ze time ! 
 
 ROSIE. Help, John ! 
 
 JOHN. Hey, get out ! You're crazy ! 
 
 DUKE. Away 1 R-Rosie, you can make me so happy tres 
 jolie. 
 
 JOHN. Get out. (Scuffle and struggle.) 
 
 ROSIE. Help, John ! 
 
 DUKE. R-Rosie, vat is ze matter ? I love you. Leave me. 
 Sacre bleu ! I will fight you savat. Help ! 
 
 (Both exeunt and struggle. Noise without.) 
 
 ROSIE. Oh ! (Scream.) Out at last ! I'll get palpitation 
 of the heart soon. My, John is strong, but the French can 
 
 kick with their feet and their tongues. I wonder (JOHN 
 
 enters?) Oh, John, what did you do to him ? 
 
 JOHN. Yes, mum. I threw him so far he'll starve before 
 he gets back ! 
 
 ROSIE. Oh, John ! Don't handle them so roughly. I wish 
 papa would come. I am getting so nervous. I know I shall 
 fain: if any more of them 
 
 Enter BARON PUMPERNICKEL. 
 
 BARON. Ach, dere you are, Rosie. Veil, I can say it for 
 myself dat you haf played me no goot. I treat you mit my 
 money, and mine Gott in Himmel ! you run avay from me. 
 Rosie, a Chorman spends no money for noddings. You must 
 come back to Deutchland and I vill make you mine frau. Ah, 
 you can haf all mine sauerkraut factories und all mine breweries. 
 
 ROSIE. Help, John ! 
 
48 ROSIE, THE GIRL FROM PARIS 
 
 JOHN. Yes, mum. 
 
 BARON. Vat's that ? You want me to help you ? Yes ? 
 Aber Rosie, Ich Liebe Dich. Sure, Mike, I do. I would do 
 any think for you more for your money. 
 
 JOHN. Hey, there. 
 
 BARON. Leaf me alone. I am all right. Speak it out to 
 me, Rosie. Speak it to my face. 
 
 ROSIE. John, help ! 
 
 JOHN. Yes, mum. (Scuffle.*) 
 
 BARON. Ah, Gott ! I am murdered ! Rosie, come mit 
 me und help me ! Ach, Rosie, donner vetter ! 
 
 (Both exit. Noise outside.} 
 
 ROSIE. Oh ! (Scream. ) Thank goodness, the last of those 
 
 noblemen ! I wonder if John (JOHN enters.) Oh, John, 
 
 what did you do to him ? 
 
 JOHN. Yes, mum. I busted his balloon. 
 
 ROSIE. Oh ! (Scream.) 
 
 SIGNOR ALIBAZAN (outside). Ha, ha ! I vills finda dotta 
 gir-rl 1 (Enter SIGNOR.) Ha, ha ! ma Rosa ! (Draws sword.) 
 What for you go away lika dot fon Italic ? Ze lands from a de 
 sunshine, ze vinyo ? Ah, Rosa, willa not you 
 
 ROSIE. John, John ! 
 
 JOHN. You're crazy, you dago ! 
 
 SIGNOR. Leave me. I knifa you ! Look out for da blacka 
 da hand. Ah ! Rosa, listen to me. You musta be mine. I 
 steala you. (Brandishes sword.) 
 
 ROSIE. Help, John ! Help ! 
 
 SIGNOR. You must come back wis Signer Alibazan ! I 
 killa every man who try to stop me ! I strikea my sword into 
 his heart-t ! Rosa, I am on fire inside, Rosa, I 
 
 JOHN. Yes, mum. Watch me ! 
 
 SIGNOR. I lova you. I giva you alia ma mon. (Scuffle.) 
 I maka you help ! maka you my queen. Ah, Rosa ! We 
 eata toget' da maccarone and da spaghet forev'. Help ! 
 
 (Both exit and struggle. Noise without.) 
 
 ROSIE. Oh ! (Scream.) Oh, dear ! They are bound to 
 tax my limit. I wonder if it is proper to faint now ? Where's 
 papa ? {Enter JOHN.) Oh, John, what did you do to him ? 
 
 JOHN. Yes, mum. I half-killed him. 
 
ROSIE, THE GIRL FROM PARIS 49 
 
 ROSIE. Oh ! (Scream.} John, you are too strong. I don't 
 think we will be bothered any more, for I am sure 
 
 Enter MR. B. 
 
 MR. B. (embracing her). Oh, Rosey Posey ! My darling ! 
 My precious child ! I'm sorry I could not meet you. My, 
 how you have grown ! I can hardly believe my eyes ! You 
 are the picture of your mother. Oh, Rosie, if I could only tell 
 you how glad I am to see you 1 {Embraces her?) 
 
 JOHN (tapping MR. B. on the shoulder). Hey, you're crazy ! 
 
 MR. B. What's this ? Who is this man ? A stranger in 
 my house? 
 
 JOHN. Get out o' here ! 
 
 ROSIE. Father, he's 
 
 MR. B. One of those foreign noblemen. Leave this house 
 at once ! I want only Americans here. 
 
 JOHN. Get out, then ! That's what I'm here for. 
 
 {Struggle begins.) 
 
 ROSIE. John, John ! Don't ! He's all right. Father, 
 listen. I must explain. 
 
 (Struggle continues.} 
 
 MR. B. All foreigners must get out. 
 
 JOHN. Get out, you're crazy ! 
 
 ROSIE. John ! Help ! Father ! Papa ! (Struggle continues 
 until both exit. ROSIE falls in chair and noise is heard out- 
 side. JOHN enters.} Oh! Oh! John! What have you 
 done to him ? ( Cries. ) 
 
 JOHN. Yes, mum. I killed him. 
 
 ROSIE. Oh, my Popsy, dead ! Oh, John, you've killed 
 him ! My own Popsy Wopsy killed ! Oh ! What shall I do ? 
 What shall I do ? Oh I ( Cries.) 
 
 JOHN. Was that your father, Rosie ? 
 
 ROSIE. Yes, you horrid thing ! I'll never speak to you 
 again. Oh, what shall I do ? 
 
 JOHN. I'll be a father to you, Rosie. I'll take his place. 
 
 (Noise outside. Enter MR. B. and the four noblemen, one 
 behind the other, with clothes in rags.) 
 
 MR. B. (calling out). That's him, the rogue, the villain ! 
 
5O ROSIE, THE GIRL FROM PARIS 
 
 (JOHN walks up to the line, gives a slight push, all fall in a 
 heap.} 
 
 ROSIE. John ! Oh ! Oh I Oh ! John ! 
 JOHN. Rosie, will you marry me ? 
 
 (RosiE screams ; JOHN follows her around the stage. Gen- 
 eral confusion.} 
 
 CURTAIN 
 
The Teacher's Pet 
 
 CHARACTERS 
 
 MR. NOODLE, the country school teacher. 
 
 PERCIVAL PRIM, the pet. 
 
 OPHELIA HEAD, "j 
 
 LUKE SMALL, 
 
 MARK UPP, > school children. 
 
 MAY SINK, 
 
 WILLIE SMELL, J 
 
 More school children if desired. 
 
 SCENE. A schoolroom, maps, blackboard, etc. Door, L. ; 
 teacher* s desk, R., so that teacher faces L. Pupils' desks so 
 that they face R. 
 
 ( Curtain rises on an empty schoolroom ; noise outside as of 
 children at play.) 
 
 Enter MARK UPP and WILLIE SMELL, R., cautiously. 
 
 MARK. Gee, Willie, where does he keep the questions? 
 
 WILLIE. I think he stuck them in the rith-me-tick book. 
 
 MARK. Right-o ! Here dey is. 
 
 WILLIE (snatching paper from MARK). Give them to us. 
 (Reads.} Two times four equals eight, two times six equals 
 twelve. What is a Pencil-colia ? 
 
 MARK. Say, Willie, dat word ain't Pencil-colia; it's pro- 
 nounced Peninsula. 
 
 WILLIE. Beat it, Mark; here comes " Goggles " hisself. 
 
 \Exeunty R. 
 
 Enter MR. NOODLE, L. ; walks to desk, L. 
 
 MR. N. My, but I'm getting old; no one knows it better 
 than I. I remember the time I could see the boys coming to 
 school for miles and miles, and now I can hardly see what time 
 to ring the bell for school. Rheumatism has gotten me by the 
 
 51 
 
52 
 
 legs and it's about all I can do to crawl around, let alone dress 
 myself. ( Calls off R.) Mark Upp 1 Mark Upp ! 
 
 MARK (off stage). What, teacher? 
 
 MR. N. Come here, Mark. {Enter MARK, R., slowly. 
 Mark, my lad, what time is it ? 
 
 MARK. Three minutes past nine, teacher. 
 
 MR. N. Ring the bell, Mark, for school. (MR. N. at desk. 
 MARK takes bell, goes to door, R., and rings bell. Noise out- 
 side ceases.) Willie Smell, stop running when you hear the 
 bell. Forward, march. {Enter the children, all but PERCIVAL 
 and LUKE, the teacher calling out: "Left, right, left, right, 
 left, ' ' until they are seated, with clatter of books, etc. MR. N. 
 takes place at desk.) Good-morning, children. 
 
 ALL. Good-morning, teacher. 
 
 MR. N. Attention to roll call. Ophelia Head. 
 
 OPHELIA HEAD. Present. 
 
 MR. N. Willie Smell. 
 
 WILLIE. Here. 
 
 MR. N. Mark Upp. 
 
 MARK. I'm here, teacher. 
 
 MR. N. May Sink. 
 
 MAY SINK. Yes, sir. 
 
 MR. N. Luke Small. I wonder where that boy is this 
 morning ? Percival Prim. ( Groans and noises from the class.) 
 Order here ! Percival, no doubt, has to help his mother this 
 morning. {More groans. ) Order ! {Enter LUKE SMALL, 
 who tries to sneak to his seat, but MR. N. sees him.) Luke 
 Small ! What do you mean by coming late to school ? Come 
 up here in front of the class. 
 
 LUKE. Teacher, I 
 
 MR. N. Don't you talk back to me, sir; step out in front ! 
 (LuKE hesitates, .) Come here to me. 
 
 (LuKE comes in front of desk.) 
 
 LUKE. Teacher, I couldn't 
 
 MR. N. I told you not to talk to me. Hold out your hand. 
 
 LUKE. Teacher, I 
 
 MR. N. Hold out your hand. (LuKE holds out hand, which 
 MR. N. places on his left, and with right, takes ruler and sir ikes. 
 LUKE quickly pulls hand away and MR. N. strikes his own left 
 hand. He dances about with pain and LUKE takes advantage 
 of this to recover his seat. Class laughs. MR. N. gradually 
 
THE TEACHER'S PET 53 
 
 recovers his dignity, and glaring at LUKE, picks up a book.} 
 We will first have our arithmetic lesson. 
 
 (General confusion of opening books during which PERCIVAL 
 PRIM enters with a large bunch of flowers. He walks up 
 to MR. N.'s desk amid sour faces and suppressed cries of 
 " Sucker ! Pet / " etc., from the class, and the smiles of 
 MR. N.) 
 
 PERCIVAL. Teacher, I'm sorry I was late, but I pricked my 
 finger on a thorn while I was picking those for you, and my 
 mother had to bandage it up, so I could not get here on time. 
 
 Mi*. N. Oh ! I'm so sorry, Percival, that you were hurt. 
 I hope it is nothing serious. Thank you for the lovely flowers. 
 
 WILLIE. Sucker ! 
 
 MAY. Teacher's pet ! 
 
 (LUKE throws a spitball, which hits PERCIVAL on the back 
 of the head.} 
 
 MR. N. Order ! Order ! 
 
 PERCIVAL. Teacher, some one hit me with a spitball. 
 
 MR. N. Who hit this child with a spitball? (Pause.} 
 Who did it, I say ? 
 
 PERCIVAL. I think it was Willie Smell. 
 
 MR. N. Willie Smell, I shall send a note home to your 
 mother to-night. 
 
 WILLIE. I didn't do it, teacher. 
 
 MR. N. You did. Don't answer me. Percival, you may 
 take your seat now. (Cries of "Sucker /" etc., silenced by 
 MR. N.) Ophelia Head 
 
 PERCIVAL (crying}. Teacher, the boys called me sucker. 
 
 MR. N. If I catch any of you bothering him again I will 
 certainly punish you. Percival is the only good boy in the 
 room. 
 
 LUKE. Sucker ! (Pulls PERCIVAL' s hair.} 
 
 MR.'N. Now we will have a geography lesson. Ophelia, 
 where is Timbuctoo ? 
 
 OPHELIA. Arizona. 
 
 MR. N. Why, Ophelia ! Mark, you tell us where Tim- 
 buctoo is. 
 
 MARK. Timbuctoo is in, ah, um well Timbuctoo is 
 in Gee, I don't know. 
 
 MR. N. Take your seat, Mark. 
 
 PERCIVAL. Teacher, Luke Small pinched me. 
 
54 THE TEACHER'S PET 
 
 MR. N. You go right home now, Luke Small, and tell your 
 mother I sent you home. Go right along. {Exit LUKE, with 
 menacing looks.) May Sink, where is Timbuctoo? 
 
 MAY. Search me. 
 
 MR. N. This is awful. Percival, you tell us where Tim- 
 buctoo is. 
 
 PERCIVAL. Timbuctoo is in Africa. 
 
 MR. N. That is right. Go to the head of the class. 
 
 BOYS. Sucker ! 
 
 MR. N. Who threw that spitball at me ? 
 
 BOYS. Percival did it. 
 
 MR. N. Percival did it ? Well, I will excuse Percival. It 
 is the first time he ever hit me. 
 
 PERCIVAL. I didn't throw it, teacher. 
 
 ALL. He did ! He did ! 
 
 MR. N. Boys, Percival says he didn't. 
 
 BOYS. Sucker ! Sucker ! Teacher's pet ! 
 
 MR. N. Order ! We will have a spelling lesson now. 
 Willie, you spell Constantinople. 
 
 WILLIE. Kon-stan-apple 
 
 MR. N. May, you spell it. 
 
 MAY. I spell it like Willie spells it. 
 
 MR. N. Can any one spell Constantinople ? 
 
 PERCIVAL. I can C-o-n-s-t-a-n-t-i-n-o-p-l-e. 
 
 MR. N. Percival, you are such a comfort. You always 
 know your lesson. (Here all the boys jump on PERCIVAL and 
 MR. ^.finally catches them and puts them back in their seats.*) 
 For our arithmetic lesson I shall give a very easy example. For 
 
 instance, Luke (LuKE stands.) Now, Luke, if I give 
 
 May Sink ten apples and she is to give you one back every day, 
 how many apples should you have at the end of six days ? 
 
 LUKE. None. 
 
 MR. N. Luke, you don't know the example. 
 
 LUKE. Teacher, you don't know May Sink. 
 
 MR. N. Percival, you tell Luke how many he should 
 receive. 
 
 PERCIVAL. He should receive six apples, teacher. 
 
 MR. N. You children should benefit by Percival's knowledge. 
 How many of you can subtract two from twelve ? May, you 
 do it. How much is twelve minus two ? 
 
 MAY. Twelve minus two leaves one. 
 
 MR. N. Take your seat. Mark, can you tell me the answer ? 
 
 MARK. Two and five-sixths. 
 
THE TEACHER S PET 55 
 
 MR. N. Percival, I must ask you. 
 
 PERCIVAL. Ten. 
 
 MR. N. Correct. May Sink, take that gum out of your 
 mouth and throw it away. 
 
 MAY. I can't, teacher, it doesn't belong to me it's my 
 mother's. 
 
 (PERCIVAL raises hand.) 
 
 MR. N. Yes, Percival. 
 
 PERCIVAL. My mother told me it was rude to chew gum. 
 
 (Cries again.) 
 
 MR. N. Well, my dear children, our lessons for to-day were 
 not any too brilliant, but what can one expect from a class so 
 young and thinly populated, especially on the last day of school ? 
 
 ALL. Hurrah ! Hurray ! 
 
 MR. N. Order, children. Of course, you all know that this 
 being our last day together until the beginning of the next 
 semester, we generally have a few singing exercises before we 
 depart for our homes. I hope, nevertheless, children, to be 
 with you again next semester. 
 
 OPHELIA. Say, teacher, who's this seamstress you're talking 
 about ? 
 
 MR. N. Why, Ophelia, do you mean to say you have never 
 heard that word before ? Willie, will you explain the meaning 
 of the word semester to Ophelia ? 
 
 WILLIE. She is a lady what comes around to houses with a 
 darning needle and sews up old holes in stockings. 
 
 PERCIVAL. Willie is mistaken, teacher. 
 
 WILLIE. I ain't, neither; guess I know what my mother is. 
 She sews my neckties; don't I know? 
 
 MR. N. Percival is correct, Willie, your mother is a seam- 
 stress, not a semester. A semester is a term at school, which 
 in this school comes once every six months. And this being 
 the last day of school, it is also the last day of this semester. 
 Now, children, since I have made everything clear, we shall 
 end this happy semester by singing. 
 
 ALL. Hurrah for the end of the hemisphere ! 
 
 MR. N. Order ! We will now sing "America. 11 (C/ass 
 stand. All stand more or less awkwardly.) Percival, give 
 us the note. (PERCIVAL strikes high note. Cat calls, etc.) 
 Silence ! Now, all together ! (All sing a verse of " America " 
 very much out of unison, etc.) That will be all to-day. You 
 
56 THE TEACHER'S PET 
 
 may take your books now and go home. (Suppressed cries of 
 " Teacher's pet ! Wait till we get you " etc.} Percival, you 
 may remain for a while after school. 
 PERCIVAL. Yes, teacher. 
 
 {Exeunt all but MR. N. and PERCIVAL, with sidelong looks.} 
 
 MR. N. Here, Percival, is a nice book for you to read. 
 {Gives PERCIVAL a large encyclopedia volume} It has lots of 
 nice pictures in it. 
 
 PERCIVAL. Yes, teacher, my mother likes me to read. 
 
 MR. N. Has your mother been making any more of those 
 nice cakes lately ? 
 
 PERCIVAL. Yes, teacher, she wants you to come to our 
 house for dinner to-night. 
 
 MR. N. Oh ! Thank you very much ! Tell your mother 
 I shall be very glad to come. 
 
 PERCIVAL. Yes, sir. 
 
 MR. N. And when I come I'll help you with your lessons. 
 
 PERCIVAL. Yes, sir. 
 
 MR. N. I guess all of those boys have gone now. (Rises, 
 goes to door and looks out.} Mark Upp ! What are you 
 doing there ? You go right home. Don't be staying about 
 here. Get along. I see you behind that tree, Luke Small. 
 You go home to your mother as I told you. (Pause. Turns 
 around.) Now they are all gone, Percival, you may go. 
 
 PERCIVAL. Good-night, teacher. 
 
 MR. N. Good-night, Percival, dear. (Exit PERCIVAL.) 
 Good-night. 
 
 PERCIVAL (without}. Good-night. 
 
 (MR. N. looks after PERCIVAL a moment, then closes door 
 and walks over to desk, sits down and picks up a book. 
 Suddenly there is a terrible noise outside. The door flies 
 open, PERCIVAL comes running in with clothing torn, his 
 eyes blacked, and after him all the children shouting and 
 calling wildly. MR. N. rushes about the stage. General 
 confusion.} 
 
 CURTAIN 
 
Lost but Found 
 
 CHARACTERS 
 
 B. GUNK, the superintendent. 
 
 PETER, the cop. 
 
 MR. HANK SMITHERS. 
 
 HYMIE LOST. 
 
 His MOTHER. 
 
 LITTLE JENKINS. 
 
 BIG JENKINS, his father. 
 
 SAM SMITHERS. 
 
 SCENE. The office of the Home for Lost Boys. 
 
 (B. GUNK seated at table writing, with large speaking 
 trumpet on table at hand. Enter PETER. Walks up to 
 GUNK, salutes. GUNK does not see him. Salutes again. 
 Same. Salutes again.) 
 
 PETER. Ahem ! 
 
 GUNK. Eh ? (Looks up and puts trumpet to ear.) 
 
 PETER. I said, "Ahem ! " 
 
 GUNK. What's that ? Are you swearing at me ? 
 
 PETER. No, I never swore in all my life. 
 
 GUNK. Eh ? 
 
 PETER. I said, "No." 
 
 GUNK. Well, who are you anyhow? 
 
 PETER. I'm the new officer the chief sent up here. 
 
 GUNK. Oh ! you're the new officer, are you ? I suppose 
 you know all about this place. 
 
 PETER. No old beanhead like you can tell me anything ! 
 
 GUNK. Eh ? What's that you said ? 
 
 PETER. I said I know all about it. 
 
 GUNK. Well, you see this is a home for lost boys. We 
 pick up these poor homeless waifs about the streets and find a 
 home for them in some good family. 
 
 PETER. Yes. 
 
 57 
 
58 LOST BUT FOUND 
 
 GUNK. Eh ? 
 
 PETER. Yes. 
 
 GUNK. Eh ? 
 
 PETER. YES ! 
 
 GUNK. Oh, yes. Well, officer, what's your name, any- 
 how? 
 
 PETER. Peter. 
 
 GUNK. Peter ? That's a funny name for an officer ! Yes 1 
 
 Well, Peter 
 
 Enter MR. HANK SMITHERS, from R. 
 
 MR. S. (to PETER). Are you the manager of this concern ? 
 
 PETER. No, the bean head is. 
 
 MR. S. Oh! Mr. Beanhead. (To GUNK.) How do you 
 do, Mr. Beanhead? 
 
 GUNK. Eh ? 
 
 MR. S. I said, "How do you do, Mr. Beanhead ?" 
 
 GUNK. What's that ? What do you mean by calling me 
 Mr. Beanhead ? My name is not Mr. Beanhead ; my name is 
 Mr. Gunk, G-U-N-K, Gunk ! 
 
 MR. S. Oh ! Excuse me, Mr. Skunk a slight mistake on 
 my part. 
 
 GUNK. Eh ? Gol-darn you anyhow ! What do you mean 
 by calling me Mr. Skunk ? My name is Gunk, not Skunk ! 
 
 MR. S. Oh ! Excuse me, Mr. Gunk. A slight mistake. 
 No harm done, 1 hope ? 
 
 GUNK. No! No! 
 
 MR. S. Well, I want a boy. You see, my son Samuel was 
 a very naughty boy, and so I had to send him to the Reform 
 School. 
 
 GUNK. Oh ! Yes ! You say you had a deformed boy ? 
 
 MR. S. No ! No ! I said I sent my boy to the Reform 
 School. 
 
 GUNK. Oh, the Reform School. 
 
 MR. S. Yes I I sent my boy to the Reform School, and 
 now I want to get another boy to take his place on the farm. 
 
 GUNK. Oh ! Yes ! Well, if you will just give me your 
 name and address, I think I'll be able to fix you up all right. 
 
 MR. S. My name is Smithers. 
 
 GUNK. Oh ! Yes ! Mr. Smythers. 
 
 MR. S. No ! Mr. Smithers. 
 
 GUNK {going over to table). Oh ! Yes ! Mr. Slivers. 
 
LOST BUT FOUND 59 
 
 MR. S. No ! No ! Mr. Smithers. 
 
 GUNK. Well, just spell it slowly, Mr. Splinters, one letter at 
 a time, and maybe I can get it. 
 
 1YJLK. O. 
 
 GUNK. 
 MR. S. 
 GUNK. 
 
 MR. S. 
 GUNK. 
 
 MR. S. 
 GUNK. 
 Stand aside 
 MR. S. 
 GUNK. 
 MR. S. 
 GUNK. 
 MR. S. 
 GUNK. 
 
 Yes. 
 No! Not yes "S." 
 Oh, yes! "S." 
 
 shoulder.*) 
 
 
 T 
 
 i 
 
 I (PETER looks over his 
 \ 
 
 T 
 
 Eh? 
 No, not "A" "T." 
 Oh! 
 Not "O" "T." 
 Oh, "T." 
 
 Peter ! 
 
 MR. S. (to PETER). Say, Peter, what's the matter with this 
 fellow anyhow? 
 
 PETER. Oh, he's got a bean in his ear. 
 
 GUNK. Peter, did you say something about me ? 
 
 PETER. I said you were a little hard of hearing. 
 
 GUNK (to MR. S.). Oh, Peter told you I was a little hard 
 of hearing. (To PETER.) Thank you, Peter, for telling him. 
 
 MR. S. Yes, thank you, Peter, for telling me. I'd never 
 know it if you hadn't said so. (To GUNK.) Say, do you 
 read as well as you hear ? 
 
 GUNK. Yes, I think I do. 
 
 MR. S. Well, then, let me write it for you. ( Writes name.) 
 
 GUNK. All right, Mr. Slivers, I guess we can fix you up all 
 right. Now, what hotel are you stopping at ? 
 
 MR. S. I am stopping at the Fairmount, but I take my 
 meals at the Eureka Chop House. There's nothing too good 
 for -your uncle. You can call me up at the hotel. 
 
 GUNK. Well, Mr. Smythers, I think we're liable to get you 
 a boy 'most any time now. Yes ! 
 
 MR. S. Well, good-day ! 
 
 GUNK. Eh ? 
 
 MR. S. I said, "Good-day!" [Exit. 
 
 GUNK. Eh ? Peter ! What did he say ? 
 
 PETER. He said, " Good-day ! " 
 
 GUNK. Good-day, sir ! Good-day ! Peter ! Peter ! Come 
 
6O LOST BUT FOUND 
 
 over here, Peter ! Say, Peter, where did you work before you 
 came here ? 
 
 PETER. Down at the pound. 
 
 GUNK. Well, why didn't you stay there, Peter? 
 
 PETER. The dogs liked me too much. 
 
 GUNK. How's that ? 
 
 PETER. They were stuck on me all the time. 
 
 GUNK. Well, Peter (Sound of boy crying lustily.} 
 
 Eh! What's that? 
 
 Enter HYMIE LOST, crying. 
 
 H. L. I'm lost ! 
 
 GUNK. What's that ? 
 
 H. L. I'm lost ! 
 
 GUNK. Eh ? Peter ! What's that he said ? I can't make 
 out a word he says. 
 
 PETER. He said he's lost. 
 
 GUNK. Oh ! Yes ! So you're lost ! Well, well ! Peter, 
 find out his name. (Goes to table to write.) 
 
 PETER. What's your name, little boy? 
 
 H. L. I'm Lost. 
 
 PETER. I know you're lost, but what's your name? 
 
 H. L. I'm Lost. 
 
 PETER. I know you're lost (yelling) but what's your name, 
 name, name? 
 
 H. L. I'm Lost ! Boo-hoo ! 
 
 PETER (in despair). Hymie Lost. 
 
 GUNK (writing). Oh, yes ! Hymie Lost. Peter! Find 
 out where he lives. 
 
 PETER. Where do you live, boy ? 
 
 H. L. I'm lost ! 
 
 PETER. Now, I know you're lost, but where do you live ? 
 
 H. L. Oh ! I'm lost ! 
 
 PETER (angrily). I know you're lost, but where do you 
 live live live ? 
 
 H. L. I'm lost ! 
 
 PETER (disgustedly). No. 9 Moss Street. 
 
 GUNK. Oh, yes ! No. 909 Law Street. 
 
 PETER. No ! No. 9 Moss Street. 
 
 GUNK. Eh ? 
 
 PETER (aside). Oh, well ! It's all the same, anyhow. 
 
 GUNK. Oh, yes. Now, Peter, you go and get Mr. Slivers, 
 and I'll take care of the boy. (Exit PETER.) Now, come over 
 
LOST BUT FOUND 6 1 
 
 here, little boy ! (H. L. is scared.) There ! Nice little boy ! 
 No one will hurt you. {Leads shivering little boy to settee, 
 where boy sits at ease.) Well, he certainly takes it easy, that 
 boy does! (To audience.) I don't understand a word that 
 boy says. I don't think any one else does. No ! 
 
 Enter H. L.'s MOTHER. Rushes direct to GUNK without see- 
 ing boy, talking very fast. 
 
 H. L.'s M. My child ! I've lost my child. I was walking 
 down the street and I lost him. I haven't seen him for an 
 hour. I've been looking all over and I can't find him. I 
 
 GUNK. Here ! Here ! Here ! What's this, madam ? 
 
 H. L.'s M. (still talking very fast). I tell you I've lost my 
 boy ; I was walking down the street and I lost him. I haven't 
 seen him for an hour, and 
 
 GUNK. Here ! Here ! Here ! One word at a time, 
 please. Now, what did you say ? 
 
 H. L.'s M. I tell you I've lost my little boy. 
 
 GUNK. Oh, well, why didn't you say so, then ? So you 
 lost your little boy ! H-m-m ! Well! (To audience.') She 
 lost her little boy ! Well ! 
 
 (H. L. begins to cry again ; his mother discovers him, rushes 
 to him, catches him in arms, and off.) 
 
 H. L.'sM. My child! 
 
 H. L. Mamma, mamma, mamma ! [Exit. 
 
 GUNK. Here ! Here ! Here ! What does this mean ? 
 (Enter PETER and MR. S. PETER bumps into GUNK.) Here ! 
 Here ! Here ! 
 
 MR. S. Howd' ye do? 
 
 GUNK. Eh? 
 
 MR. S. I said how d* ye do ? 
 
 GUNK. Well ! How d' ye do ? 
 
 MR. S. I'm doing pretty well for a young man. How are 
 you feeling? 
 
 GUNK. Pretty well. 
 
 MR. S. Well, have you got my boy ? 
 
 GUNK. Your boy ? 
 
 MR. S. Yes, my boy. 
 
 GUNK. Well, I'll tell you. I guess I'll have to disappoint 
 you about that boy. Yes ! You see I had a good boy, but 
 
62 LOST BUT FOUND 
 
 just as you were coming in the boy's mother came in and took 
 him away, so I couldn't give you that boy very well. No ! 
 
 MR. S. No ! I suppose not. Not very well. No ! No ! 
 
 GUNK. No ! No ! 
 
 MR. S. Say, that's a good story. Where did you read 
 that? 
 
 GUNK. Eh ? 
 
 MR. S. I say that's a good story. Where did you read it ? 
 
 GUNK. I don't understand you ! 
 
 MR. S. Well, I don't want to be brought up here for noth- 
 ing like this ! 
 
 GUNK. Eh ? 
 
 MR. S. Good-day, sir ! 
 
 GUNK. Eh ? 
 
 MR. S. (going}. Good-day! [Exit. 
 
 GUNK (listening'). Peter ! Come here ! Peter ! What 
 did he say ? 
 
 PETER. He said good-day. 
 
 GUNK. Was that all he said? 
 
 PETER. Yes ! 
 
 GUNK. Well! Go tell him good-day. (PETER goes to 
 door.} Peter, what are you doing? 
 
 PETER. Telling him good-day. 
 
 GUNK. Well, you don't have to go outside to do it. Peter, 
 we've got to get a good boy for that man. Yes ! 
 
 PETER. Yes ! 
 
 GUNK. What's that, Peter ? 
 
 PETER. I said yes! 
 
 GUNK. Oh ! Yes ! (Enter LITTLE JENKINS, crying.) 
 Did I hear a noise? 
 
 LITTLE J. My father licked me. 
 
 GUNK. Eh ? 
 
 LITTLE J. My father licked me ! 
 
 GUNK. Peter ! What did he say? 
 
 PETER. He said his father licked him. 
 
 GUNK. Eh? 
 
 PETER (shouting}. He said his father licked him. 
 
 GUNK. Oh ! His father kicked him. 
 
 PETER. No ! His father licked him, beat him, spanked 
 him, trounced him ! 
 
 GUNK. Oh ! His father licked him ! Well, boy, you must 
 have a cruel father to do such a thing as that. Peter, I've got 
 an idea ! I'll run out and telephone Mr. Splinters right away, 
 
LOST BUT FOUND 63 
 
 and you take care of the boy. Treat him gently, Peter 
 gently ! [Exit. 
 
 PETER. Come on, get over here now ! (Cuffs the boy.} 
 
 LITTLE J. You better leave me alone. My father 1 !! fix 
 you. 
 
 PETER. How big's your father? 
 
 LITTLE J. My father's that big ! 
 
 (Indicates a very small man.*) 
 
 PETER. What! That big? (Stoops.) Why, I could twist 
 him around my little finger. 
 
 LITTLE J. He's got big muscles, like that ! 
 
 (Both show their muscles.) 
 Enter BIG JENKINS and GuxK/rom opposite sides of the stage. 
 
 BIG J. Johnnie, what are you doing here? (LITTLE J. 
 cries.) You go right home and wait in the wood-shed for me. 
 
 [Exit LITTLE J., crying. 
 
 GUNK. Here ! Here ! Come back here, boy I Peter, get 
 the boy ! (GuNK runs after boy. BIG J. shoves GUNK, then 
 PETER to one side) Peter ! Put that man out ! 
 
 PETER (backing away). Come on, now, you get out of 
 here! 
 
 BIG J. What did you say ? 
 
 PETER (approaching easily). Get out of here ! 
 
 (BiG J. throws PETER to the floor and beats him. PETER 
 halloas "Help /" " Murder / " " Oh, my eye ! " etc.) 
 
 GUNK. Here! Here! Here! 
 
 (Approaching and standing over them, BIG J. swings on 
 GUNK, knocks him down and exit. GUNK gets up slowly 
 and begins lifting one leg and stretching it out and feeling 
 himself.) 
 
 Enter MR. S. 
 
 MR. S. I wonder if I'm in the right house ? It looks like a 
 dancing school to me. Yes, I guess I'm in the right house, all 
 right. How d' ye do? 
 
 GUNK. Eh ? 
 
 MR. S. I said how d' ye do? 
 
 GUNK. Not very well just now ! 
 
64 LOST BUT FOUND 
 
 MR. S. Well, have you got my boy ? 
 
 GUNK. Your boy ? 
 
 MR. S. Yes, my boy. 
 
 GUNK. I guess I'll have to disappoint you again. It was 
 all a mistake about that boy. Yes ! All a mistake. I haven't 
 any boy for you. 
 
 MR. S. No, I suppose you never telephoned, either? 
 
 GUNK. No, it was all Peter's fault all a mistake. 
 
 MR. S. Well, I can find some excuse for a poor young man 
 like Peter, but for an old man like you there's no excuse. Well, 
 how many times are you going to fool me up here anyhow ? 
 
 GUNK. Well, I couldn't tell you that, no ! 
 
 MR. S. Well, I want that boy ! I've got to get back to my 
 pigs on the farm. 
 
 GUNK. Oh ! So you have pigs in your family ? 
 
 MR. S. Yes ! I mean, no ! No / I have them on my 
 farm, not in my family. I said I had to get back to take care 
 of my pigs. 
 
 GUNK. Oh ! I thought you said you had pigs in your 
 family ! Good joke that, yes ! 
 
 MR. S. Yes ! Well, what kind of a story is this you're 
 giving me ? Do you expect me to believe all these fairy stories ? 
 
 GUNK. Well, I ain't tellin' you any stories. No! And 
 you don't need to start anything with me, no ! 
 
 MR. S. Well, don't start anything with me, either; not 
 while I have my trusty cane along. 
 
 GUNK. Even if I am an old man, you can't fool with me. 
 No ! I won't stand for it. No ! {Spits on his hands.} 
 
 MR. S. (aside). Guess I'd better get ! He's getting an- 
 other one 1 \_Exit. 
 
 GUNK. I've got a good notion to swing on you right now, 
 and I think I'll do it. (Swings around blindly and almost hits 
 PETER.) Excuse me, Peter ! Excuse me ! Peter, come here ! 
 (PETER comes half afraid, and keeps watching GUNK'S hand as 
 he gesticulates.} Peter, we've got to get a boy for that man ! 
 I'll tell you what we'll do. You go and see if we can find some 
 poor little lost boy walking about the streets, and bring him 
 down here. 
 
 PETER. Oh ! I'll grab a kid all right. (Shows muscle.) 
 
 GUNK. Hurry, Peter ! (PETER exits slowly.} My, that 
 Peter will be the death of me yet ; this is an awful hard job for 
 an old man like me anyhow ! I've got a big notion to resign 
 the first of the year. 
 
LOST BUT FOUND 65 
 
 Enter PETER, holding SAM SMITHERS by the collar. 
 
 PETER. Come over here, you little divil ! (Cuffs SAM.) 
 
 GUNK. Here! Here! Here! What are you doing? 
 You're not handling dogs now ! No ! If there's anything the 
 matter with that boy, I'll attend to him ! I'm the superin- 
 tendent here, yes ! (Kindly.) Now, little boy, what's your 
 trouble ? 
 
 SAM. Oh ! Shut up, you big cheese. 
 
 GUNK. Eh ? Peter, what did he say ? 
 
 PETER. He said he's lost. 
 
 GUNK. Oh ! So you're lost, little boy? 
 
 SAM. Oh, go on, you old sidechops ! 
 
 GUNK. Eh ? What's that ? Peter 1 Didn't he say some- 
 thing wrong then ? 
 
 PETER. No, he said he lost his mother. 
 
 GUNK. Oh, so you lost your mother, little boy ? 
 
 SAM. Oh, shut up, you tomato-face ! 
 
 GUNK. Peter ! I think that boy said something wrong to 
 me then ! 
 
 PETER. He said he likes tomato-sauce. 
 
 GUNK. Well, I ain't a restaurant. No, Peter, I'll go and 
 telephone Mr. Slivers right away, and you hold on to the boy ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 PETER. Get over there now ! (Cuffs SAM.) 
 
 GUNK (reentering). Here ! Here ! Peter ! What are you 
 doing there ? 
 
 PETER. I'm combing his hair for him. 
 
 GUNK. Eh ? 
 
 PETER (shouting). I'm combing his hair for him. 
 
 GUNK. Yes, it looks like it, with those big swings of yours. 
 
 Enter MR. S. 
 
 MR. S. How d' ye do ? 
 
 GUNK. Eh ? 
 
 MR. S. I said, " How d 1 ye do?" 
 
 GUNK. Well, I'm doin' pretty well. 
 
 MR. S. Well, you got my boy? 
 
 GUNK. Yes, I've got a good boy for you this time. 
 
 MR. S. You mean a pretty good story. 
 
 GUNK. I said a good boy. 
 
 MR. S. Well, by heck, I didn't see any boy when I came 
 
66 LOST BUT FOUND 
 
 in here. (Looks around, and sees SAM across the stage.') 
 That's my boy Samuel from the Reform School. 
 
 SAM. There's my old man ! 
 
 MR. S. I'll get you ! 
 
 ( Wild chase around stage. SAM upsets GUNK and the others. 
 General confusion.) 
 
 CURTAIN 
 
Political Promises 
 
 CHARACTERS 
 
 JOHN BEET, candidate for Mayor. 
 WILLIE, his office boy. 
 ADOLPHUS SPIEGELBURGER, a German. 
 GEORGE WASHINGTON ANDREW JACKSON 
 
 THOMAS JEFFERSON BROWN, a negro. 
 ISIDORE COHENSTEIN, a Hebrew. 
 GIUSEPPE BACIGALUPI, an Italian. 
 
 SCENE I 
 BEFORE THE ELECTION 
 
 SCENE. JOHN BEET'S office. Desk, L. ; entrance, R. Office 
 chair at desk. A couple of smaller chairs placed about for 
 visitors. Election signs about as though they were samples, 
 " Beet for Mayor" "Beet, the People's Friend," etc. 
 
 (As the curtain rises, WILLIE is dusting. BEET enters im- 
 mediately, throws his hat on a chair, takes off his coat 
 and, in his shirt sleeves, commences to go over a stack of 
 mail on his desk. WILLIE watches him.) 
 
 BEET (as he glances over letters'). Has any one been in to 
 see me to-day ? 
 
 WILLIE. Nope. 
 
 BEET (looking up and approaching WILLIE). Well, I an* 
 expecting several people in and I want you to treat them right. 
 Be polite to them. Offer them a chair. If they ask if Mr. Beet 
 is in you must say, " Certainly. He has been waiting for you 
 for half an hour." Give them a chair. Send them right in as 
 soon as they come. Don't keep them waiting. Remember to 
 be polite to them as a lot may depend on how you treat them. 
 If you treat them right, Willie, and I'm elected, I'll raise your 
 wages. 
 
 6 7 
 
68 POLITICAL PROMISES 
 
 WILLIE. Sure, I'll treat 'em right. Say here comes an 
 old Dutchman now. Gee, look at his face ! 
 
 Enter ADOLPHUS SPIEGELBURGER. 
 
 BEET {giving WILLIE a reproachful look). Why, that is my 
 old friend, Mr. Spiegelburger. How do you do, Mr. Spiegel- 
 burger ? Always glad to see you. 
 
 SPIEG. How do yourself? You vant to see me ? 
 
 WILLIE. Gee, will you look at his face ! 
 
 SPIEG. (to WILLIE). Here, you boy, you leaf me alone. I 
 don't vant any of your talk. You leaf me alone. 
 
 BEET (glaring at WILLIE). Oh, don't mind him, Mr. 
 Spiegelburger. He doesn't know what he is saying. Well, it 
 certainly is a pleasure to see your smiling face again. You 
 always have such a sunny smile. 
 
 WILLIE (aside). What a face ! 
 
 SPIEG. I hear you run for Mayor. 
 
 BEET. Well, not running exactly. You see it's this way. 
 A couple of my friends have brought my name forward. It 
 was very kind of them. They think they want to see me Mayor. 
 Case of the office seeking the man, you know. 
 
 WILLIE (suddenly shoving chair behind SPIEG. and nearly 
 upsetting him). Have a chair. He is in and waiting for you. 
 Have a chair. 
 
 BEET (motioning to WILLIE to make him behave). Yes, yes, 
 sit down. (SPIEG. sits and BEET draws up a chair beside 
 him.) Well, Spiegelburger, what do you think of the German 
 vote? 
 
 SPIEG. You leaf it to me. I haf de Choiman vote all right. 
 I haf it right in mine hand. You leaf it to me. 
 
 BEET. Well, you know where I stand in the matter. 
 
 SPIEG. You like de Choimans ? 
 
 BEET. I should say I do. I am for the Germans every 
 time. Hock the Kaiser for me. I think the finest man that 
 ever lived is good old Emperor William. Do you know, if I 
 were not an American I should want to be a German every 
 time. 
 
 SPIEG. Yah ! Dot is right. Dey drink more beer. 
 
 WILLIE. I know it. 
 
 SPIEG. (to WILLIE). You go vay ; you make too much mon^ 
 key business. 
 
 BEET. You understand what I think about you, Mr. Spie- 
 gelburger ? You are a most prominent citizen 
 
POLITICAL PROMISES 69 
 
 SPIEG. Oh, qvit your kiddin'. 
 
 WILLIE (making his hand go over the curve of an imaginary 
 large abdomen). Very prominent, very prominent. 
 
 SPIEG. (to WILLIE). Here you, boy. You don't know who 
 I am. You ask Mr. Beet. He knows who I am. 
 
 BEET (glaring at boy. To SPIEG.). You think the Ger- 
 man vote is all right then ? 
 
 SPIEG. You leaf it to me. Vait a minute, I vant to ask you 
 somedings. Ven I haf you elected got, vot do I get ? 
 
 BEET. What do you want? 
 
 SPIEG. I vant to be Chief Brewery Inspector. 
 
 BEET. Why, certainly ! Anything you like. You know 
 me. Just come and see me. I'll fix it all up fine and dandy. 
 
 SPIEG. Yah. You see I vant to sample all de beer. 
 
 BEET. Of course, of course. Just the man for the position. 
 
 SPIEG. All right. I come after you elected. Good-bye. 
 
 BEET. Good-bye. Remember me to your friends. Always 
 glad to see you. [Exit SPIEG. 
 
 WILLIE (to BEET). Well, what are you glaring at me for? 
 Didn't I give him a chair ? 
 
 BEET. Yes, you gave him a chair all right ! You chucked 
 it under his legs, that's what you did. You must be more po- 
 lite. You must remember that. See here, if I get the office I 
 will give you a dollar. Now you try to be polite ! Remem- 
 ber that. A dollar. 
 
 WILLIE. All right; a dollar for mine. (Enter BROWN.) 
 Gee, look at the coon. 
 
 BEET (rushing over to BROWN effusively). Well, if there 
 isn't Mr. Brown. Why, how do you do, Mr. Brown ? I de- 
 clare you are one of the best friends I have. (WILLIE shoves 
 chair at BROWN and BROWN feints at him.} Oh, don't mind 
 him. I have to keep him around here. 
 
 BROWN. Too fresh. 
 
 WILLIE. Ah, sit down. 
 
 BROWN. Ah understand yo' are elected Mayor. 
 
 BEET. Well, I can hardly say I am elected. You see some 
 of my friends have sort of taken the matter in their hands and 
 are pushing me for the office. I cannot say that I am really 
 seeking it. Case of office seeking the man, you know. Well, 
 we will see. 
 
 BROWN. Who is going to put you in dat office ? 
 
 BEET. Oh, I shall be elected by the suffrage 
 
 BROWN. Suffrage, sell fish ? 
 
JO POLITICAL PROMISES 
 
 BEET. I mean the great men of this town 
 
 BROWN. The Suffrage? 
 
 BEET. The great men of this town will put me in the high 
 position to which I am called. You are one of the great men, 
 Mr. Brown. You represent one of the grandest races that 
 ever 
 
 BROWN. You like us mokes ? 
 
 BEET. Brown, you hold the negro vote in the hollow of 
 your hand. 
 
 BROWN. Yeh, right in de hollow ob man han*. 
 
 BEET. Yes, Mr. Brown, I think a negro is every bit as good 
 as a white man. I firmly hope to live to see the day when I 
 shall see a colored man President of the United States. 
 
 BROWN. Ummm ! Suppose you get all us mokes' votes ? 
 
 BEET. I shall always have the greatest respect for you as 
 one of the great men of the town. 
 
 BROWN. Yeh. Ah'm a great man. Ah want yo' to git dis 
 moke a job. Ah want to be President of the Police Force. 
 
 BEET. You mean Chief of Police ? 
 
 WILLIE. Gee ! Coon policemen. You couldn't see them 
 in the dark. 
 
 BROWN. Here, boy, you leave me 'lone. You hear me ? 
 
 WILLIE. Go 'long, chocolate drop. 
 
 BROWN. Yo' sweep yo' flo'. 
 
 WILLIE. Burglars would have a fine old time with coon 
 cops. 
 
 BROWN. Yo' empty yo' waste basket. 
 
 BEET. Willie, behave yourself. Remember ! 
 
 BROWN (to BEET). Yeh, dress 'em all up in green suits and 
 pink trimmin's. Jus' lak a watermelon. Brass buttons, all 
 nice. All shine at night. Do I get dat job ? 
 
 BEET. Why, you know you only have to leave it to me. I 
 will do anything in the world for you, old friend. Just come 
 in and see me. 
 
 BROWN. Well, Ah will come back fo' dat job. 
 
 BEET. Dee-lighted. [Exit BROWN. 
 
 WILLIE. You owe me a dollar. 
 
 BEET. I said after I was elected, and if you don't behave 
 better you won't get it then. 
 
 Enter ISIDORE COHENSTEIN. WILLIE shoves chair at him, and 
 then follows him with it all around the room. 
 
 COHEN. Is dis Mr. Beet ? 
 
POLITICAL PROMISES 7! 
 
 BEET. Yes, I am Mr. Beet. 
 
 COHEN. Veil, I came abondt dot letter you wrote me. 
 
 BEET. Oh, yes, Mr. Cohenstein, so glad to see you. Sit 
 down. (They sit.) Well, you see I have always had a great 
 liking for the Hebrews. I have always thought one of the 
 nicest trades to have in a city was the trade of pawnbroker. 
 He is the poor man's friend in need. I believe there should be 
 no license on pawnbroker shops. 
 
 COHEN. Now you got it. Rob people who try to make 
 some honest money. The poor, poor people. It's a shame. 
 (WILLIE snores.) Who is running a sawmill around here ? 
 
 BEET (rousing WILLIE, while still talking to COHEN.). As 
 I said, I believe you are very much respected in the Hebrew 
 community. 
 
 COHEN. Veil, I run sixteen pawnshops. 
 
 BEET. The Hebrew vote is a very large one in this section. 
 They have large property interests. Now of course I will help 
 the people who stand by me. I like you, Mr. Cohenstein. 
 You are one of the shining lights in the community. 
 
 WILLIE (aside). Yes an Israel-lite. 
 
 COHEN. Dot's it. 
 
 BEET. Well, I thought you might see your way clear to have 
 the Jewish vote support me. 
 
 COHEN. Veil, if you're elected, no license on de pawn- 
 shops ? 
 
 BEET. Certainly not. It's an imposition on honest men. 
 
 COHEN. Dot's it. But say, Mr. Beet, dere's someding else. 
 I vant to be President fin de Board of Public Voikers. 
 
 BEET. Board of Public Workers? You mean Board of 
 Public Works. 
 
 COHEN. It's all de same. Voik de public, dot's vot I vant. 
 
 BEET. You shall be anything you want. Just come around 
 after I am elected. 
 
 COHEN. All right. Now I go to all de hock shops, all de 
 peddlers. Dey all vote for you. 
 
 BEET. Thank you, thank you, my dear friend Mr. Cohen- 
 stein. So glad you came in. Come often. 
 
 COHEN. Sure, after you're elected. I voik now. Good- 
 day. 
 
 BEET. Good-day, my dear Mr. Cohenstein. {Exit COHEN.) 
 Willie, see if there is any one outside waiting. 
 
 WILLIE (looking out ). Yep, there's an old Dago out there. 
 (Calls.) Hey, come in. 
 
72 POLITICAL PROMISES 
 
 BEET. Dago ! Sssh ! (Enter GIUSEPPE BACIGALUPI.) 
 Why, it's my dear friend Mr. Bacigalupi. How are all the 
 people in Little Italy ? As good looking as you are ? Did you 
 make lots of vino this year ? 
 
 BACI. Two barrels. Fine stuff. Drinka two quart every 
 day. 
 
 BEET. How I love macaroni and spaghetti. Better than 
 turkey. But I suppose you have heard about the election. 
 
 BACI. You send me letter, yes ? 
 
 BEET. The Italians are a great people. Columbus was an 
 Italian. Garibaldi was an Italian. If I were not an American 
 I should want to be an Italian. Do you know that ? 
 
 BACI. You meana dat? 
 
 BEET. Yes, I do. I would like to have the support of the 
 Italian people. 
 
 BACI. Well, you got it. 
 
 BEET. I am glad of that. 
 
 BACI. You bet. Alia my frien' vote how I tell 'em. Some 
 vota once, some vota twice. Alia vota vor you. 
 
 BEET. Well, I'm glad to hear that. That's it, early and 
 often, eh ? 
 
 BACI. If I get Italian vote, what I get ? 
 
 BEET. What do you want ? 
 
 BACI. You know I can't write. 
 
 BEET. Well, then, I couldn't give you any clerical work. 
 
 BACI. I can't read. But I know good job. I like be Presi- 
 dent Board Education. I got two little boy go school now and 
 I like to go and stand in schoolroom, puta my hand on desk 
 and say, " How you get along, Willie?" 
 
 BEET. I know your heart is true gold all the way through. 
 
 BACI. Alia way through. Do I get da job? 
 
 BEET. Why, of course. Just come in here the day after I 
 am elected and it will be all ready for you. 
 
 BACI. Thank you. Now I go work. [Exit. 
 
 BEET (looking at watch). My goodness, it's quarter to 
 twelve and I have to make a noonday speech at the Chamber 
 of Commerce. (Htirriedly puts on his coat and WILLIE brings 
 him his hat.') Take good care of the office, Willie. If any 
 one comes, tell them I'll be back in a few moments. Tell 
 them to wait. Don't let them go. Hold on to them. Good- 
 bye. [Exit, hurriedly. 
 
 CURTAIN 
 
POLITICAL PROMISES 73 
 
 SCENE II 
 AFTER THE ELECTION 
 
 SCENE. The same. 
 
 (Shouts and general tttmult begin before the curtain rises. 
 Cries of " Hurrah for Beet" etc. As the curtain rises, 
 BEET, wearing a frock coat, high hat, and gloves in con- 
 trast to his former rather careless attire, backs on to the 
 stage. He is bowing and smiling and waving his hand 
 apparently to the crowds without. He closes the door 
 and gives his hat and gloves to WILLIE in a very dignified 
 way while the latter regards him in silent awe.) 
 
 BEET. Willie, I want you to give me your attention. You 
 know you are the Mayor* s office boy now. You must act with 
 a dignity becoming your exalted station. 
 
 WILLIE (aside). Gee, I bet he swallowed a page out of the 
 dictionary. 
 
 BEET. I am going to be very busy now. Very busy. 
 Don't let any one in at that door. Remember that. No one 
 must come in to disturb me. I am busy and cannot see any 
 one. 
 
 (He sits leisurely in the big office chair, leans back and com- 
 mences to read a newspaper?) 
 
 WILLIE. Say, Mr. Beet, where is my dollar ? You prom- 
 ised me a dollar if you got elected, you know. 
 
 BEET. That's all right. That's all right. Don't bother me 
 now. I am busy, very busy. 
 
 ( Continues reading. Knock at the door. WILLIE goes and 
 opens it half way. SPIEG. is seen through the opening?) 
 
 SPIEG. Is Mr. Beet in ? 
 
 WILLIE. He says he ain't in. He's busy. He can't see 
 any one. 
 
 SPIEG. (pushing his way in). Dot's all right. He vill 
 always see me. I'm his old friend Spiegelburger. How do, 
 Mr. Beet? 
 
 BEET (to WILLIE). Didn't I tell you not to let anyone in? 
 (Looks at SPIEG. with an icy stare.} Who is this fellow any- 
 how? 
 
74 POLITICAL PROMISES 
 
 SPIEG. Vot ! don't you remember me ? Your old friend 
 Spiegelburger ? 
 
 BEET. Why, I don't know you from Adam. Never saw you 
 before. 
 
 SPIEG. Vy, I'm going to be Chief Brewery Inspector. 
 
 BEET. Chief Brewery Inspector ! This crazy Dutchman 
 must have escaped from a lunatic asylum. Boy, put him out. 
 
 SPIEG. Don't I get Brewery Inspector? 
 
 BEET. You get out ! Willie, put him out. 
 
 (WILLIE seizes SPIEG. and commences shoving him toward 
 the door.') 
 
 SPIEG. (as he struggles}. Ach Du Unheil ! Du Schwein ! 
 Leaf go of me ! Du Teufelskind ! Help ! Let me go ! 
 
 (WILLIE puts him out, returns and closes the door. ) 
 
 BEET. Didn't I tell you not to let any one in here ? 
 
 WILLIE. I didn't let him in, he came. 
 
 BEET. Well, don't let any more come, and if they do, put 
 them out. 
 
 BROWN (opening door and entering rapidly holding out his 
 hand to BEET, who puts his own behind his back and moves 
 away). How do, Mr. Beet ? 
 
 BEET. Willie, what do you mean by letting niggers come 
 into my office? 
 
 BROWN. Nigger ! 
 
 BEET. Willie, put that dirty nigger out of here. 
 
 BROWN. Ah'm Chief of Police. 
 
 BEET. You're crazy. Willie ! 
 
 (WILLIE seizes BROWN, but he puts him aside.) 
 
 BROWN. Didn't you say a colored gent was as good as a 
 white man, and Ah was goin' to be Chief of Police? 
 
 BEET. Willie, this man's crazy. A nigger Chief of Police ! 
 Put him out. 
 
 (WILLIE seizes BROWN aud gradually pushes him toward the 
 door.) 
 
 BROWN. Yo' dirty white trash ! Ah cut yo' heart out ! 
 Let me go ! I'll fix you. [Exeunt. 
 
 Reenter WILLIE. 
 
POLITICAL PROMISES 75 
 
 BEET. Willie, don't you ever let a nigger enter my office. 
 
 WILLIE. But before 
 
 BEET. Never mind before. Do what I tell you. 
 
 WILLIE. But how about my dollar ? 
 
 BEET. Never mind your dollar. (Enter COHEN. BEET, 
 very loud.} Who's this dirty Sheeny ? 
 
 COHEN, (stopping aghast}. Sheeny! 
 
 BEET. Willie, put that dirty Sheeny out. I don't want 
 such riffraff in my office. 
 
 COHEN. Sheeny ! Sheeny ! Ooooooh ! 
 
 ( WILLIE seizes him} 
 
 BEET. Out I say, out. 
 
 COHEN. Ain't I President fin der Board of Public Voikers ? 
 
 BEET. You're a low down, swindling pawnbroker. 
 
 [Exeunt WILLIE and COHEN. 
 
 Reenter WILLIE. 
 
 WILLIE. Say, don't I get that dollar now after all that 
 work? 
 
 BEET. What are you worrying about that dollar for ? You 
 ought to be proud to be the Mayor's office boy. 
 
 Enter BACI., who walks to c. and beams at BEET. 
 
 BACI. Hello, Mr. Beet. You Mayor now, hey ? 
 
 BEET. Willie, I smell swill. Oh, I see. You will find the 
 swill barrel down in the basement. We don't keep it here. 
 
 BACI. (smiling). I no come for swill. I come be President 
 Board Education. 
 
 BEET. President of the Board of Education ! You ignorant 
 Dago ! Willie, out with him. 
 
 BACI. Don't you know me ? Me Giuseppe Garibaldi. Me 
 ol* friend. 
 
 BEET. You're drunk. Put him out. 
 
 (WILLIE seizes him} 
 
 BACI. What ! You don't know me ? Sacramento ! Dio 
 Came ! Santa Maria ! Aaaaach ! 
 
 (He is hauled out struggling by WILLIE.) 
 Reenter WILLIE, who locks door and puts key in his pocket. 
 
76 POLITICAL PROMISES 
 
 BEET. Why didn't you put him out ? 
 
 WILLIE. I did. Didn't you see me ? 
 
 BEET. You should not have let him in. 
 
 WILLIE. Well, I put all of 'em out. Now I want that 
 dollar. 
 
 BEET. Dollar? What dollar? 
 
 WILLIE. That dollar ! Didn't you promise me a dollar if 
 you were elected ? What do you think I acted so nice for all 
 the time ? Come through. 
 
 BEET. Why, you ought to be proud to be the Mayor's office 
 boy. 
 
 WILLIE (threateningly). None of that now. Do I get that 
 dollar ? 
 
 BEET. I don't see why I should give you a dollar. 
 
 WILLIE. You don't, eh? (Goes to door, unlocks it and 
 opens it a bit holding his foot against it. Terrible noise out- 
 side. The four other characters can be seen pushing against 
 the door and it is all the boy can do to keep them from opening 
 it further.') Do I get that dollar ? 
 
 BEET, (terrified}. Yes, yes, you get the dollar all right. 
 
 (He rushes over to the door and helps WILLIE to close it. 
 WILLIE locks it and the sounds die away. BEET gives 
 WILLIE a dollar and sinks on one of the visitor* s chairs 
 exhausted. WILLIE bites the dollar to see if it is good, 
 then goes slowly to the big office chair, sits down, puts his 
 feet up on the desk, and commences to read the neivspaper.} 
 
 CURTAIN 
 
When the Cat is Away 
 
 CHARACTERS 
 
 LORD EVERBROKE, an English nobleman. 
 HENRY, his butler. 
 
 HERBERT, valet to the Count Less- Thousands. 
 HORACE, footman to the Duke of Dubshire. 
 EDWARD, butler to the Earl Fitz-Ill. 
 JAMES, coachman to the Baron Island. 
 MOSES EISENSTEIN, a money-lender. 
 
 SCENE. Living-room in LORD EVERBROKE'S country house, 
 well-furnished. A large table, c., with an easy chair by it, 
 a number of other chairs of various kinds. At the rear, c., 
 is a large doorway leading into other rooms of the house. 
 Left is a door leading into a closet or else a large wardrobe 
 or cupboard of some kind may be made part of the furnish- 
 ing. The door R. leads to the hallway and entrance to the 
 house. At the rear of the stage, close to c. entrance, is a 
 large sofa with a fairly high back, of the style known as a 
 1 ' davenport ' ' preferably. 
 
 (EVER, is discovered sitting in easy chair reading a book, but 
 dressed in a traveling suit, although it is evening. HENRY 
 enters, c., with a suit-case, hat and coat. He stands 
 stiffly beside EVER.'S chair a moment. Then speaks?) 
 
 HEN. Your portmanteau is ready, me Lud. 
 
 EVER, (putting down his book and rising). Oh, yes, 
 
 Henry. Have you everything packed ? 
 
 HEN. Yes, me Lud. 
 
 EVER. Is the motor ready ? 
 
 HEN. Yes, me Lud. 
 
 EVER. All right, Henry. Now, Henry, you understand I 
 shall be gone a few days at the least. 
 
 HEN. Yes, me Lud. 
 
 77 
 
78 WHEN THE CAT IS AWAY 
 
 EVER. And I want you to take good care of the house while 
 I am gone. 
 
 HEN. Yes, me Lud. 
 
 EVER. Don't have any prowlers about. 
 
 HEN. Oh, no, me Lud. 
 
 EVER. And cover up the furniture. 
 
 HEN. Yes, me Lud. 
 
 EVER. All right, Henry. 
 
 (He takes his hat and coat from HEN. and exit ', K., followed 
 by HEN. Sounds of front door closing, and of an auto- 
 mobile leaving. Reenter HEN., unbuttoning his coat.} 
 
 HEN. Hi thought the old codger would never go. (Mocks 
 EVER.) " Take good careof the 'ouse, 'Enry," " Don't 'aveany 
 prowlers around, 'Enry." Oh, no, I won't have any prowlers 
 around ! Hi 'ave four friends coming to-night. (Looks at 
 his watch.') My, hit's lite. Himust'urry. (Exit,z. Door- 
 bell rings. Reenter HEN., putting on an evening coat as he 
 walks across the room. Exit, R., a moment, and then r centers.) 
 Glad to see you, 'Erbert. Come in. {Enter HERBERT in even- 
 ing dress, hat in hand.) Oh, 'ang your 'at in the 'all. {Exit 
 HER., and reenter hurriedly.) 'Ow are you, 'Erbert? 
 
 HER. Ripping. His the master gone ? 
 
 HEN. Ow, yes, gone to Lunnon for a few days, and it's 
 glad Hi am. (The bell rings.) Hexcuse me, 'Erbert, the 
 bell. (Exit, R., while HER. looks about the room, and r centers 
 with EDWARD.) Hedward, you know 'Erbert, don't you? 
 
 ED. Ow, yes, to be sure. 'Ow are you, 'Erbert? 
 
 HER. 'Ow hare you, Hedward ? Hi'm glad to see you. 
 
 (The bell rings) 
 
 HEN. Hexcuse me, the bell. [Exit, R. 
 
 ED. Hit's quite a party 'Enry's 'aving. 
 
 Enter HEN. and HORACE. 
 
 HER. Good-hevening, 'Orace, 'ow are you ? 
 HOR. Good-hevening, 'Erbert, good-hevening, Hedward. 
 ED. Good-hevening, 'Orace. (The bell rings ) 
 HEN. Hexcuse me, gentlemen. [Exit. 
 
 HOR. 'Ow is the old Earl ? 
 
 ED. 'Is gout his orful. f E's terrible cross. Hit's glad to 
 get away from 'im Hi am. 
 
WHEN THE CAT IS AWAY 79 
 
 Enter JAMES, dressed in livery in contrast to the others, who 
 all wear evening dress. He is followed by HEN. All rise 
 and stare at him. 
 
 HER. Houtrageous ! 
 
 HOR. Hun' card of! 
 
 ED. Hi call hit hinhexcusable ! 
 
 HER. To come to a gentlemen's party bin livery. 
 
 HOR. Hi never 'card of such a thing. 
 
 JAMES. Gentlemen, Hi 'ad to woik lite to-night, hand Hi 
 did not 'ave time to chinge. 
 
 ED. That's no hexcuse. 
 
 HEN. (a bit embarrassed but trying to smooth things over). 
 Hi'm glad to see you all 'ere. Now, hexcuse me a moment 
 while Hi get some refreshments. 
 
 JAMES. Yes, 'Enry, get the refreshments. Hi like the re- 
 freshments. 
 
 (All stare at him. Exit HEN., c.) 
 
 HOR. 'Enry's a fine fellow. 'E knows 'ow to hentertain. 
 JAMES. That's what Hi say. 
 
 (He is glared at again. Do or -bell rings. All look about.*) 
 Reenter HEN., puzzled. 
 
 HEN. Hi wonder oo hit can be. Hexcuse, me, gentlemen, 
 Hi'll look out the window. (Exit R., and r center quickly, 
 while the door-bell rings more furiously than ever.) Ow, Lud ! 
 Hit's the master. 'Ide ! 'Ide ! (General scurrying about.) 
 'Ere, in the closet. {Opens door L., and shoves HER. in.) 
 Hunder the table. (Hon. gets under the table where he is hid- 
 den by the cover.) Be'ind the sofa ! 
 
 (ED. gets behind the sofa.) 
 JAMES. Where will I 'ide, 'Enry ? 
 
 (HEN. looks puzzled a moment, then has an idea.) 
 
 HEN. 'E told me to cover the furniture. (Runs to door 
 L., takes sheet from closet?) Hon the sofa. 
 
 (JAMES lies down on the sofa getting his feet the wrong way 
 at first, and HEN. throws the sheet over the whole cover- 
 ing all but one foot. All this time the door-bell has been 
 
8O WHEN THE CAT IS AWAY 
 
 ringing fttriously. HEN. fulls off his coat, runs out door 
 C., and returns running with his livery coat half on, and 
 exit, L., returning in a moment bowing before EVER, and 
 
 MOSES EISENSTEIN.) 
 
 EVER. What's the matter, Henry? You kept me waiting a 
 very long time. 
 
 HEN. {yawning a bit). Hexcuse me, sir. Hi was going 
 to bed. 
 
 EVER, {looking at his watch). Rather early for you to be 
 going to bed. 
 
 HEN. Yes, sir. Hi ; ad a very 'ard day's work. 
 
 EVER. Very well, then, you may leave us. I shall not need 
 you any more to-night. Sit down, Mr. Eisenstein. 
 
 HEN. (looking about apprehensively). Good-night, me Lud. 
 
 EVER. Good-night, Henry. ( Exit HEN., c., slowly; EVER. 
 sits down.) Well, Mr. Eisenstein, it was a lucky thing I hap- 
 pened to meet you. It saved me a trip to London. Do you 
 know I was coming down especially to see you ? 
 
 EISEN. Yes ? 
 
 EVER. Yes, sir. 
 
 Enter HEN., c. He moves about quietly and pulls down the 
 corner of the sheet that shows JAMES' foot. EVER, hears 
 him and turns, suddenly rising. 
 
 HEN. Would you like some refreshment, me Lud ? 
 
 EVER. No ! I told you, Henry, I would not require you 
 any further. I wish to be alone. Do you understand ? 
 
 HEN. Yes, me Lud. [Exit, c. 
 
 EVER. I wonder what is the matter with that fellow ; he's 
 acting very queerly to-night. 
 
 EISEN. I don't know. 
 
 EVER. Well, Mr. Eisenstein, to return to what I was say- 
 ing when that fellow interrupted, I am very glad to see you 
 because I have some very important business to talk over with 
 you. 
 
 EISEN. Yes ? Mit me ? 
 
 EVER. Well, Mr. Eisenstein, I guess you know how it is 
 with me. Lots of titles and all that sort of thing, but very 
 little ready cash. 
 
 EISEN. Yes, dere all de same. 
 
 EVER. Well, Mr. Eisenstein, I was thinking of a scheme 
 by which I can raise some money, in fact we can both make 
 some money, and I want you to help me. 
 
WHEN THE CAT IS AWAY 8 1 
 
 ElSEN. Me ? 
 
 EVER. Yes. 
 
 EISEN. Veil, vat's de scheme ? 
 
 EVER. Well, you see it's like this. I have a lot of rich 
 neighbors living about me here, all good friends of mine. 
 There's the Count Less-Thousands (HER. momentarily looks 
 out the closet door), the Duke of Dubshire (Hoi<. peeps out), 
 a silly ass but very wealthy, the Earl Fitz-Ill, an old fool 
 in his dotage (Eo. peeps), and the old Baron Island, another 
 jolly rotter, but all very rich. Now, you see these people 
 always do what I do. 
 
 EISEN O Ah-ha, I see. 
 
 EVER. Now, I was thinking that we would start some kind 
 of a scheme, a mining company or something of the sort of 
 course you don't have to have any mines just sell stock. You 
 see I would take a lot of shares and then of course they would 
 too. I pay nothing for my shares, they pay, the mines fail, 
 and we divide the money. 
 
 EISEN. Oh, I see, a skin game. 
 
 EVER. Oh, no, no; don't call it that. Just a little financial 
 operation. 
 
 EISEN. Veil, it's all the same. But vere do I come in ? 
 
 EVER. Why, you see I can't go around and sell the shares 
 myself. You are selling them and I buy first. Of course I 
 pay nothing. Then you go to these other people. 
 
 EISEN. I see. 
 
 EVER. Now I'll show you where these people live. (Rises.) 
 Just a moment, I have a map right here in the closet. (Opens 
 door, L., and discovers HER.) What's this? A man in the 
 closet ! (Makes a grab for HER. and hauls him out to the center 
 of the stage, shaking him while EISEN. runs about excitedly?) 
 What are you doing in my house ? I'll call the police. Who 
 are you anyhow ? 
 
 HER. I'm valet to the Count Less-Thousands. 
 
 EVER. The Count Less-Thousands ! 
 
 HER. {getting bolder). Yes, sir, and I 'card it all. 
 
 EVER. You heard it all ! What do you mean ? 
 
 HER. I 'card your little scheme, and I'll tell the Count 
 Less-Thousands. 
 
 EVER. You'll tell the Count Less-Thousands ! 
 
 EISEN. Oi, oi, oi, ve're ruined ! 
 
 EVER, (suddenly, putting his hand in his pocket and pro- 
 ducing a bank-note). There's five pounds. You heard nothing. 
 
82 WHEN THE CAT IS AWAY 
 
 HER. Oh, no, me Lud. I 'card nothing. Thank you, me 
 Lud. I 'card nothing at all. (Bows himself out, R.) 
 
 EVER. My, but that was a narrow escape. He nearly 
 spoiled everything. (Sits down at table. HOR. sneezes. EVER. 
 springs up.} What's that ? (Looks under table ; sees HOR. 
 and drags him out.} What are you doing here ? Who are 
 you ? 
 
 HOR. Hi'm the Duke of Dubshire's footman. 
 
 EVER. The Duke of Dubshire ! Another one ! 
 
 HOR. Yes, me Lud, and I ; eard it all, too. 
 
 EVER. You heard it all, too, did you? (Hands him a 
 bank-note.} You heard nothing. 
 
 HOR. (looking meditatively from the bank-note in his hand 
 to EVER.). Maybe I did and maybe I didn't. 
 
 EVER, (handing him another). There, now you heard 
 nothing. 
 
 HOR. Oh, no, me Lud, nothing whatsoever. Nothing what- 
 soever. (Bows himself out, L.) 
 
 EVER. I wonder if there are any more of these fellows 
 around here ? Henry must have been having a party. (He 
 searches around the room a bit and finally discovers ED. be- 
 hind the sofa.} Another one ! (Pulls him forward.} And 
 I suppose you heard it, too ? 
 
 ED. Yes, me Lud, and Til tell the Earl Fitz-Ill what you 
 said about him. 
 
 EVER. The Earl Fitz-Ill ! I suppose you're his 
 
 ED. Butler, me Lud; yes, me Lud, and I 'card it all. 
 He very word. 
 
 EVER, (emptying his pocket}. You're mistaken. You heard 
 nothing. 
 
 ED. Oh, no, me Lud, Hi 'card nothing. Hi was never 
 'ere. 
 
 EVER. All right. 
 
 ED. Good-night, me Lud. Thank you, me Lud. 
 
 (Bows himself out, R.) 
 
 EISEN. (who all during the finding of the servants runs 
 about wringing his hands and crying). Oi ! Oi ! Oi ! My, 
 dot costs a lot of money. I 'card it all, I 'card nothing, I 'eard 
 it all. Oi ! Oi ! Oi ! 
 
 EVER. I know, but I don't intend to have this scheme 
 spoiled. 
 
 EISEN. Veil, vat ve do now ? 
 
WHEN THE CAT IS AWAY 83 
 
 EVER. Oh, I don't know. I really can't think. I'm all 
 unstrung. I feel quite exhausted. 
 
 (He sinks down upon the sofa sitting on JAMES, who is cov- 
 ered by the sheet. JAMES yells . EVER, springs up like he 
 had sat on a tack. EISEN. jumps up on the table. JAMES 
 disentangles himself from the sheet, stands up and holds 
 out his hand.) 
 
 JAMES. Hi 'card it all, too, and Hi '11 tell the Baron Island. 
 
 EVER, (searching all his pockets and finding nothing ; going 
 to EISEN., who is up on the table, and speaking in a low, hur- 
 ried tone). Just lend me a few pounds, Mr. Eisenstein. I'm 
 all out of ready cash. Just a few pounds, please. 
 
 EISEN. But how about the security ? 
 
 EVER. Oh, that's all right, we'll fix that up afterward. 
 
 EISEN. Oh, no, I vant my security. Nothing for nothing. 
 
 EVER. Here, don't quarrel before the servants. Just a few 
 pounds to keep this fellow quiet. 
 
 EISEN. (reaching into his innermost pocket). I get the 
 security later ? 
 
 EVER. Yes, yes, anything you want. Just give me the 
 money now. (EiSEN. reluctantly hands him several notes.) 
 Here now, you heard nothing. 
 
 JAMES. No, me Lud, I 'eard nothing. I 'eard nothing. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 EISEN. {getting down from table). Veil, now he's gone, 
 how about the security ? 
 
 EVER, (sitting down). What do you talk to me about 
 security now for? You know everything I have is mortgaged. 
 I can't give you any security. 
 
 EISEN. Vat ! don't I get my security ? 
 
 EVER. You can have some of the stock when we form our 
 mining company, but I can't do anything now. 
 
 EISEN. Oh, dot don't go. I vant my security now. 
 
 EVER. Well, you can't have it now. 
 
 EISEN. I don't get my security, eh? (Furiously.) Then 
 I 'eard it all. I'll tell the Duke of Dubshire, I'll tell the 
 Count Less-Thousands, I'll tell the Baron Island, I'll tell the 
 King of Denmark, I'll tell everybody. [Exit, R. 
 
 ( While he is speaking EVER, rises with gesture of protest. 
 As he leaves the room EVER, sinks exhausted into a chair.) 
 
 QUICK CURTAIN 
 
The Evil That Men Do Lives 
 After Them 
 
 CHARACTERS 
 
 REUBEN GLUE, negro hotel proprietor. 
 
 JOEY PAPINA, Italian lodger. 
 
 RED MIKE, burglar, afterward ghost. 
 
 SCENE. A dilapidated hotel. Table c., with candle burning 
 on it ; two chairs, one on each side of it, and a safe, R., 
 complete the scene. 
 
 ( When the curtain rises REUBEN GLUE is discovered dozing 
 in a chair. He stretches, yawns and rises slowly.) 
 
 REUBEN. Well, I guess it's about time for me to close up 
 and go to bed. ( Walks slowly over to safe, humming, " The 
 bear went over the mountain. The bear went over the 
 
 mount ") My gracious, there's ten dollars missing out of 
 
 my safe. I wonder who took that money ? I've got an idea. 
 I'll bet that Dago up in room twenty-three has been taking my 
 money. (JOEY PAPINA heard whistling outside.) There he 
 goes now. I'll call him in and accuse him right to his face. 
 (Calls.) Hey, Joe ! Joe, come here ; I want to see you ! 
 
 JOEY. Wella, boss, what you want ? 
 
 REUBEN. Say, Joe, do you know, I've been losing money 
 right along ? I think you are the man that has been taking it. 
 
 JOEY. Me taka de mon ? Me taka de mon ? No, boss, I 
 no taka de mon. 
 
 REUBEN. Well, if you didn't take the money, you know 
 who did. 
 
 JOEY. No, boss, I don know who taka de mon. 
 
 REUBEN. If you don't tell me who did take it, I'll blow your 
 brains out. 
 
 JOEY (in terror). No, boss ! Don't blow out my brains ! 
 No, boss ! Say, come here. I'll tella you who stole de mon. 
 
 85 
 
86 THE EVIL THAT MEN DO LIVES AFTER THEM 
 
 You know da man what live next room to me ? He taka de 
 jnon, boss. 
 
 .REUBEN. You mean that black-haired man what lives next 
 to you? Say, if I catch him, I'll shoot him. (Draws pistol.} 
 
 JOEY. No, boss, don't shoot. 
 
 REUBEN. Why not ? 
 
 JOEY. Because my brudder Angelo he say : You shoot, de 
 man in de white he come. 
 
 REUBEN. What's that? De man in de white ? 
 
 JOEY. I don't know, boss. 
 
 REUBEN. What's that noise? Some one's coming. Get 
 down behind that table. If he comes, I'll kill him. 
 
 JOEY. Don't, boss de man in de white. 
 
 REUBEN. Sh ! Dat's de fellow. 
 
 (RED MIKE, with a burglar's mask on, creeps in and be- 
 gins to pick lock of safe. REUBEN fires pistol and RED 
 MIKE falls on back.) 
 
 JOEY. Oh ! Bossa, bossa, what you do ? 
 
 REUBEN. I've killed him ! Oh, my ! what am I going 
 to do? 
 
 JOEY. Now you catcha da ropa ! 
 
 REUBEN. Oh, my, what am I going to do? I'm going to 
 see if this is the man. (Searches his pockets. ) Yes, here is 
 the money I lost last night. (Draws out ten bank notes from 
 pocket.} What are we going to do with him ? 
 
 JOEY. I know. I'll tell my brudder. He driva de ash 
 wagon ; he come, take him away. 
 
 REUBEN. All right. We will put him in the ash barrel 
 now. 
 
 (Both carry out body. Noise outside. Reenter.) 
 
 JOEY. Say, boss, I find your mon ; I be da partner now. 
 
 REUBEN. Yes, you are my partner now. You'll get half if 
 you won't ever tell I killed that man. 
 
 JOEY. Oh, no, boss ; I no tell. 
 
 REUBEN. All right, come here ! Let me see how much 
 money I have. (Counts bills one by one.) One dollar, two 
 dollars, three dollars, four dollars, five dollars, six dollars, seven 
 dollars, eight dollars, nine dollars, ten dollars. Just the sum I 
 lost last night. Well, here goes ! There's one dollar for you 
 (placing bill in JOEY'S hand) and there's one dollar for me. 
 
THE EVIL THAT MEN DO LIVES AFTER THEM 87 
 
 (Puts lill in side pocket.) There's two dollars for you {placing 
 another bill in JOEY'S hand ), and there's one dollar, there's 
 two dollars for me. (Puts two bills in side pocket.*) There's 
 three dollars for you {placing another bill in JOEY'S hand*), and 
 there's one, there's two, there's three dollars for me. (Puts 
 three bills in side pocket.) There's four dollars for you. 
 (Places last bill in JOEY'S hand; then, looking at hand, draws 
 bills from JOEY'S hand, saying) There's one dollar, there's 
 two dollars, there's three dollars, there's four dollars for me. 
 
 JOEY. Say, boss, I no get no mon. 
 
 REUBEN. You don't need any, Joey. You're my partner 
 now, and I'm going to take good care of you. Here, sit down 
 at this table, and I'm going out to the kitchen and see what 
 Annie, the cook, needs. You put down on this paper what I 
 call out. 
 
 JOEY. Say, boss, I no get no mon. 
 
 REUBEN. Sit down ! (JOEY sits at table, lighted candle on 
 R. Exit REUBEN, R. REUBEN from outside) Say, Joe, 
 put down there four watermelons. 
 
 JOEY (calling aloud and writing). Four want-a-millions. 
 
 REUBEN. Four watermelons. 
 
 JOEY. Four want a Oooh ! (Gnosx enters L. , walks 
 
 behind JOEY, lifts candle straight up and down twice, and 
 walks off again, L. JOEY is petrified until GHOST exits when 
 he cries in wild alarm.) Oh, bossa, bossa, bossa ! 
 
 (REUBEN rushes in) 
 
 REUBEN. What's the matter? 
 
 JOEY. Oh, bossa, bossa, de man in de white ! De man in 
 de white ! 
 
 REUBEN. De man in de white ! What are you talking 
 about, anyway ? 
 
 JOEY. Oh, bossa, de man in de white he come. 
 
 REUBEN. Say, what are you giving me ? You're crazy. 
 You just sit down there where I tell you and write down what 
 I call out to you. {Exit, R. From R.) Say, Joey, write 
 down there four coffee pails. 
 
 JOEY (writing and calling back). Four coffin nails. 
 
 REUBEN. Four coffee pails. 
 
 JOEY. Four coff Oooh ! (GHOST enters L., walks 
 
 behind JOEY, raises candle in semicircle over his head from 
 right to left twice and exit, L. JOEY again waits till the GHOST 
 
88 THE EVIL THAT MEN DO LIVES AFTER THEM 
 
 exits and cries wildly.} Oh, bossa, bossa, bossa ! Bossa, 
 bossa, bossa ! 
 
 Enter REUBEN. 
 
 REUBEN. Well, what's the matter now ? 
 
 JOEY. Oh, bossa, de man in de white ! He come again, de 
 man in de white ! 
 
 REUBEN. Say, what are you talking about anyway ? Say, 
 you're kind of getting me scared myself. Whatever do you 
 mean by de man in de white ? 
 
 JOEY. Oh, bossa, de man in de white ! He come. De 
 man in de white ! 
 
 REUBEN. Say, don't you try to scare me. Why, don't you 
 know what this is ? 
 
 JOEY. No, bossa. What this is hey ? 
 
 REUBEN. Why, Joey, that's an optical illusion. You don't 
 know what that means, I know, but some day I'll explain it to 
 you. Now, you just sit down at that table and write what I 
 tell you and don't call me away either. You're wasting my 
 valuable time. (Exit, R. ; without.) Put down there four 
 mushrooms. 
 
 JOEY (writing and calling back). Four mac-car-roonies. 
 
 REUBEN. Four mushrooms. 
 
 JOEY. Four maca Oooh ! (GHOST again enters, 
 
 walks behind JOEY and placing fingers on candle, extinguishes 
 it, then exit, L.) Oh, bossa, bossa, bossa, bossa ! (REUBEN 
 rushes in.} Oh, bossa, de man in de white, he come again, 
 de man in de white. 
 
 REUBEN. What did you put this candle out for? (Hur- 
 riedly lights candle.) Say, you're just trying to scare me. 
 
 JOEY. Oh, bossa, no. De man in de white, he putta de 
 candle out, de man in de white ! 
 
 REUBEN. Say, don't tell me any of that. Look here! See 
 that open window? Why, de wind coming in there just came 
 a-floating along here and gently coming to the candle, it blew 
 out the light. Say, don't work any of your scare business on 
 me. I'm not scared of nothing, I'm not ! 
 
 JOEY. No, bossa, sure, de man in de white, he come ! 
 Look ! (Gets behind table.) Four want-a-millions, he go dis- 
 away. (Raises candle up and down.} Four coffin nails, dis- 
 away. (Raises candle in circle over head.} Four macca- 
 roonies, he go disaway. (Puts candle out. As he puts candle 
 out, GHOST enters L., makes circle of table and exits L. JOEY 
 
THE EVIL THAT MEN DO LIVES AFTER THEM 89 
 
 gives yell and puts head under chair. REUBEN rushes from 
 R. to L. again and again until GHOST exits, at the same time 
 yelling at top of voice. Finally lights candle. JOEY, when 
 quiet is restored.) Oh, bossa ! bossa ! Did you see the " Opti- 
 cadelushey " ? 
 
 REUBEN. Oh ! I don't know what I saw, but I saw some- 
 thing terrible white go walking around the table. I'm nearly 
 all scared to death. 
 
 JOEY. Yes, boss, de man in de white he come. 
 
 REUBEN. Come here and bring that paper you wrote on. 
 (Both come to front c., JOEY holding candle in his right hand.) 
 Let's see what you've written. Say, I didn't tell you "want- 
 a-miilions " I said "Watermelons." (GHOST enters and 
 crouches behind the two ; pinches REUBEN'S legs.) Say, will 
 you stop pinching my leg ! 
 
 JOEY. I no pincha your leg, boss. 
 
 REUBEN. Well, don't do it again, that's all, I tell you ! 
 Say, look here, I didn't say "coffin nails" I said "coffee 
 pails." What's the matter with you anyhow? Look here, 
 you stop pinching my legs or I'll just sail into you and hurt 
 you. Say, what's this ? (GHOST taps JOEY on shoulders, takes 
 candle and stands in his place by REUBEN. JOEY, scared to 
 death, makes comical exit, L.) I said "Four Mushrooms! " 
 Hold that candle nearer so that I can read. I said "Four 
 Mushrooms," and you put down "Four Maccaronies. " Say, 
 you're my partner no longer. You're fired. You get 
 
 (Looks around and sees GHOST'S face ; comical exit, L.) 
 
 CURTAIN 
 
Chips Off the Old Block 
 
 CHARACTERS 
 
 UNCLE No. i John P. Hipp, Sr. 
 
 BOY No. i . . . . . John P. Hipp, Jr. 
 
 UNCLE No. 2 Will B. Bone, Sr. 
 
 BOY No. 2 Will B. Bone, Jr. 
 
 SCENE. A street. 
 
 Enter two BOYS from R. and L. reading letters. Bump in c. 
 of stage. 
 
 BOY i. Hello, Hipp. 
 
 BOY 2. Hello, Bone. 
 
 BOY i. Say, what do you think? I got a letter from my 
 uncle, and he is coming over from London, England. 
 
 BOY 2. Why, that's funny. I just got a letter from my 
 uncle and he's coming from Phoenix, Arizona. 
 
 BOY i. Ooh ! Say, listen here. (Reads from letter.} My 
 uncle is in love. 
 
 BOY 2. Gee, that's a funny thing to be in, ain't it? 
 
 BOY i. Yes. 
 
 BOY 2. Say, I wouldn't be in love, would you? 
 
 BOY i. No! Why? 
 
 BOY 2. Because it costs too much. 
 
 BOY i. Sure! Say, my uncle's "fiency" is named Ma- 
 tilda Brown. 
 
 BOY 2. Gee, that's funny, my uncle's fiancee is named 
 Matilda Green. 
 
 BOY i. My uncle says his girl "has soft, baby-blue eyes." 
 
 BOY 2. And mine has "curly, golden locks." 
 
 BOY i. And my uncle says his has two thousand a year. 
 Gee, I'm going to ask him for two bits of that. 
 
 BOY 2. And my uncle says his is not rich but has prospects. 
 What does he mean ? Hey ? 
 
 BOY i. I dunno, but my uncle says he's coming to find me 
 on the three-thirty train. Gee, it's that now. 
 
 91 
 
92 CHIPS OFF THE OLD BLOCK 
 
 BOY 2. And mine's coming on the same train. (Whistle 
 sound without.') There's the whistle now. Let's go down 
 and meet them. [Exit both, L. 
 
 UNCLE i (entering). I do wonder where I am. Ah, I am so 
 dreadfully cold and hungry. I have been wandering around 
 
 such a long time. I meant to arrive in (name of local 
 
 town) about three-forty-five. I got an early train, and have been 
 walking around and could find no one. I am dreadfully cold. 
 If I did not keep thinking of my darling I should be much 
 colder. (Seats himself on grip in middle of stage.) I wish 
 some one would come. 
 
 UNCLE 2 (entering, L., walking slowly up to UNCLE i). 
 Say, pard, have you got the makings ? 
 
 UNCLE i. You must think it very stupid, but I do not 
 understand you. What do you mean ? 
 
 UNCLE 2. Have you got the makings ? 
 
 UNCLE i. The makings ! I don't comprehend. 
 
 UNCLE 2. Have you got a chew of tobacco ? 
 
 UNCLE i (rising). Oh, no ! My grandmother never al- 
 lowed me to smoke and my dear Aunt Martha 
 
 UNCLE 2. Was afraid to go home in the dark. 
 
 UNCLE i. Oh ! No, no ! I'll tell you. I came down to 
 
 see my nephew who is being educated in the (local 
 
 name) Military Academy. 
 
 UNCLE 2. Why, I've a nephew in the same place. My 
 name is Bone. 
 
 UNCLE i. Mine is Hipp. Hipp-Bone. Ha, ha! Say, do 
 you know I like your face ? You've such an honest, simple, 
 open face. I want to tell you why I came down to see my 
 nephew. I am in love. I am in love with the dearest girl I 
 can hardly stop thinking of that precious lump of butter. Her 
 name, so uncommon, is Matilda Brown, and she has, oh, the 
 most beautiful baby-blue eyes. 
 
 UNCLE 2. She has, has she ? 
 
 Bov 2 (coming in with a rush, feints at some one in the 
 scene and hollers). Come on, come on ! Oh, you will, will 
 you ? Come on ! 
 
 (The two UNCLES crouch, holding on to each other at L.) 
 
 UNCLE i. Do you think there is any danger? 
 
 UNCLE 2. Oh, no ! That is the way the boys in 
 
 (local town) always do. 
 
 UNCLE i. You speak to him. 
 
CHIPS OFF THE OLD BLOCK 93 
 
 UNCLE 2. No, you speak to him. 
 
 UNCLE i (walking timidly up to BOY 2). Ah ! How do 
 you do, my boy ? Ah ! How do you do? (Holds out hand, 
 one finger extended ; BOY 2 hangs hat on finger.') Oh, no, 
 no ! I have a hat, thank you. Excuse me, deah boy ! I am 
 hunting for a nephew a boy who is in this town and I'd like 
 to give a boy two shillings to take my luggage and my bags to 
 the hotel, and if you'd like to do this, my boy 
 
 BOY 2. Ah, quit yer kiddin', will you ? Quit your kiddin'. 
 
 UNCLE i. What's that? I don't understand. 
 
 BOY 2. Nothing didding, see nothing didding. 
 
 UNCLE i. I do not seem to be getting along very well. 
 You talk to him. 
 
 UNCLE 2 (walking up to BOY 2). Say, kid, just take this 
 package up to the hotel and I will give you two-bits. 
 
 BOY 2. Two-bits ! All right, slip it over. 
 
 UNCLE 2. Take it up C. O. D. 
 
 BOY 2. No ye don't. Slip it over. I don't want no rubber 
 money. 
 
 UNCLE 2 (handing him money}. Here you are. Now take 
 this up in a hurry. D'ye hear? 
 
 UNCLE i. I say, did you say that you were going to give 
 the boy two-bits ? Two bits of what ? 
 
 UNCLE 2 (snickering). Two bits of cake. 
 
 UNCLE i. What ? Is the poor boy hungry ? I should have 
 been delighted to give him twenty-five cents myself. Now, 
 let's be off to see this town. By the way, I want to tell you 
 about Matilda. [Exeunt. 
 
 BOY 2 (taking grips}. Gee, this is easy money. I wonder 
 if there is anything breakable in these? (Throws each grip on 
 floor in front one should have glass in it and makes a seat. 
 Enter BOY i.) Say, kid, I saw your uncle. Ooh ! He's a 
 funny old coot! He's got side whiskers and he has a "hey 
 glass, " and he says to me, says he, " Say, boy, I will give you 
 two shillings if you will take my luggage up to the hotel." 
 
 BOY i. I am in on the money. 
 
 BOY 2. No, ye don't. Didn't I get the money? 
 
 BOY i. Well, ain't he my uncle as much as yours? Look 
 out, here they come. 
 
 (BOYS run off with packages ; UNCLES come in chatter ing. ~) 
 
 UNCLE i. Yes, that was the time I made up to Matilda. I 
 told you about those dear blue eyes. Mind you, they're not 
 
94 CHIPS OFF THE OLD BLOCK 
 
 exactly blue, but light. I call them baby-blue, because they're 
 so young and light colored. Were you ever in love? 
 
 UNCLE 2. No; never truly ! 
 
 UNCLE i. Oh, deah ! Has no one ever loved you? 
 
 UNCLE 2. Not that I know of ! 
 
 UNCLE i. How truly pitiful ! Then perhaps you can't ap- 
 preciate how hard it was for me for me to to pop the ques- 
 tion to my fair Matilda. Oh, deah ! It took so long yeahs, 
 yeahs but one day, I remember it so well, I shall never forget 
 it. We were having tea together, and she dropped a lump of 
 sugar and I picked it up and said : " Shall I put it in your tea? 
 You don't need it though ! " And then and then she said : 
 " Why? " And I said, " You're sweet enough already; " see, 
 " you're sweet enough already," and she dropped her eyes and 
 then, would you believe it, I I crept up behind her and 
 leaned right over her rich brown curly hair and and what 
 do you think ? I kissed I kissed one of those beautiful blue 
 eyes. 
 
 UNCLE 2 (aside). There goes those blue eyes again ! 
 
 UNCLE i. I wonder if there is a cathedral in (local 
 
 town) ? Let's go and see the cathedral. 
 
 UNCLE 2. Yes, and the chicken coops, too. 
 
 (UNCLE i and 2 start to walk out at R., and see a 
 sign, " Squaw Skookerjink, Fortune-teller and Indian 
 Dancer'') 
 
 Enter BOYS together L. rear, and listen. 
 
 UNCLE i. "Squaw Skookerjink, Fortune-teller and Indian 
 Dancer." What do you say? Let's have our fortune told ! 
 
 UNCLE 2. That's it. We'll find the old lady. 
 
 UNCLE i. Now, wait ! I'll bet you one, no, two shillings, 
 two shillings, mind you, that the Squaw fortune-teller will not 
 know Matilda's name ? 
 
 UNCLE 2. Two shillings? What's that, anyhow? Two 
 dollars? 
 
 UNCLE i. Oh, ho! ho! ho! that's too much. Two shil- 
 lings fifty cents. I'll wager fifty cents that the fortune-teller 
 doesn't know Matilda's name, or that she has blue eyes. 
 
 UNCLE 2. All right ! I'll bet you the fifty cents. Let's go 
 and find her. [Exeunt, L. 
 
 BOY i. Here's a chance to make some money you be it ! 
 
 BOY 2. What? Me be the old lady ! No, ye don't ! 
 
CHIPS OFF THE OLD BLOCK 95 
 
 BOY i. Sure, you be it. We can fool the old coots easy. 
 BOY 2. Ooh ! I know. I got an old costume home, hey 
 I'll go down and put it on, hey ? 
 
 BOY i. Sure ! Hurry up. Here they come back. 
 
 [Exit BOY 2. 
 Enter UNCLES, L. 
 
 UNCLE i. Here's a boy. Maybe he knows where she is. 
 
 UNCLE 2. Say, kid, do you know where old lady Skooker- 
 jee is? 
 
 BOY i. Of course I know. She's out she's gone down to 
 the store. 
 
 UNCLE 2. Will you go and get her? 
 
 BOY i. What's in it? (Holds out hand.) 
 
 UNCLE 2. Nothing. I'll make it all right. 
 
 BOY i. Well, I'll go anyhow, but you ought to give me 
 something. [Exit. 
 
 UNCLE i. Will he bring the Squaw Skookerjink? I am so 
 anxious to have my fortune told. I do wonder if she will speak 
 of my dear adored ? 
 
 UNCLE 2. Oh ! She'll speak of her all right. They all do. 
 
 UNCLE i. Ah ! but she'll never guess her name it is so 
 uncommon, Matilda Brown. I never heard of any one with 
 that name before. Did you ? 
 
 UNCLE 2. No ! The nearest I heard of it was of a girl I 
 know Matilda Green ! 
 
 UNCLE i. Yes, but green is very different from brown ! 
 Green is a very common color and brown is rich and oh ! 
 then brown Matilda Brown, with blue heavenly blue baby- 
 blue eyes. Oh ! How the longing grows. Here they come. 
 
 (The BOYS enter. BOY 2 is dressed as a woman, with a 
 long black hair wig covering his face, and a shawl of 
 bright color, holding it tight. The other ROY gets a chair, 
 places it in c., and the " SQUAW " ts seated.} 
 
 BOY i. Here she is. I got her. It was hard finding to get 
 her here. 
 
 (He then takes out UNCLE'S letter and gets behind chair.} 
 
 UNCLE 2. Here she is. Now, you get your fortune told 
 first. 
 
 UNCLE i. All right, but now don't forget that fifty cents 
 wager. (Walks up to SQUAW.) Is this Mrs. Skookerjink? 
 
96 CHIPS OFF THE OLD BLOCK 
 
 SQUAW. Um, hum ! 
 
 UNCLE i. I'd like to have my fortune told, old lady. 
 
 BOY i (aside). Tell him to give you four bits. 
 
 SQUAW. Four bits, please. 
 
 UNCLE i. Four bits 1 (To other UNCLE.) Is the poor 
 lady hungry, too? 
 
 UNCLE 2. No ! She says to give her fifty cents. 
 
 UNCLE i. Oh! Fifty cents. (Hands money '.) All right, 
 old lady. Go ahead ! 
 
 (SQUAW takes hand.) 
 BOY i (aside). Tickle it. 
 
 (SQUAW tickles hand.) 
 
 UNCLE i . Here, here ! (Laughs and rubs leg with other 
 leg.) None of that, old lady. 
 
 BOY i (aside). Tell him it needs a wash ! 
 SQUAW. Your hand needs a good washing ! 
 
 (Thrusts it away.) 
 
 UNCLE i. What's that? (Looks at hand. To UNCLE 2, 
 who is convulsed with laughter.) What the devil are you 
 laughing at ? 
 
 UNCLE 2. I I was thinking of those blue eyes. 
 
 UNCLE i. Well, tell me something about my fortune, old 
 lady. 
 
 (SQUAW takes hand.) 
 
 BOY i (aside). Tell him (looking at letter) he's in love. 
 
 SQUAW. You're in love ! 
 
 UNCLE i. Yes, yes, that's right that's right. Anything 
 else? 
 
 BOY i (aside, reading from letter). Her name is Matilda 
 Brown. 
 
 SQUAW. Her name is Matilda Brown. 
 
 UNCLE i. What ! (Walks quickly to UNCLE 2, dragging 
 SQUAW off seat.) Now, how the devil did she know her name 
 was Matilda Brown ? 
 
 UNCLE 2. That's wonderful, all right. There goes your 
 fifty cents. 
 
 (SQUAW has quickly righted himself and takes hand again.) 
 
CHIPS OFF THE OLD BLOCK 97 
 
 UNCLE i. Well, old lady, anything else? 
 
 BOY i (aside). Tell him she has beautiful blue eyes. 
 
 SQUAW. She has beautiful blue eyes. 
 
 UNCLE i. That's right. That's right. She has she has 
 heavenly blue eyes. It's wonderful it's wonderful the old 
 squaw's intuition. Well, anything else? 
 
 BOY i (aside). Tell him he has a nephew in this town. 
 
 SQUAW. You have a nephew in this town. 
 
 UNCLE i. Yes, that's right. That's right. 
 
 BOY i (aside). Treat him well. 
 
 SQUAW. Treat him well. 
 
 UNCLE i. I will ! I will ! 
 
 BOY i (aside). Give him two bits. 
 
 SQUAW. Give him two bits. 
 
 UNCLE i. Yes, yes; he shall have all the cake he can eat. 
 
 BOY i (aside). That's all. 
 
 SQUAW. That's all. 
 
 UNCLE i. Well, old lady, that's wonderful wonderful I 
 must say. (To UNCLE 2.) Now you have your fortune told. 
 
 UNCLE 2. No, I'd rather see an Indian dance. Say, old 
 lady, do you dance? 
 
 SQUAW (to BOY i). Say, do I dance? 
 
 BOY i . Sure you do ! 
 
 SQUAW. What do you think I am, anyway ? 
 
 BOY i. Sure, do it. Tell him a dollar, please. 
 
 SQUAW. All right. One dollar, please. 
 
 UNCLE 2. A dollar ! Well, here it is. Now, give us a 
 dance. 
 
 BOY i. Wait; I'll get some noise. 
 
 (Runs to side and comes with a cymbal on string and piece 
 of iron. SQUAW begins a slow, measured Indian Dance, 
 gradually increasing in speed and wild yells. BOY i beat- 
 ing gong and yelling. UNCLE 2 joins in cross-stage dance. 
 After twice across the stage, SQUAW kicks at UNCLE i, 
 and with wild yells drives him backward across the stage, 
 At last, SQUAW unties string holding up dress and gar- 
 ment drops off, wig going at same time. BOY 2 stands: 
 revealed. Tableau : UNCLE 2, R. ; UNCLE i, L. ; BOY i 
 on chair?) 
 
 UNCLE 2. What's this an impostor? 
 
 UNCLE i. We've been imposed upon. It's the beggarly 
 
98 CHIPS OFF THE OLD BLOCK 
 
 boy who took my baggage to the hotel and broke everything 
 inside. 
 
 (Both UNCLES grab their nephews. BOYS/#// on knees.} 
 
 BOYS (together). Don't you know us, uncle? 
 
 UNCLES. Uncle ! What ? 
 
 BOY i. I'm your loving nephew. 
 
 EOY 2. And I'm your loving nephew. 
 
 UNCLE i. Why are you not at school in the Mili- 
 tary Academy ? 
 
 BOY i. The teacher's sick, uncle. 
 
 UNCLE i. The man is sick? 
 
 BOY i. It's a lady, uncle. 
 
 UNCLE i. A lady ! A lady in a military academy? 
 
 BOY i. Why, yes, uncle. This is not England, don't you 
 know. 
 
 UNCLE i. And her name? 
 
 BOY i. Matilda Brown. 
 
 UNCLE i. Matilda Brown Matilda Brown ! (Faints.) 
 Take me back back to those beautiful blue eyes ! 
 
 UNCLE 2. Yes, take him back. May I never see blue eyes 
 again ! 
 
 CURTAIN 
 
The Tramp Barbers 
 
 CHARACTERS 
 
 I. CUTTEM, a barber. 
 SLIPPERY PETE, a tramp. 
 OVERLAND LOUIE, another tramp. 
 CHAUNCEY ST. JOHN, an Englishman. 
 " BAT " THOMPSON, a tough. 
 GIUSEPPE GARIBALDI, an Italian. 
 PATRICK O'RAFFERTY, an Irishman. 
 
 SCENE. A barber shop. Table, c. ; barber's chair and an- 
 other chair on opposite sides of the table, the barber* s chair 
 R. Barber" s outfit, mug, razors, towel, sheet, etc. 
 
 (I. CUTTEM discovered mixing lather in mug.) 
 
 CUTTEM. Looks like a busy day to-day. I ought to do a 
 big business. There'll be a big crowd here to see the baseball 
 game, and I suppose a lot of these young sports will want to 
 get their faces cleaned to take their best girls out. (Looks into 
 table drawer?) Gee, I need some soap. I guess I'll have to 
 hurry down town and get some right away before the crowd 
 comes. 
 
 (Takes off white coat, puts on regular coat and hat and 
 exit, R.) 
 
 Enter SLIPPERY PETE. 
 
 PETE. Ssh ! Ssh ! Quiet, quiet. Come inside. (Enter 
 OVERLAND LOUIE, who trips and falls.) Get up, get up, we'll 
 get caught. 
 
 LOUIE. Gee, I knew I'd fall. I didn't see the last step. 
 
 PETE. Oh, you never see anything. Come on, get busy, 
 look around here now. 
 
 LOUIE. You're always picking on me. 
 
 PETE. Never mind, get busy. Go over and look and see 
 what's in those boxes. 
 
 99 
 
IOO THE TRAMP BARBERS 
 
 (They go to opposite sides of stage. LOUIE wanders about 
 and comes back to the table ; picks up mug with brush and 
 sticks brush in his mouth.') 
 
 LOUIE. Ooh, look at the cream-puff stuffings. 
 
 PETE (rushing over pulls his hand away). That's not 
 cream-puff stuffings, you boob, that's shaving soap. 
 
 LOUIE. Oooh, gee, it tickles my tongue. (He sputters?) 
 
 PETE. Do you know where we are ? 
 
 LOUIE. No, where are we? 
 
 PETE. We're in a barber shop. Now listen, we're going to 
 be barbers. I'll be the cashier and you'll be the head barber. 
 
 LOUIE. Head barber ! Why, I don't even know what a 
 barber is. 
 
 PETE. What ! You don't know what a barber is? 
 
 LOUIE. Oh, gee, yes; I almost forgot. I know what a 
 barber is. A barber is a fellow that comes from Barbaria. 
 
 PETE. No, you boob, a barber is a fellow that gives another 
 fellow a shave. 
 
 LOUIE. A shave ? 
 
 PETE. Yes, that's what I said, a shave. He cuts the soap 
 off another fellow's face. 
 
 LOUIE. Don't get excited, I know, I know. He cuts the 
 face off another fellow's soap. 
 
 PETE. No ! He cuts the soap off another fellow's face. 
 
 LOUIE {picking up a razor). Oh, gee, what's this ? 
 
 PETE. That's a razor. 
 
 LOUIE. A razor ! How does it raise her ? 
 
 PETE. It doesn't raise her, it's a razor. Say, when will 
 you ever get anything in that blockhead of yours ? 
 
 LOUIE. You're always picking on me. 
 
 PETE. Never mind now, get busy. 
 
 LOUIE. Oh, listen. Did I ever tell you about my father? 
 
 PETE. No, what about your father? 
 
 LOUIE. He used to be a barber. One day a fellow came 
 in to get a shave, and while my father was shaving him he 
 accidentally cut his nose off. My father got all excited and 
 dropped the razor. The razor fell on the fellow's toe and cut 
 his toe off. Oh, my father got still more nervous and excited 
 and quickly picked up the fellow's nose and stuck it where his 
 toe should be, and stuck his toe where his nose should be, and 
 now every time the fellow wants to blow his nose he has to take 
 his shoe off. 
 
THE TPAMP- BARBERS, IOI 
 
 PETE. Enough of that. Enough of that, now. You're al- 
 ways spoiling everything with your jokes. 
 
 LOUIE. Ugh ! You're always picking on me. 
 
 PETE. Why shouldn't I ? We'd be down to Los Angeles 
 now if it wasn't on account of you. 
 
 LOUIE. Me ? 
 
 PETE. Yes, you. Didn't I tell you to duck when you saw 
 the brakeman coming? I ducked, didn't I ? 
 
 LOUIE. Ugh 1 You're always picking on me. I sat there 
 just as you told me until the brakeman came. I didn't mind 
 him throwing the shoe at me, but he forgot to take his foot out. 
 
 PETE. Yes. Well, how about that huckleberry pie ? 
 
 LOUIE. Every time you say huckleberry pie to me I feel 
 like a hole in a doughnut. 
 
 PETE. Didn't I tell you to open the gate gently, walk up 
 the path, carefully grab the pie off the window sill and hurry 
 back? But what did you do? You stuck your face in it, 
 didn't you? 
 
 LOUIE. Ooh ! I never did. I opened the gate as you told 
 me, walked up the path, came up to the pie and was just about 
 to grab it, when the lady up on the top floor threw a broom at 
 me and my face went in the huckleberry pie. 
 
 PETE. Yes, and how about that dog ? 
 
 LOUIE. Don't say dog to me ! Every time you say dog I 
 feel in pieces. 
 
 PETE. Well, what did you let the dog grab you for? 
 
 LOUIE. Ooh, I never did. While I was up smelling the 
 huckleberry pie, the dog smelt me and thought I was the 
 huckleberry pie and he got me. 
 
 PETE. You can't make me believe that. Never mind, now ; 
 get this barber's coat on. 
 
 {Business of puffing on coat, hand in wrong sleeve, etc.) 
 
 LOUIE. Oh, gee, this is a swell coat. I guess I'll go to the 
 picnic in this. 
 
 PETE. Never mind about the picnic, you're going to shave. 
 
 Enter CHAUNCEY ST. JOHN. 
 
 ST. JOHN. I say, me mon. Is this a shaving parlor? 
 LOUIE. No, it's a barber shop. 
 
 ST. JOHN. Well, what's the difference ? Let us not quibble. 
 (Takes off hat and hands it to LOUIE. LOUIE plays with hat 
 
IO2 THE TRAMP BARBERS 
 
 and puts it on. ST. JOHN stops him.} I say, me mon, you 
 must take that off. 
 
 ( LOUIE takes off hat. ST. JOHN hands him coat.} 
 
 LOUIE. Gee, what a swell coat. I guess I'll go to the 
 picnic in this one. {Goes to put it on.} 
 
 ST. JOHN (to PETE). What's the matter with this man any- 
 how? 
 
 PETE (aside to LOUIE). Come on, cut it out, cut it out. 
 Get on to yourself. 
 
 ST. JOHN (taking off collar and tie and handing them to 
 LOUIE). I'll have a hair cut, a shampoo, my finger nails mani- 
 cured, my mustache curled, and a massage. (Sits in chair.) 
 
 LOUIE. Hey, fellow, how will you have it, on the half shell 
 or fried ? 
 
 PETE (aside). Keep quiet, keep quiet. 
 
 (LouiE commences lathering ST. JOHN'S face.} 
 
 ST. JOHN. Do you know, I've got the cutest little girl in 
 England, and her name is Katie Prior. She's the dearest little 
 flower on the face of the earth. And, oh, I love her so. I can 
 see her blue eyes before me now. Look at them. Look at 
 them. Katie, Katie, come to me. 
 
 {Rushes to front of stage with arms outstretched ; LOUIE 
 follows him.) 
 
 LOUIE. Hey, that ain't Katie. It's a bald-headed man. 
 
 (ST. JOHN returns to the chair. LOUIE continues lathering 
 him.} 
 
 PETE (to LOUIE). Gently, gently. 
 
 LOUIE (turning to PETE and continuing to lather ST. JOHN). 
 I am going gently. (Puts brush in ST. JOHN'S mouth.) 
 
 ST. JOHN (springing up}. You impudent thing ! How dare 
 you! How dare you! {Grabs hat and coat.} I'm going 
 out and get the " Bobby " after you. [Exit. 
 
 LOUIE (slapping himself on the wrist). Oh, rudeness, rude- 
 ness. 
 
 PETE. Never mind that. Cut it out. We lost a quarter 
 all on account of you. 
 
 LOUIE. I told you it was cream-puff stuffings. See, he tried 
 to eat it. 
 
THE TRAMP BARBERS 103 
 
 PETE. Shut up, now. Shut up. You lost a quarter, do 
 you know it ? 
 
 LOUIE. You're always picking on me. 
 
 PETE. You're so dense. When will you ever get anything 
 in that head of yours? 
 
 LOUIE. What did I do ? 
 
 PETE. What did you do ? When he began talking about 
 his girl why didn't you answer him politely ? You're a barber 
 now, and you have to know how to talk to people. You should 
 have said something nice about his girl. 
 
 LOUIE. How could I when I never even saw his girl before ? 
 
 PETE. Never mind now, you've got to use your imagination. 
 
 LOUIE. I know what I'll do. The next fellow that comes 
 in here I'll like his girl. 
 
 PETE. I don't care what you do; do something. 
 
 Enter BAT" THOMPSON. 
 
 THOMP. Hurry up, guy, give us a shave, or I'll tear the 
 shingles off your roof. 
 
 (Sits in chair. LOUIE goes over to PETE and hands him the 
 brush.} 
 
 LOUIE (to PETE). You shave him ; I don't like the looks 
 of that guy. 
 
 PETE. No, you go ahead ; you shave him. 
 THOMP. Hurry up, now ; hurry up. 
 LOUIE. All right, fellow, don't get subsited. 
 
 (Approaches cautiously to shave him. Begins to put on 
 lather.} 
 
 THOMP. Say, kid, I'm a fighter ; you know it ? 
 
 LOUIE. A fighter ! Did you ever have a fight ? 
 
 THOMP. Don't get funny now. Don't get funny. See these? 
 (Shows muscle.} I eat mush for breakfast. 
 
 LOUIE. Brrrrh. I'm going to eat mush. 
 
 THOMP. Say, kid, you should have been at the last fight. 
 I got up at five o'clock in the morning, ran seven miles, came 
 back and sparred five rounds with my partner, then ate a great 
 big bowl of mush. Then I went up to the ring. Gee, the 
 house was packed full. 
 
 LOUIE. Of mush ? 
 
 THOMP. No ! People, you boob you. 
 
IO4 THE TRAMP BARBERS 
 
 LOUIE. Oh, people's mushes. 
 
 THOMP. We were fighting for a purse full of 
 
 LOUIE. Mush. 
 
 THOMP. No ! You boob you ! Twenties. 
 
 LOUIE. Oh, twenty mushes. 
 
 THOMP. And you should have seen my girl, Minnie. She 
 was sitting down there in the front row eating a great big bag 
 of 
 
 LOUIE. Mush. 
 
 THOMP. No ! Peanuts. Hurry up, give me a shave. 
 
 LOUIE. Oh, gee. This fellow talks so much about mush 
 he's got me talking mushy, too. 
 
 PETE. Never mind, get busy ; hurry up. 
 
 LOUIE. Huh, huh. I'm going to do it. I'm going to do 
 it now. Say, fellow, I like your girl. 
 
 THOMP. You what ! (Jumps up.} You like my girl, do 
 you ? Take that and that. 
 
 (Knocks LOUIE down and exit. PETE picks up LOUIE and 
 goes to front of stage with him. LOUIE points out to au- 
 dience, counting.) 
 
 LOUIE. One, two, three. Look at the big blue one over 
 there. 
 
 PETE. Did he hurt you ? Did he hurt you ? 
 
 LOUIE. That fellow hit me so hard he knocked me sensible. 
 I'm going out to fight that fellow. (Goes toward door.} Hey, 
 come back. 1 eat mush ! (Noise outside. PETE and LOUIE 
 run to opposite side of stage and seize each other.) He took 
 three steps backward. I wish he'd hit me again. You know 
 why? 
 
 PETE. No, why? 
 
 LOUIE. I saw diamonds. 
 
 PETE. Never mind, you'll do better next time. 
 
 Enter GIUSEPPE GARIBALDI. 
 
 LOUIE (looking at GARL). Brrrh, I'm a-scared of bull- 
 dogs. 
 
 GARI. (sitting in chair). Come, boy. Give me shave. 
 
 PETE. Go ahead, shave him. Hurry up. 
 
 GARI. Say, boy, can you sing? 
 
 LOUIE (going to front of stage). I ask myself if I can sing, 
 and I say, " Yes." (Goes back to chair.) Sure I can sing. 
 What are you going to sing ? 
 
THE TRAMP BARBERS IO5 
 
 GARI. Can you sing Santa Lucia? 
 
 LOUIE. In the Shade of the Old Apple Tree ? Sure. 
 
 (Both commence to sing, each his own song. Wild discord.) 
 
 GARI. Oh, you can't sing. What you sing now? 
 LOUIE. Oh, I told myself a lie. 
 GARI. Come, hurry up, shave me. 
 
 (LouiE commences to lather him. GARI., who has on a 
 " trick wig," makes his hair rise. LOUIE drops his brush 
 and runs over to where PETE is sitting ; crouches behind 
 him shouting in terror. ) 
 
 PETE. What's the matter ? What's the matter ? 
 
 LOUIE. Did you see that ? His head kept bouncing up and 
 down. 
 
 PETE. Bouncing up and down? What are you talking 
 about ? 
 
 LOUIE. Sure, bouncing up and down. Oooooooh ! 
 
 PETE. You're all excited. That fellow beat you up badly. 
 You don't know what you're talking about. Sit down and rest 
 up. Give me the brush. I'll shave this fellow. Watch me. 
 
 (Goes over to GARI., and commences to lather him. The 
 wig works again. PETE more excited than LOUIE. They 
 rush about the stage holding each other and staring. 
 GARI. gets impatient.) 
 
 GARI. Come on, give me shave. I wait all day. 
 
 LOUIE (holding tight to PETE). Shut up ; you've got a rub- 
 ber head. 
 
 GARI. What you say ? I got rubber head ? You call me 
 rubber head I kill you. Bah ! Bah ! Macaroni ! Spaghetti ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 LOUIE. Gee, that was a funny guy. Didn't he have a funny 
 head ? Did you see it go up and down ? 
 
 PETE. Did I see it ? 
 
 LOUIE. His hair came up and tickled my nose. 
 
 PETE. What did he say when he was going out ? 
 
 LOUIE. He was playing doggie, I guess. 
 
 PETE. Playing doggie ? What do you mean ? 
 
 LOUIE. Didn't you hear him say bow-wow, bow-wow? 
 
 PETE. Nevermind. There's another quarter gone. We've 
 got to do better than this. 
 
IO6 THE TRAMP BARBERS 
 
 LOUIE. It wasn't my fault. You're always picking on me. 
 
 Enter PATRICK O'RAFFERTY, singing, " Oh, I won't come 
 home until morning" and dancing. He embraces LOUIE. 
 
 O'RAF. Hello, Pat ! And are ye going to the ball? 
 
 LOUIE. Going to the ball ? What ball ? Baseball ? 
 
 O'RAF. No, to the Irishman's ball. 
 
 LOUIE. Oh, sure, sure. 
 
 (O'RAF. goes over to PETE and embraces him, too.) 
 
 O'RAF. And are ye going to the ball ? 
 PETE. Sure. 
 
 O'RAF. And who are ye going to take with ye ? 
 PETE. I'm going to take Lizzie. 
 
 O'RAF. Thot's good. Now, I want a shave, and a good 
 wan, too. (Sits.) My girl Rosie doesn't like splinters. 
 
 (LouiE commences to lather him.) 
 LOUIE. How do you want it, wet or dry ? 
 (Rubs O'RAF. 's bald head.) 
 
 O'RAF. Sure, plenty of water to make it grow. (LouiE 
 makes two strokes with the razor, one on each side of the face, 
 then with a towel wipes the paint off . O'RAF. rises.) Say, 
 thot's the best shave I've had in years. Now, I suppose I'll 
 have to pay you fellows, won't I? 
 
 LOUIE. Sure. 
 
 O'RAF. Who's the boss here? 
 
 PETE. I am. 
 
 O'RAF. Then here's the quarter for ye. (To LOUIE.) 
 Here's ten cents for you. Now for the ball. 
 
 (Exit singing, "I won't get home until morning " LOUIE 
 tries to imitate his dancing, and falls down. He gets up.) 
 
 LOUIE. Ooh ! I never could do the tango. 
 PETE. Come on, now, let's see how much money we've got. 
 We've got to get out of here or we'll get caught. 
 
 (They begin to count the money.) 
 
 Enter CUTTEM. 
 CUTTEM. Well, if this isn't the height of gall ! Two tramps 
 
THE TRAMP BARBERS IO7 
 
 trying to run my barber shop. I'll get these fellows and have 
 them put in the lock-up. (To LOUIE.) Say, barber, give me 
 a shave. 
 
 LOUIE. Don't get fresh with the head barber. 
 
 CUTTEM. Never mind. Give me a shave. 
 
 (He sits down. LOUIE puts the sheet around him. As he 
 is doing so PETE slips up behind him and whispers.} 
 
 PETE. That's the head barber. We've got to get out of 
 here. 
 
 LOUIE. I know what we'll do. Tie him to the chair and 
 throw soap in his face. 
 
 (They tie the sheet tight behind CUTTEM.) 
 
 CUTTEM. Hey, what are you trying to do there ? 
 
 LOUIE. Don't get excited. Don't get excited. We're ty- 
 ing you tight so in case we cut you the blood won't rush to 
 your head. (LouiE goes around chair and faces CUTTEM.) 
 I know who you are. You're the head barber, ain't you ? 
 
 CUTTEM. Yes, I am. I'm going to get you two fellows. 
 
 LOUIE. And you'll get this, too. 
 
 (Throws the suds in his face.} 
 CUTTEM. Help ! Help 1 
 
 (Tumbles over backward in the chair. The two tramps 
 laugh at him. CUTTEM produces a revolver and shoots 
 wildly around the room, struggling in the sheet while the 
 tramps dodge about under the table, behind the chairs > etc.} 
 
 CURTAIN 
 
Two New Prompt Books 
 
 Edited by 
 GRANVILLE BARKER 
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE 
 
 By William Shakespeare 
 
 An acting edition 'with a producer's preface by Granville Barker 
 
 With Costume Designs by Albert Rothenstein 
 As produced by Lillah McCarthy at the Savoy Theatre, London 
 
 An admirable stage version of this play suitable for school performance, 
 if desired, under simplified conditions as to scenery. Mr. Rothenstein's 
 illustrations contain many helpful suggestions as to costuming. 
 Price, 25 cents 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT 
 
 By William Shakespeare 
 
 An acting edition with a producer's preface by Granville Barker 
 With Illustrations and Costume Designs by Norman Wilkinson 
 As produced at the Savoy Theatre, London, by Lillah McCarthy 
 
 Uniform in appearance and style with the above and similarly helpful 
 for performance by amateurs as well as by professional talent. 
 Price, 25 cents 
 
 Mr. Barker's " producer's prefaces " are a trial step in the direction of 
 providing less experienced actors and managers of the great plays with 
 the results of an expert consideration of them from an acting standpoint. 
 Like Miss Fogerty's admirable work in connection with the five plays 
 listed elsewhere, they are designed not merely to answer the questions 
 that must arise but to put the inexperienced producer into such a relation 
 with the text that his own intelligence will be able to cope with his prob- 
 lem without help or suggestion. One learns how a man like Mr. Barker 
 approaches a play with the idea of staging it, and so how another may do 
 the same thing. In this they will be seen to be truly and genuinely 
 educational as well as merely helpful. 
 
 Sent postpaid by mail on receipt of price 
 
 Walter H. Baker & Co., 5 Hamilton Place 
 
 BOSTON, MASS. 
 
A REGIMENT OF TWO 
 
 A Farcical Comedy in Three Acts by Anthony E. Wills. Six males, 
 four females. Modern costumes. Scene, an interior, the same for all 
 three acts. Plays a full evening. A lively, up-to-date farce, easy to pro- 
 duce and full of laughs from beginning to end. All the parts good no 
 small ones. German comedy characters for both male and female, and 
 " wild west " character part and English character comedy. Strongly 
 recommended. Price, 25 cents 
 
 MISS BUZBY'S BOARDERS 
 
 A Comedy in Three Acts by Arthur Lewis Tubbs. Five male, six fe- 
 male characters. Costumes, modern ; scenery, two easy interiors. Plays 
 two hours. In a lighter vein than this writer's other pieces, but just as 
 strong, and offers plenty of comedy. All the parts good ; four call for 
 strong acting. Several good character parts and effective heavy character. 
 Dialogue especially good. A sure hit. Price, 25 cents 
 
 VALLEY FARM 
 
 A Drama in Four Acts by Arthur Lewis Tubbs. Six males, six females. 
 Scenery, two interiors and an exterior. Costumes, modern. An admirable 
 play for amateurs, very sympathetic in theme, and with lots of good parts. 
 Hetty is a strong lead, and Perry Deane and Silas great parts ; while 
 Azariah, Lizy Ann Tucker and Verbena are full of fun. Plays a full 
 evening. Price, 25 cents 
 
 THE MISSING MISS MILLER 
 
 A Comedy in Three Acts by Harold A. Clarke. Six males, five fe- 
 males. Scenery, two interiors ; costumes, modern. Plays a full evening. 
 A bright and up-to-date farce comedy of the liveliest type. All the parts 
 good ; full of opportunity for all hands. Easy to produce and strongly 
 recommended. Good tone ; might answer for schools, but is a sure hit for 
 amateur theatricals. Professional stage rights reserved. Price t 25 cents 
 
 OUT OF TOWN 
 
 A Comedy in Three Acts by Bell Elliot Palmer. Three males, five fe- 
 males. Scene, an interior, the same for all three acts ; costumes, modern. 
 Plays an hour and a half. A clever and interesting comedy, very easy to 
 produce and recommended for amateur performance. All the parts good. 
 A safe piece for a fastidious audience, as its theme and treatment are alike 
 beyond reproach. Price, 25 cents 
 
 GADSBY'S GIRLS 
 
 A Farce in Three Acts by Bertha Currier Porter. Five males, four fe- 
 males. Costumes, modern ; scenery, an exterior and an interior. Plays an 
 hour and a half. An exceptionally bright and vivacious little piece, full 
 of action. Gadsby's adventures with the fiancees of three of his friends 
 are full of interest and fun. All the parts good. Well suited for high 
 school performance. Price, 25 cents 
 
THE TIME OF HIS LIFE 
 
 A Comedy in Three Acts by C. Leona Dalrymple. Six males, three 
 females. Costumes, modern ; scenery, two interiors, or can be played in 
 one. Plays two hours and a half. A side-splitting piece, full of action 
 and a sure success if competently acted. Tom Carter's little joke of im- 
 personating the colored butler has unexpected consequences that give him 
 " the time of his life." Very highly recommended for high school per- 
 formance. Price, 25 cents 
 
 THE COLLEGE CHAP 
 
 A Comedy Drama in Three Acts by Harry L. Newton and John 
 Pierre Roche. Eleven males, seven females. Costumes, modern ; scenery, 
 two interiors. Plays two and a half hours. An admirable play for ama- 
 teurs. Absolutely American in spirit and up to date ; full of sympathetic 
 interest but plenty of comedy ; lots of healthy sentiment, but nothing 
 " mushy." Just the thing for high schools ; sane, effective, and not dif- 
 ficult. Price, 25 cents 
 
 THE DEACON'S SECOND WIFE 
 
 A Comedy in Three Acts by Allan Abbott. Six males, six females. 
 Costumes, modern ; scenery, one interior, one exterior. Plays two hours 
 and a half. A play of rural life specially written for school performance. 
 All the parts are good and of nearly equal opportunity, and the piece is full 
 of laughs. Easy to produce ; no awkward sentimental scenes ; can be 
 strongly recommended for high schools. Price, 25 cents 
 
 THE TEASER 
 
 A Rural Comedy in Three Acts by Charles S. Allen. Four male, three 
 female characters. Scene, an easy interior, the same for all three acts ; 
 costumes, modern. Plays an hour and a half. An admirable play for 
 amateurs, very easy to get up, and very effective. Uraliah Higgins, a 
 country postman, and Drusilla Todd are capital comedy parts, introducing 
 songs or specialties, if desired. Plenty of incidental fun. 
 Price, 25 cents 
 
 COUNTRY FOLKS 
 
 A Comedy Drama in Three Acts by Anthony E. Wills. Six males, five 
 females. Costumes, modern; scenery, one interior. Plays two and a 
 quarter hours. An effective and up-to-date play well suited for amateur 
 performance. All the parts good and fairly even in point of opportunity ; 
 the ladies' parts especially so. Easy to stage, and well suited for schools. 
 Well recommended. Price, 25 cents 
 
 THE MISHAPS OF MINERVA 
 
 A Farce in Two Acts by Bertha Currier Porter. Five males, eight fe- 
 males. Costumes, modern ; scene, an interior. Plays one and a half 
 hours. An exceptionally bright and amusing little play of high class and 
 recommended to all classes of amateur players. Full of action and 
 laughs, but refined. Irish low comedy part. Strongly endorsed. 
 Price, 25 cents 
 
RED ACRE FARM 
 
 A Rural Comedy Drama in Three Acts by Gordan V. May. Seven 
 males, five females. Costumes, modern; scenery, one interior, one exte- 
 rior. Plays two hours. An easy and entertaining play with a well-bal- 
 anced cast of characters. The story is strong and sympathetic and the 
 comedy element varied and amusing. Barnaby Strutt is a great 7?rt for 
 a good comedian ; " Junior " a close second. Strongly recommend t 
 Price, 25 cents 
 
 THE COUNTRY MINISTER 
 
 A Comedy Drama in Five Acts by Arthur Lewis Tubbs. Eight males, 
 five females. Costumes, modern ; scenery not difficult. Plays a full even- 
 ing. A very sympathetic piece, of powerful dramatic interest ; strong and 
 varied comedy relieves the serious plot. Ralph Underwood, the minister, 
 is a great part, and Roxy a strong soubrette ; all parts are good and full 
 of opportunity. Clean, bright and strongly recommended. 
 Price, 25 cents 
 
 THE COLONEL'S MAID 
 
 A Comedy in Three Acts by C. Leona Dalrymple. Six males, three 
 females. Costumes, modern ; scenery, two interiors. Plays a full even- 
 ing. An exceptionally bright and amusing comedy, full of action ; all the 
 parts good. Capital Chinese low comedy part ; two first-class old men. 
 This is a very exceptional piece and can be strongly recommended. 
 Price, 25 cents 
 
 MOSE 
 
 A Comedy in Three Acts by C. W. Miles. Eleven males, ten females. 
 Scenery, two interiors ; costumes, modern. Plays an hour and a half. A 
 lively college farce, full of the true college spirit. Its cast is large, but 
 many of the parts are small and incidental. Introduces a good deal of 
 singing, which will serve to lengthen the performance. Recommended 
 highly for co-educational colleges. Price, 15 cents 
 
 OUR WIVES 
 
 A Farce in Three Acts by Anthony E. Wills. Seven males, four fe- 
 males. Costumes, modern ; scenery, two interiors. Plays two hours and 
 a half. A bustling, up-to-date farce, full of movement and action ; all 
 the parts good and effective ; easy to produce ; just the thing for an ex- 
 perienced amateur club and hard to spoil, even in the hands of less 
 practical players. Free for amateur performance. Price, 2$ cents 
 
 THE SISTERHOOD OF BRIDGET 
 
 A Farce in Three Acts by Robert Elwin Ford. Seven males, six fe- 
 males. Costumes, modern; scenery, easy interiors. Plays two hours. 
 An easy, effective and very humorous piece turning upon the always in- 
 teresting servant girl question. A very unusual number of comedy parts ; 
 all the parts good. Easy to get up and well recommended. Price, 25 cents 
 
RETURN TO the circulation desk of any 
 University of California Library 
 or to the 
 
 NORTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 Bldg. 400, Richmond Field Station 
 University of California 
 Richmond, CA 94804-4698 
 
 ALL BOOKS MAY BE RECALLED AFTER 7 DAYS 
 2-month loans may be renewed by calling 
 
 (510)642-6753 
 1-year loans may be recharged by bringing books 
 
 to NRLF 
 Renewals and recharges may be made 4 days 
 
 prior to due date 
 
 DUE AS STAMPED BELOW 
 
 J I IN IS 1994 
 
YB 14617 
 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 

 flL ^ Ptiero's; 
 
 f&tice, 50 Centg 
 
 THP MAfilCTDATP Farce in Three Acts. Twelve males, four 
 1HB ITlAUIdlKAiC femaleg Cogtume8 , modern; scenery, all 
 
 interior. Plays two hours and a half. 
 
 THE NOTORIOUS MRS. EBBSMITH ^"l^Jr^l. 
 
 Costumes, modern ; scenery, all interiors. Plays a full evening. 
 
 THP PRAFIffiATF Play in Four Acts. Seven males, five females. 
 murMUAll* interiors, rather elaborate -, 
 
 costumes, modern. Plays a full evening. 
 
 THP QrHflfll IWICTDF^ Farce in Three Acts. Nine males, seven 
 1111} 3UlUUL,lUU>lItCJ3 famo ^ t Costumes, modern; scenery, 
 
 three interiors. Plays a full evening. 
 
 THE SECOND MRS. TANQUERAY S^j 
 
 tumes, modern ; scenery, three interiors- Piay" a full evening. 
 
 Comedy in Three Acts. Seven males, four 
 females Scene, a single interior; costumes 
 modern. Plays a full evening. 
 
 THE TIMES Comed y ^ Four Arts. Six males, seven femalet 
 liii 1 iT lv J Scene, a single interior; costumes, modern. Plays a 
 full evening. 
 
 THF WFA1TFR ^FY Comedy in Three Acts. Eight males, eight 
 UK WfcAlUA 3ttA females costumes, modern; scenery, two 
 interiors. Plays a full evening. 
 
 A WIFF WITHOUT A SHIIF Comed y ln Thr Acts 
 
 A UlrC nllflVDl AMUIlri: males>four females. Costumes, 
 modem ; scene, a single interior. Plays a full evening. 
 
 Sent prepaid on receipt of price by 
 
 5altet? fy-TStibw & Company 
 
 No. 5 Hamilton Place, Boston, Massachusetts