Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2007 with funding from Microsoft Corporation http://www.archive.org/details/crimsoncocoanutoOOhayirich The Crimson Cocoanut And Other Plays The Crimson Cocoanut And Other Plays By IAN HAY BEITH All rights reserved under the International Copyright Act. Performance forbidden and right of representation reserved. Application for the right of performing any of the plays con- tained in this volume whether by amateurs or by professional actors must be made to the author's agent, Mr. R. L. Scaife, in care of Houghton, Mifflin & Co., 4 Park St., Boston, Mass., and all royalties should be paid to him. BOSTON WALTER H. BAKER & CO. 1913 M 2 - 3 Copyright, 191 3, by Ian Hay Beith As Author and Proprietor All rights reserved PLEASE NOTICE The professional stage rights in these plays are strictly re- served by the author to whose agent applications for its use should be addressed. Amateurs may obtain permission to pro- duce them privately on payment of a fee of five dollars ($ 5.00) for each performance of each play, always in advance. Cor- respondence on this subject should be addressed and all such payments made to R. L. Scaife, care Houghton, Mifflin & Co., 4 Park St., Boston, Mass. Attention is called to the penalties provided by law for any infringments of the author's rights, as follows : "Shc. 4966: — Any person publicly performing or representing any dramatic or musical composition for which copyright has been obtained, without the consent of the proprietor of said dramatic or musical composi- tion, or his heirs and assigns, shall be liable for damages therefor, such damages in all cases to be assessed at such sum, not less than one hundred dollars for the first and fifty dollars for every subsequent performance, as to the court shall appear to be just. If the unlawful performance and rep- resentation be wilful and for profit, such person or persons shall be guilty of a misdemeanor, and upon conviction be imprisoned for a period not exceeding one year." — U. S. Revised Statutes, Title bo, Chap. 3. Contents PAGE The Crimson Cocoanut .... 7 An Absurdity in One Act A Late Delivery 49 A Little Play in Three Episodes The Missing Card 95 A Comedietta in One Act 355498 The Crimson Cocoanut An Absurdity in One Act The Crimson Cocoanut CHARACTERS Nitro Gliserinski, an anarchist. Madame Gliserinski. Mr. Jabstick. Nancy Jabstick, his daughter. Jack Pincher, of Scotland Yard. Robert, waiter at Spaghetti s. Scene.— Spaghetti's restaurant, Soho. The Crimson Cocoanut SCENE. — A Soho Restaurant. E. a kitchen- lift and speaking-tube. R. u. E door. c. entrance, with hat-stand, etc. L. a sofa and sideboard. Two restaurant tables, with dingy cloths and silver, R. c. and L. c. Three chairs at each table. On the walls the usual restaurant advertisements, etc. Glasses and bottles on sideboard, with siphon and bread-basket. Cake-stand (wicker) by entrance c. Robert, the waiter, is asleep on sofa, com- pletely covered by a newspaper except for his feet, which project toward audience. Enter mysteriously, 0.. Jack Pincher. He wears a rather obvious false nose. He looks round cautiously, takes off his nose, and tiptoes about, peeping under tables, etc., ad lib. Once Eobert stirs and grunts under the newspaper. Piwcher claps on his nose and drops into a chair at one of the tables, trying to look like a customer. Robert IO THE CRIMSON COCOANUT makes no further movement, and PlNCHER continues to investigate, listening down speaking-tube, etc. Finally, after peeping under the newspaper at Robert, he sits down R. c, and writes report in note-book, reading aloud. PlNCHER. [Reading.'] " In accordance with instruc- tions, I visited Spaghetti's Restaurant, Soho, at 2 : 15 p. M., on Thursday, the 17th inst., in dis- guise. The restaurant was empty, and the waiter was asleep on a sofa. I searched the premises thoroughly, but could find no suspi- cious-looking package or parcel which could be said to answer the description supplied to me from headquarters." There, there's nothing pleases the authorities like a full report, espe- cially when there is nothing in it ! Well, I must be off. [ Writes.'] " At 2 : 25 I withdrew from the restaurant to the street, where I took up a favorable position, for the purpose " Hallo, there's a door there ! I may as well see what's behind it. [Crosses R., opens door, and looks.] A passage! H'm! I haven't got a search warrant, but as everybody seems to be asleep, I may as well seize the opportunity. I may find what I'm after. [Exit, R. [Pause. Enter Mr. Jabstick and his daughter, Nancy, c. Mr. Jabstick THE CRIMSON COCOANUT 1 1 is a choleric old gentleman with a very red face. He is in a bad temper, it being long past his luncheon hour. Mr. Jabstick. Come along, Nancy, come along, come along ! Don't be all day. I want my lunch, my lunch, my lunch / Do you hear ? I'm sick and tired of standing outside shops having my toes trod- den on, while you are wasting my money in- side. Come along, come along, come along ! [lie thrusts his umbrella into the cake- stand by the door and stumps down to table L. c, where he sits facing R. Nancy. [Coming down; she has been arranging her hat at a mirror on the wall.'] Very well, dad. Take off your hat and ring for the waiter. [She sits r. of the table. Mr. Jabstick takes off his hat and absently feels about for somewhere to put it, while he reads the menu. He ultimately hangs it on Robert's foot, which is project- ing from the sofa behind him. Then he rings the bell on tlie table furiously . Mr. Jabstick. Waiter, waiter, waiter ! What a place ! What a hole! Not a soul! Waiter, waiter, waiter I 12 THE CRIMSON COCO AN [/T Rancy. {Stopping him.'] Father, what a noise! Give theui a chance. [Robert shakes off his newspaper and sits up. He is middle-aged and seedy- looking, evidently with a profound contempt for his calling and his cus- tomers. After regarding Mr. Jab- stick's hat disapprovingly, he puts it on floor to L. of his chair. Then he leans forward and answers mourn- fully, right in Jabsttck's ear. Robert. Comin', sir ! Mr. Jabstick. [Jumping. ~\ Ooh ! What's that ? Confound it ! What do you mean, sir, by doing that ? Robert. Beg pardon, sir, I'm sure. I didn't know you were nervous. [Slaps table with napkin. Mr. Jabstick. Don't do that ! Robert. Certainly, sir. [Blows crumbs off table. Mr. Jabstick. [Roaring.] And, confound it, don't do that ! THE CRIMSON COCOANUT 1 3 KOBERT. Very good, sir. What can I get you ? Mr. Jabstick. Lunch ! Nancy. Something nice, waiter ! Robert. Something nice, miss? Something ni You 'aven't bin 'ere before, I suppose ? [She shakes her head.] No, I thought not. Nancy. What have you got ? Eobert. [Taking up menu.'] Rognons saute, Fillets de veau, Vol-au-vent &, la jardiniere, Escalopes de [All pronounced as spelled. Mr. Jabstick. Haven't you got any English dishes ? Robert. Tripe — ninepence ! Mr. Jabstick. Ugh! Nancy. Got any oysters ? 14 THE CRIMSON COCOANUT KOBERT. Yes, sir — miss ! Nancy. Are they fresh ? Kobert. Well, they ought to be gittin' a bit fresh by this time. Nancy. How long have you had them ? Eobert. I couldn't say, miss. I've only been 'ere seven years. Mr. Jabstick. {Pointing to menu.] I'll have fillet of beef. Kobert. I'm sorry, sir, fillet of beef is off. [Marks with pencil in menu. Nancy and Mr. Jabstick. Off? EOBERT. Yes. It fell off the kitchen dresser this mornin', and by the time the cook got it away from the cat it simply couldn't be served up be- THE CRIMSON COCOANUT 1 5 fore any lady or gentleman. You'll find it lower down now, there [Pointing.] " Shepherd's pie, fourpence." Shall I get you some, sir ? Me. Jabstick. No ! [Looks at menu.] I'll have chops. KOBERT. Yessir ! So will I. Nancy. EOBERT. Yes, miss. [Goes to speaking-tube.] Cook! Are you there, dear ? 'Ow are you ? Chops two, baked 'taters two. [Comes back L. and deals out bread, serviettes, etc.] What will you take to drink, sir ? You'll need something, I can tell you. Mr. Jabstick. What do you mean ? Kobert. You'll see what I mean, sir, when you get your chop. What will you take ? Mr. Jabstick. Glass of claret. 16 THE CRIMSON COCOANUT Nancy. And I'll take some soda water, waiter. Eobert. Yes, miss. [Goes R. to sideboard and returns with bottle, siphon and glasses.] {Enter Pincher, r. PlNCHER. No, there's nothing there but an empty room. Hallo! What? Nancy and her father ? {Hur- riedly slips on nose.] Just as well I am dis- guised, or he'd recognize me, and think I had come here after her. [Sits at table R. a] All the same, this is too good a chance to throw away. Perhaps I can kill two birds with one stone. Waiter, waiter ! Eobert. ^ [ Who is filling Nancy's glass from, the sipJwn.] Comin', sir ! [Puts down siphon, after freely sprin- kling Mr. Jabstick, and comes R. Pincher. What can you give me to eat ? Eobert. [Handing him the menu.] Shepherd's pie, fourpence. [Goes to lift and gets dish of potatoes. THE CRIMSON COCO A NUT iy Nancy. Waiter ! BOBERT. Comin', miss ! [Crosses L. Nancy. Waiter, what is this ? [Holding out soda-water. Robert. That's threepence a glass, miss. If you want it fizzy you must pay fourpence. Mr. Jabstick. [Furiously.] Look at this, waiter, look at this ! What is it, what is it — in my glass ? Robert. [Taking glass.] It's only a fly, sir. It'll do you no 'arm : it's quite dead. Shall I take it out for you ? [Inserts finger and thumb into glass. Mr. Jabstick. [Starting up.] Take your fingers out of that glass, at once, at once, at once ! [Puts his foot tnto his own hat.] Confound and dash it ! What the [Stamps across L. trying to shake off the hat, and finally sits at table again, 1 8 THE CRIMSON COCOANUT on chair behind. He picks the hat off his f oof] Look at my hat ! Look at it ! Look at it ! Kobert. Yessir. Beg pardon, sir, but you're sitting on the potatoes. Comin', sir! [Goes R. to Pincher, leaving Nancy to pacify her father. To Pincher.] Did you call, sir ? Pincher. No. EOBERT. Well, would you mind orderin' something ? I don't want to go over there [indicating Mr. Jabstick] at present. Pincher. Well, get me a plate of beef and a pint of beer. Eobert. Yessir. [Goes to tube.] Cook ! Beef one, swipes one. What ? Chops comin' up ? Eight ! [Takes chops out of lift, and crosses L.] Your chops, sir ! You've never seen chops done like that before, I'll be bound. [Takes off cover. Mr. Jabstick in- spects them doubtfully. Pincher. Waiter ! THE CRIMSON COCOANUT 10, Robert. Comin', sir. [Puts cover of chops on Mr. Jabstick's upturned fist ; crosses R. PlNCHER. Is my lunch coming ? Robert. I'll see, sir. [Goes to lift, and toings beer and beef.] Yes, sir, here it is. Pincher. Can you give me a piece of paper ? Robert. What for ? To wrap your dinner up in ? You needn't be shy about leavin' it on your plate. We're quite used to it 'ere. We shan't be offended. Pincher. No, no. To write on. Robert. Oh, I beg your pardon, sir. Now, let me think. [Looks round.] Ah ! [Goes to tube.] Cook 1 What became o' that white paper the butter came in this morning ? What ? Oh, you are a wasteful girl! Why can't you use a transformation, or Hinde's curlers? [Puts 20 THE CRIMSON C0C0ANUT down tube.] That's no good. Now — ah ! [Tears bill-check off booh and hands it to Pincher.] There, sir ! [Goes back to tube.] Well, Cook, 'ow are you gettin' on, dear ? No, not much doin' 'ere. 'Ow many people ? There's a young sprig o' parsley at one table, and a little peach and a over-ripe tomater at the other. Well, as I was tellin' yer this mornin', there's an adver- tisement in the paper [Turns his back to the audience and becomes inaudible.] [PlNCHER has finished scribbling his note. He surreptitiously hands it to Nancy. She reads it below level of table, and turns to him. lie takes off his nose for a moment, and smiles, etc. Mr. Jabstick. [Suddenly.] Waiter ! [All start. KOBERT. Yessir ! Mr. Jabstick. Is there a hat shop near here ? Eobert. Yes, sir, about two streets away, sir. Mr. Jabstick. [Getting up .] Confound it! How am I to walk down two streets with this on my head ? THE CRIMSON COCOA NUT 21 EOBERT. I don't know, sir. You might go without it altogether, and pretend you belong to the No 'At Brigade, sir. [Mr. Jabqtick throws down his hat furiously. Mr. Jabstick. Gurrh ! [Goes toward door, and turns.] Back directly, Nancy. [To Kobert.] You miser- able idiot ! I shall knock the price of a new hat off your bill, sir! [Seizes his umbrella, which brings with it the cake-stand, business.] What on earth ■ ! What the ! Look at this infernal umbrella-stand of yours, sir ! Look at it ! [Hushes out, still struggling with it. Kobert. [Running after him.] Beg pardon, sir; that's not a umbrella-stand. It's the cake- stand, sir ! [Exit c, hastily. [Pincher rushes across l. and sits down by Nancy. They clasp hands. Pincher. My dearest Nancy ! Nancy. Jack ! What are you doing here ? And in that get-up! 22 THE CRIMSON COCOANUT PlNCHER. I'm here on business. A red-hot scent, too 1 We got word at Scotland Yard this morning that a noted female anarchist, Madame Gliser- insM, landed in London yesterday. She brought with her a new and terrible infernal ma- chine Nancy. A bomb — oh ! Pincher. Yes. Her husband, Nitro Gliserinski, is awaiting her here in Soho. She has been to Kussia to fetch the bomb, as he dare not go there himself. She will hand it over to him, and it is ieared that they will then make an attempt to blow up the Bank of England ! Nancy. Oh, Jack, how awful ! It will rain sover- eigns for days. PlNCHER. We have been informed that this precious pair will probably meet here. The proprietor of the place is an old friend of theirs, and is well known to the police. We had him quietly arrested this morning, without any fuss ; and that doddering old waiter is in sole charge of the establishment, though he doesn't know it ! THE CRIMSON COCOANUT 23 Nancy. Oh ! And will she give her husband the bomb here f Pincher. I expect so. Indeed, she may have left it here already. Nancy. {Looking around.] What will it be like ? PlNCHER. I don't know. That's the difficulty. She smuggled it through the Customs all right, so it can't be very big. But never mind that. Fancy meeting you here ! Nancy. Yes — just! I don't know what father will say if he comes back and finds us like this ! Business. PlNCHER. Oh, dear, why haven't I got money ? Then everything would be all right. Nancy. Perhaps you'll get some some day. PlNCHER. There's a reward of a thousand pounds wait- ing for anybody who catches these two anarch- 24 THE CRIMSON COCOANUT ists — with their bomb. Your dad would give his consent if I got that, I suppose ? Nancy. I should think so! Oh, Jack, catch them, quick ! [Enter Eobert, c. lie observes them, and hurries R. to speaking-tube. PlNCHER. Eather ! We could set up house on a thou- sand pounds, couldn't we ? Nancy. We could set up two ! [Affectionately^ Oh, Jack ! Pincher. Oh, Nancy ! [Takes off his nose. lie is about to kiss her. Eobert. [Down tube.] Cook, wedding-cake for two ! Nancy. Oh! PlNCHER. Look here ! [They start tip. THE CRIMSON COCOANUT 2$ KOBERT. [Coming down.] Don't mind me, miss. I'm that way myself. I've bin courting Cook 'ere for a matter of seven years now. It's slow work, though. The difficulty is, we don't see much of each other. I 'ave to do it all down the speakin'-tube there ; and, you see, when I'm makin' love to her one minute and orderin' kidney-beans the next, things get a bit mixed. Why, the other day, when business was a bit slack, and I 'ad 'alf-an-hour to spare, I tried to recite to 'er a bit o' poetry I'd written about 'er. I got 'old o' the tube and whistled, and when she'd finished blamin' me for what she'd dropped — she usually drops somethink every time I whistle down — I recited the poetry. It was a very pretty little thing. It ended up something like this : " My boast-in-chief, and my sole pride, are you ! " Like that.!, JN ell, p'r'aps I didn't say it clear enbifgn/out in about two minutes up comes the, plate o' roast beef, and a sole, fried, for £\£o! '.-' [Goes up. rV PlNCHER. tsWell, I can*t-wait any longer. Come along xvi%. me, Nancy, and we'll find your father. Waiter! ' \'\ 26 THE CRIMSON COCOANUT EOBERT. Yessir ! PlNCHER. I shall be back presently. Just keep your eyes open, and let me know if you see any sus- picious characters about. My card ! {Hands card and exits with Nancy, c. EOBERT. [Reading.] Mr. John Pincher, C. I. D., Scotland Yard. I wonder what C. I. D. means ? [Tries to drink out of Pincher's tankard, out finds it empty. ~] " Clean it dry ! " I should think. [Crosses L. and pours remains of 'Mr. Jabstick's wine back i?i bottle, clears table, etc.'] Well, now I've got a little breathin'-space, we will resume our; conversation. [Takes up newspaper.] Now where's that advertisement ? [Goes to tube.] Cookie ! 'Ello, dear, 'ow are you? What? Startled you again? 'Ow many plates ? Six — and a teacup ! You are an unlucky girl. These breakages do cut into one's bankin' account. I'll call you more gently next time. Now, listen: 'ere's the advertise- ment. [Beads.] " To let, model country inn, in Surrey. No other licensed house within three miles. Would suit "—listen to this, Cookie — " would suit married couple, who desire a quiet but re — remunerative little business. Eent to be agreed upon. Immediate possession, with THE CRIMSON COCOANUT 2? good- will, fixtures, and present stock of choice wines and spirits, on payment of five hundred pounds." Think of that ! All that for a paltry five hundred ! What ? No, I know we 'aven't, but there's no reason why we shouldn't get it in time. 'Ow much 'ave you got laid by now ? Oh— that all ? Me ? Well, I couldn't say to a penny or so, and of course it's not easy savin', you know. There's the cost of livin', and food is very dear. Of course I couldn't take my meals 'ere. Still, I am full of 'ope. 'Ope springs eternal What? No, dear, not soup — 'ope ! [To himself.'] I'm afraid she's not poetical. Oh, we'll save up, never fear! Why, a gentleman gave me fourpence yester- day. 'E came back five minutes later to bor- row a penny of it for his 'bus-fare ; but still, that leaves threepence. Don't you be down- hearted. Now look 'ere, dear, I'll just drop the paper down the lift. [He puts his head in and his voice is muffled.] Third page, top of sec- ond column, and just tell me what you think [Enter furtively, c, Nitro Gliserin- SKI. He looks very foreign* and a des- perate ruffian. lie speaks with a strong accent. Gliseeinski. Yes, zis is the place. Where is the proprie- tor? Zey say he is perfectly trustworthy. 28 THE CRIMSON COCOANUT [Robert comes out of lift, and begins to arrange things on the table, R. c, humming.] Zis must be the man. I will gif him the sign. Pst ! [Robert turns.'] Attendez, done ! [Makes mysterious signs. Robert. / [Dropping plates.] A-a-a-h ! [Bushes to the other table and helps himself to soda water fe- verishly.] Oh, dear, oh, dear ! 'Ow careless of them! They must have left the 'Ippodrome door open. [Gliserinski continues to make signs.] I suppose I must humor it. [Makes signs hi return. Business.] Now, wot can I get for you, sir ? Gliserinski. Ha ! Ben you do not know vat I vant ? Robert. [Surveying him.] Well, of course, I can see one thing you want, but I'm afraid you can't 'ave it 'ere. I don't think there's enough hot water. Gliserinski. [Seizing him by the wrist.] Listen ! [Takes him down l.] A lady will come here pres- ently. THE CRIMSON COCOANUT 29 Robert. {Coldly. ~\ Oh! You'll excuse me mention- ing the fact, but we 'ave 'ad ladies 'ere before. Gliserinski. But zis lady has never been here before. Eobert. No, and I don't suppose she'll ever come again. Very few people do. Gliserinski. Now, listen. She will gif you ze sign. Robert. Like wot you gave me ? Gliserinski. Yes. Robert. Oh ! And what shall I do ? Gliserinski. You will gif ze countersign. Robert. Oh ! And what's that ? Gliserinski. Like zis ! [Business.] 30 THE CRIMSON C0C0ANUT ROBERT. And what do I do then ? Gliserinski. You say : " Haf you any cocoanuts ? " [Robert looks quite dumbfounded. Goes and drinks more soda. Robert. 'Ave you any wot f Gliserinski. Say : " Haf you any cocoanuts ? " Robert. But I don't want a cocoanut. Gliserinski. Ah, but I do — one cocoanut ! Robert. Oh ! [Reflectively.'] Feeling 'ungry, I sup- pose? Gliserinski. For zis cocoanut — yes ! Robert. Couldn't you get your friends to throw one down to you ? THE CRIMSON COCO A NUT 3 1 Gliserinski. Ahpbut zis is a special cocoanut. She will tell you all. It is for the cause. Liberty! Freedom! Down with all ze tyrants! [Goes up.] Farewell, at present ! I thank you von tousand times — [shakes both hands] my brozzer ! [Exit excitedly ', c. ROBERT. 'Ere, 'old on, ole man ! I'm not your brother. I don't live on cocoanuts. The idea ! [Goes to tube.] Cook, haf you got any cocoanuts? [Laughs.] Eh ? What 'ave you dropped this time ? The soup tureen ? Never mind ! Per- haps the governor won't notice. I don't know where he is. He's bin out all day. There's such a funny little cove just [Miter Madame Gliserinski, c. She is handsome and fierce-looking, and carries a bandbox. She crosses r., and taps Robert on the shoulder. He turns.] Oh, lor ! Another of 'em. [She gives him the sign. He gives the countersign. Business.] Beg your pardon, miss, but I 'ave a message for you. 'Ave you got any cocoa- nuts? Mme. Gliserinski. Ha ! [Looks around.] Sh ! [Takes him by the wrist and leads him down L.] I haf it here. [Shows bandbox. 32 THE CRIMSON COCOANUT EOBEET. It must be a big one. Mme. Gliserinski. No, but it has to be carefully packed, or else — whoof ! Kobert. [Aside.'] She's worse than the other one. [Aloud.] Won't you sit down, miss ? You'll feel better in a minute. 'Ave a milk-and-soda ? Mme. Gliserinski. [Tragically.] I cannot rest until the deed is done. Look ! [ Unfastens bandbox.] You see zat ? [Produces a cocoanut. KOBERT. I do. I suppose you got it on Bank 'Oliday. You're one of the lucky ones. Mme. Gliserinski. [Impressively.] Yat is dat ? KOBERT. Well, I should say it was a cocoanut. Mme. Gliserinski. No, no. It is imitation. Yat you call — arti- ficial ! THE CRIMSON COCOANUT 33 EOBERT. Oh, I see — made in Germany ! But I sup- pose you can eat it ? Mme. Gliserhstski. Eat ? No, no. [Impressively^ It is a bomb ! Eobert. [Smiling indulgently.'] Indeed? You sur- prise me. [Aside.] Balmy ! Mme. Gliserinski. You see zat small blue mark there ? [Points. Eobert. Yes. Mme. Gliserijstski. Zat is ze trigger. If you press that you set the clockwork in motion. It goes tick, tick, tick, inside; and in ten minutes exactly it goes whoof ! bang ! and where are you ? [Puts cocoanut bach in box. Eobert. That would depend on the life I'd led, miss. But I'm to give this to the gentleman when he comes back, am I ? [Takes box. 34 THE CRIMSON COCOANUT Mme. Gliserinski. Yes. But dere is one ting more. The com- position of zis bomb is a secret. But, when the machinery is set in motion, and the chemicals inside work out toward ze surface, ze cocoanut begins to turn a different color — pink ; and joost before the explosion it is bright crimson ! So if you should effer see it like dat, you will run away quick ! Kobert. I'll make a point of it, miss. Mme. Gliserinski. Now I go to seek my husband. I may do so now, for they will find nothing in my posses- sion if I am arrested. Meanwhile, you will keep zis safe. Farewell! You may kiss my 'and. [Robert takes her hand, and after briefly inspecting it, shakes it.] Farewell, my brother ! [Exit, c. EOBERT. Nice lot o' new relations I'm makin'. [Re- garding box.] Well, what am I to do with this, I wonder. I suppose the other loony will be back here in a minute. I wonder if he'll think it's a bomb too. [Laughs rather mourn- fully^ Very amusin' ! Oh r dear;-I~ , aven't 'ad THE CRIMSON COCOANUT 35 a 'earty laugh since Cook accepted me. I must tell 'er about this. [Goes R.] [Miter Pincher and Nancy, c. PlNCHER. Hallo, waiter ! Here we are again. What's amusing you ? And what's this ? [Slaps box with his stick. EOBERT. You've missed a treat, sir. I've just 'ad a visit from a pore lady what's weak in the 'ead — jackdaws in the clock-tower ! [Taps fore- head.] She gave me this box to keep for a friend of hers. I've seen what's inside. What do you think it is ? Nancy. A new hat. Robert. No, miss. You'd never guess. A cocoanut. Both. A cocoanut ? Robert. Yes. And the ridiculous part of it is that the poor creature thinks it is a bomb ! [Laughs mournfully and slaps box. 36 THE CRIMSON COCOANUT Both. A bomb ? [Pincher gets agitated. Eobert. Yes. She 'ad it all cut and dried, I assure you. If you pressed a certain mark at one end, the machinery would begin to tick; and in ten minutes the whole thing would blow to smithereens. [Laughs gently.] Yery humor- ous ! [Drops box.] Woa, Emma ! Pincher. Here, for goodness' sake be careful ! It may be a bomb after all. Eobert. Oh, dear no, sir. The poor lady was very bad. She 'ad another cock-and-bull story about it. Said that when the machinery inside started to tick the cocoanut would turn pink, and just before explodin' it would be bright crimson. Nancy. How ridiculous ! Eobert. Yes, isn't it, miss ? Oh, I 'ad a 'earty laugh, I assure you. [To Pincher, who is kneeling on the floor listening to the box.] What's the matter, sir ? THE CRIMSON COCOANUT 37 PlNCHER. I say, can you hear anything ? Robert. [Kneeling too.] Yes, sir ; it seems to me as if I could 'ear a kind of a tickin 1 noise, sir. Nancy. [Bending down and listening; screams^ Oh ! it's started ! [All regard each other with consternation. PlNCHER. Let's look at it H [They open the box hastily, and take out the cocoanut. It is quite pink. Tableau. Eobert. [Handing the cocoanut^ Here you are, sir. PlNCHER. No, no, it's yours. Nancy. [Getting up and running L.] It will explode in a minute. Throw it away ! PlNCHER. [Starting up.~] No, don't I It will blow up if you do. Come along, Nancy. Under the 38 THE CRIMSON COCOA NUT table — quick ! These things always explode upward. It's our only chance. [Pincher and Nancy dive under the table L. c. KOBERT. [ Who has gently placed the cocoanut on a wine-glass on table R. c, listening, quite calmly.'] It's still ticking, sir. 'Ow would it be if I dropped it in a bucket of water ? PlNCHER. [Putting his head out from under cloth.'] Eight. But hurry up ! Nancy. [Screaming.] Kun ! Eobert. [Going deliberately to tube.] Cook, send up a bucket of water, will you ? We've got a teetotaller just come in. What ? Too 'eavy ? Right — I'll come down for it. [To Pinch er.] I'll be back in a minute, sir. [Exit, R. PlNCHER. Here, I say, take it with you ! It's no good ; he's gone. [Pause. Pincher and Nancy jpeep from under table. the crimson cocoanut 39 Nancy. I wish he'd hurry up. Pincher. Don't be alarmed. If he started the ma- chinery that time he dropped the box, there are still three and a half minutes to go before the thing blows up. {Enter Mr. Jabstick, a, with new hat. Mr. Jabstick. [ Waving his hat.] I've got one, Nancy, I've ot one, I've got one ! Five and nine ! Now et's be off home. Hallo ! Where is every- body ? [Comes down and rings bell on table r. c] Waiter, waiter, waiter ! [Sees cocoanuf] Hallo, what on earth's this? [Inspects it through glasses, etc.~] I say, waiter PlNCHER. [Putting his head out.~\ I beg your pardon, sir, but are you bomb-proof ? Mr. Jabstick. What do you mean — bomb-proof ? And what on earth are you doing Nancy. Father, that's a bomb ! 40 THE CRIMSON COCOANUT PlNCHER. And it's timed to explode in [looks at watch'] a minute and a quarter ! [Me. Jabstick gives a wild yell, and dives under sofa L. Enter Robert, with bucket, R. Robert. 'Ere we are, sir. Anything 'appened? [Looks round.] No. It's got a bit redder, I think, sir. Mr. Jabstick, Nancy and Pincher. [Putting heads out, screaming."] Hurry up I Robert. Yessir ! [Puts cocoanut in bucket. There is soms fizzing and all is quiet.] There, it's dead now. We shall 'ave bomb glace on the menu to-morrow, I can see. Excuse me. [Puts bucket into lift, then talks down tube with back turned. Nancy and Pincher emerge, and help Mr. Jab- STiCK/n?m under sofa, and brush him down, etc. Mr. Jabstick. Now, what's all this about, eh ? Ntr non- sense, no nonsense, no nonsense ! What is it ? THE CRIMSON COCOANUT 41 PlNCHER. [To Nancy.] Here, you explain. I have too much to do. [Nancy takes Mr. Jabstick up stage. Crosses R. to Kobert.] Now, you say these people are coming back ? Robert. [Putting down tube.] One of 'em for certain — probably both, sir. PlNCHER. When? Kobert. Immediately, sir. PlNCHER. Then I have no time to lose. I must run and get the police. If we catch them it will be worth a thousand pounds to you and me. Kobert. A thousand pounds ? PlNCHER. Yes. That is the reward for their arrest and the discovery of the bomb. Now if they come back here to fetch it, can you keep them till I come back with the police ? 42 THE CRIMSON COCOANUT KOBEET. I'll keep them here, sir, if I have to poison 'em. PlNCHER. Eight. {Going. EOBERT. But I don't want 'em arrested in here, sir. You see, the breakages all go down to me. I'll tell you what. Let 'em come in and get the bomb, and you and your pals wait outside and catch 'em as they come out. PlNCHER. But suppose they won't come out ? Eobert. {Knowingly^ I'll see to that, sir ! {Exit PlNCHER. Mr. Jabstick. Waiter ! Kobert. Yessir ! Mr. Jabstick. I want my bill. Eobert. Certainly, sir. {Produces bill-check and THE CRIMSON COCOANUT 43 writes.] " Chops, two shillings ; greens, four- pence ; two glasses o' claret, eightpence " Mr. Jabstick. But there was a fly in one glass - — Robert. We don't charge for extras, sir. "Bread, twopence ; attendance, sixpence ; soda water, threepence ; " total, four and seven, sir. [Hands bill. Mr. Jabstick. [After inspecting bill.'] Try again ! Robert. Very good, sir. [Takes bill and counts dishes on table.] I'm sure I beg your pardon, sir. My mistake! I thought I'd forgotten some- thing. [Picks potato dish from off chair and writes.] " Potatoes, fourpence." Mr Jabstick. [Snatching menu.~\ Now I've got you ! Thief, ruffian, swindler ! Look ! [Points.] Baked potatoes, twopence ! Robert. Yes, sir; but remember you sat on 'em. [Points.] Mashed potatoes, fourpence ! [Enter Nitro Gliserinski and Mme. Gliserinski, c. 44 THE CRIMSON COCOANUT KOBERT. [To Mr. Jabstick.] Sit down a minute, if you want to see some fun. [Mr. Jabstick sits, with back to audi- ence, at table L. c. , Nancy beside him. They pretend to eat bread, etc. Gliserinski. [To Eobert, in a whisper.'] Ah, my broz- zer ! Is all well ? Kobert. Oh, yes, all's well, thank you ! Mme. Gliserinski. You 'ave it safe. Kobert. Quite safe, thank you, mum. 'Opin' you are the same. Now sit down and 'ave a bit of dinner. [He guides them to the table R. c. They sit r. and L.] I've bin k'eepin' the Shepherd's Pie 'ot for you on purpose. [Slaps table with napkin. Brings bread from other table, etc. The Gliserinskis gaze round eagerly ?\ There ! 'Ave a bit of bread to go on with. [ Goes R. to tube.] Cook, soup for two ! Gliserinski. Is all well, do you think ? THE CRIMSON COCOANUT 45 Mme. Gliserinski. Yes, I think so. I wonder where he has put it. Gliserinski. In a safe place, I am sure. The chief said he was a most trustworthy fellow. Mme. Gliserinski. [Rapturously.] Ah, Mtro, think of to-mor- row ! Gliserinski. [Fervently.'] Ah, dear wife, to-morrow ! To- morrow the Bank of England will be in Robert. The soup! [Puts tureen on table.] 'Ave some pepper with it. [Gets cruet from other table, sprinkling Mr. Jabstick as he does so. Glis- erinski serves the soup. Gliserinski. Waiter, some wine ! Robert. Yes, sir. Crimson wine, sir ? Gliserinski and Mme. Gliserinski. [Together.] Eh ? 46 THE CRIMSON COCOANUT ROBERT. I mean — red wine, sir ? Gliserinski. Yes. [Robert pours out two glasses, and takes away soup plates. lie then goes to the door, c, and waves. He brings the plates for the next course. Robert. You'll enjoy the next dish, sir. It's some- thing rather out of the way. {Goes L. and brings covered dish. Gliserinski. {Sipping wine.'] My dear wife, a toast ! Mme. Gliserinski. I think I know it. It is — Gliserinski. {Raising glass.] The Crimson Cocoanut ! Mme. Gliserinski. {Raising hers.] The Crimson Cocoanut ! Robert. {Putting down a dish between them -and whip- ping off the cover.] The Crimson Cocoanut ! {The cocoanut is lying on the dish. It THE CRIMSON COCOANUT 47 is quite crimson. The other two stare at it for a moment, petrified, and then leap to their feet. Mme. Gliserinski. [Shrieking.] A-a-a-ah ! Gliserinski. It's bright red ! Save yourselfs ! [Both rush out, c. Crash, and shouting outside. Enter Pincher. Nancy. [Jumping up.] Have you got them ? Pincher. Yes, quite safe. [Shakes hands with Nancy and Mr. Jabstick. Kobert is at the lift. Pincher takes off nose.] And now, Mr. Jab- stick, I can afford to come out of my shell. Do you know me ? Mr. Jabstick. Bless my soul — Jack Pincher! What on earth, what on earth, what on earth! — oh, I see. Mr. Pincher, did you put on that idiotic thing in the pursuit of your profession, sir, or in the pursuit of my daughter — eh ? Pincher. Well, sir, perhaps it was a little of both. But I shall get five hundred pounds reward out 48 THE CRIMSON COCOANUT of this job. That will do to start housekeeping on. Will you give your consent ? Nancy. Yes, daddy, do give your consent ! Mr. Jabstick. Well, I'll think it over. But I thought you said the reward was a thousand pounds. PlNCHER. So it is. But five hundred of it must go to our friend here. [Slaps Kobert on the back. Kobert. What— five 'undred ? Me? Sure? Pincher. Certain. Kobert. [Picking up newspaper.'] "Immediate pos- session — good-will and fixtures — five hundred pounds down ! " [Bushes to tube.] Cook ! Are you there ? Yes. Got any crockery left ? Put it all in the middle of the floor and/^w^ on it ! [Listens.] That's right ! Go on ! I'll pay for it ! Five hundred pounds ! Good old cocoanut ! CURTAIN A Late Delivery A Little Play in Three Episodes A Late Delivery CHARACTERS Bill Aymer. Mr. Grice. Tim Rendle. Mrs. Grice. Marjorie. A Late Delivery SCENE. — The dining-room of Aymee's flat. There is a doorway in the centre of the back wall, with a bookcase at the right and a sideboard at the left of it. At the left of the stage, toward the back, is a table with a chair on either side of it. There is a fireplace down at the right with a sofa just above it, and op- posite it, at the extreme left of the stage, another table. Bill Aymer and Tim Kekdle have been dining together, and are sitting over their wine. Bill is thirty-five or so. He is a typical bachelor of the best sort, a kindly man of the world, slightly reserved in manner, with a strong sense of humor and its inevita- v ble accompaniment of slight melancholy. TlM is young, not much over twenty-one, overflow- ing with the joy of youth, hopelessly senti- mental and impulsive. However, he is most elastic in his recovery from the numerous dis- asters in which these attributes constantly in- 51 5 2 A LATE DELIVERY volve him. He is an entirely charming youths quite unspoiled by the possession of more than his fair share of popularity among friends of both sexes. BILL is wearing a dinner-jacket and black tie ; TlM is immaculately attired, with white tie, white waist-coat, etc. Both are smoking; TlM a cigarette. Bill a pipe. Tim. [r. of table.'] I say, Bill, pretty sound port, this — what ? Bill. [r. of table, without moving.'] Have some more. Tim. I thank you : that was the situation I was en- deavoring to lead up to. [Reaching across for the decanter, which is at Bill's elbow.] As you are so insistent, I will take just half a spot more before I go. [Helps himself] Chin, chin, old thing ! [Drinks. Bill grunts and continues to sit facing the audience, puffing at his pipe. Presently Tim puts down his glass, and rises, going toward fireplace r.] I will now pull my- self together and pass away quietly. Bill. [Still without moving.] Needn't go yet. A LATE DELIVERY 53 Tim. Despite your frenzied entreaties, old son, I must do a bunk. There is wild work before me this night, f Standing with his hack to the fire, he produces white gloves, and proceeds to try them on.] I say, Bill — ever fallen in love ? Bill. Occasionally. Tim. [Interested.] Aha ! Recently ? Bill. Not of late years. Tim. You began young, then ? Bill. The usual age. Tim. When was that ? Bill. My first children's party. Tim. I know. White socks, blue sash — eh ? Bill. Correct. 54 A LATE DELIVERY Tim. But I suppose that affair never came to much ? Bill. No. She overdid things. Tim. Who? Bill. The lady. Tim. How ? Bill. Trifle at supper. She had to be taken home early, and we never met again. Tim. But, bar rotting, when did your first serious attack take place ? Bill. About your age. Tim. [Surprised.'] Not till then? You must have been a bit of a slow goer. Bill. Think so ? A LATE DELIVERY 55 Tim. [Not noticing the sarcasm of this remark.] Rather! Why, my lad, supposing I were to tell you — — [He is obviously bursting with some secret of his own, but restrains himself with an effort.] But I want some details of your performances. Did you do it well, that sort of thing ? Bill. I used to think so at the time. Tim. Tell me about your first — er — escape. There have been escapes, I presume, or you wouldn't now be an old and crusted bachelor. Bill. [Grimly.] There have been escapes — on both sides. [Helps himself to port. Tim. Don't talk rot of that kind, Bill! [With frank admiration^] Any woman would be proud to marry you. Fool if she didn't ! Bill. Thank you very much for this entirely unso- licited testimonial. I catches your eye ! [Drinks. 56 A LATE DELIVERY Tim. Well, let us get back to the point. I want to hear about Number One — Number Two, if we count the lady who stuck at trifle. Bill. It occurred at a bicycle picnic, by moonlight. The picnic was given by a lady who possessed seven daughters, mostly plain. After supper the least plain one and I strayed into a church- yard close by. There we sat down on a tomb- stone. She remarked that she was afraid of ghosts. Tim. [Pointing an accusing finger •.] So you took her hand ! Bill. I am not quite sure. I have a kind of idea she took mine. Anyhow the junction was effected. Tim. What happened next ? Bill. A dark shadow rose before us Tim. The ghost, I presume. A LATE DELIVERY $7 Bill. !No — worse ! The girl's mother ! Tim. [Delightedly.] And what did mother say ? Bill. She said: ""Well, young people, have you anything to tell me ? " Tim. [Dropping onto the sofa and fanning him- self; faintly.] Go on, go on ! And what did you say ? Bill. I said : "I think my back tire wants blowing up. I'll go and do it now." And I did ! I had a very lonely ride home, though. Tim. [After a pause.] Had anymore experiences, Bill. None that I care to talk about, thanks. [Puts down his pipe, gets up, and comes over to the fireplace. Looking down on Tim.] And now, my son Timothy, get it off your chest ! Tim. [Staring.] Get what off my chest ? 58 A LATE DELIVERY Bill. This great secret of yours. Who is she? When do the banns go up — eh ? Tim. Great Scott ! It must be written all over me if you can spot it. Well, I plead guilty. But I haven't asked her yet. The fact is, I intend to do the big thing this very night. [Gets up and walks about. Bill. To-night? [Looks at his watch.] Kather late, isn't it? Are you going to apply per- sonally, or by letter ? Tim. Write ? My sainted aunt, write ! My dear old antediluvian William, do you think I could go home and sit down and write to her on such a subject as that f Write, with a fountain pen, on Silurian paper at a shilling a packet ? Bill. [Calmly.] If it takes you that way, why not use cream-laid note and a gold nib ? Tim. [Angrily.] Bah ! A LATE DELIVERY 59 Bill. Or a typewriter, with the loud pedal on and all the stops out ? Tim. [ Who is in no mood for this sort of thing.] Oh, dry up, man, dry up ! Do you think I could get all I have to say to her into the limits of an ordinary letter ? Bill. Under the present regulations you can send four ounces for a penny. In fact, if you leave the ends open Tim. [Piteously.] Bill, old man, don't pull my leg about it ! You don't know what a fellow feels like when he is in love. [Begins to put on his coat and muffler. Bill. All right. Sorry ! But seriously, a letter has its points. I understand that verbal pro- posals are inclined to be incoherent. If you do it by post, the lady does know what you are driving at, anyhow. I once knew a man who went off to propose marriage to the girl of his choice in a speech which was at once a model of lucidity and passion. 60 A LATE DELIVERY Tim. [Sharply.] How do you know ? Bill He tried most of it on me before he started. Well, something went wrong with the mech- anism. When he departed after the interview, he left the lady struggling to decide whether she had been invited to make one of a coop- erative cruising party to a distant island, not specified, or to play the leading part in private theatricals. He had mixed his metaphors a bit, you see. Now if he had written it all down in a letter, she would probably have got the hang of it after the third reading. No, Tim, the post-office may be dull, but it is safe. Tim. [Who has been patiently smoking a cigarette^ No post-office for me, my lad ! I am going to bring it off by means of a personal interview. I am going to let her have it hot and strong ! I am going to carry her off her feet ! {Suddenly descending to details^ The devil of it is, it's so difficult to chip in at the right moment. One can't very well get to work while shaking hands. There must be just a little preliminary chit-chat, don't you know. \Angrily.~\ But the conversation goes and settles down to some- thing entirely removed from the matter in A LATE DELIVERY 6l hand ; and before you can get your oar in, the next dance strikes up, or somebody interrupts you, or else it is time to go home. And there you are, once more out in the cold street, kick- ing yourself for being backward ! But, my no- ble friend, I am going to do it to-night ! [At the door.] Give me five minutes in the Free- born's conservatory between two waltzes, and [with great emphasis] she has simply got to have it ! Good-night ! [Exit, waving his hat. Bill. Good-night, Tim. Good luck! [He rings the bell. A pause. Enter Mrs. Grice, l. She is an elderly woman in a black bonnet. Mrs. Grice. 'Ave you rang the bell, sir ? Bill. Yes, Mrs. Grice. Will you clear away, please ? I want that table— to write a letter at. [Turns and fills a fresh pipe. Mrs. Grice. Yes, sir. [Going to door l.] Grice ! Grice. [Outside.] Comin', Emmer ! 62 A LATE DELIVERY [lie enters, struggling into his coat. As they clear the table, Bill turns and surveys them. Finally : Bill. Mrs. Grice, when you received your hus- band's proposal of marriage, was it by letter or by word of mouth ? Mks. Grice. [ Who is quite accustomed to her employer's ways; calmly.] Was you referrin' to Mr. Grice, or to my first 'usband, sir ? Grice. 'Ow should Mr. Aymer know you W a first 'usband, Emmer ? Mrs. Grice. Knowin' you as 'e does, Grice, Mr. Aymer would never dream of regardin' you as my first choice ! Bill. Let us say your first husband, Mrs. Grice. Mrs. Grice. [After consideration.] Well, sir, 'e did it by word of mouth. Leastways, not precisely. Partly by deputy, if you take my meaning, sir. A LATE DELIVERY 63 Bill. Not quite. Mrs. Grice. Well, sir, we'd been walkin' out for some time, and it didn't look like ever comin' to any- thing. So my brother George, 'e took the mat- ter up. [Fairly launched.] George was a brewer's drayman. There was eleven of us al- together Grice. [Tugging at her sleeve.'] Not so much of it ! Get back to your first ! Mrs. Grice. Well, sir, George told me to tell 'Erbert — that was 'is name : Grice's name, as you know, bein' Albert Grice. [Despairingly.] Keep to the point, keep to the point ! Mrs. Grice. [Continuing.] George told me to tell 'Er- bert that if 'im and me wasn't married inside o' four weeks, George would come along and push 'Erbert's face in for 'im. I told 'Erbert, and we was married that day three weeks, sir. That's 64 A LATE DELIVERY what I meant when I said my courtin' was done by deputy, sir. Bill. I see. George was the deputy. Mes. Grice. {Folding the table-cloth with Grice.] Yes, sir. Bill. Grice, when you asked the future Mrs. Grice to marry you, how did you go about it ? Grice. {Respectfully P\ Was you referrin' to this Mrs. Grice, sir, or to my first wife ? Bill. {Resignedly^ Let us say this Mrs. Grice. Grice. {Transferring lamp, decanter, glasses, etc., from the sideboard to the table.'] I met 'er at a birthday party at my late first's married sis- ter's, sir. I gave 'er a motter out of a cracker, which seemed to me to sum up what I wanted to say in a very convenient fashion, sir. Bill. What was the motto, Grice ? A LATE DELIVERY 65 Grice. It said " If you love me as I love you, Well, let's begin to bill and coo l ff sir. Bill. And what did you say to that, Mrs. Grice ? Mrs. Grice. I told him to stop being a silly old man, sir. Bill. And did he ? Mrs. Grice. No, sir [with a simper], 'e would 'ave me ! [Taking up the tray.] Will there be anything further, sir ? Bill. No, thank you. Mrs. Grice. Good-night, sir. Bill. Good-night, Mrs. Grice. Grice. Good-night, sir. 66 A LATE DELIVERY Bill. Good-night, Grice. [They both go out L., leaving the lamp on the table, with decanter, glasses, siphon, and cigar-box. Bill lights his pipe and pours himself out a drink, then he picks up a leather writing-case and inkstand from the bookcase, and places them on the table. He draws up a chair B. of table, and takes an unfinished letter out of the writing-case.] We all have our way of doing tilings. Timmy's is a personal interview in the conservatory at a ball. Mr. Grice's is a motto out of a cracker. Mrs. Grice's is a big brother. Mine's a letter. I'll finish this and go out and post it before I retire to bed. [Takes a sip from his glass and squares himself to the task of writing.] She'll get it in the morning. [Slow curtain, which rises again after a few moments. An hour has elapsed. Bill is discovered folding up a bulky letter. Bill. I think the occasion calls for sealing-wax. [He seals the letter.] Now for a stamp ! [He stamps it.] Less than four ounces, I think — but not much ! Now I must go out and post it. [Addressing the letter thoughtfully.] My friend, I wish I could post myself along with you, and witness your reception. I don't know, though. Rather a shock for the poor girl to A LATE DELIVERY 67 find me lying on her plate at breakfast, with a red seal in the small of my back and a postage stamp in my left eye ! I wonder how she will take it. I wonder! [Musing.] I — wonder! [More cheerfully.] I wonder how that young ass Tim is getting on. I expect he has his charmer rounded up into the conservatory by this time. I wonder who she is. An ex-flapper of some kind, I suppose. I wonder if he has carried her off her feet yet ! They are both in the clouds together by this time, I fancy. At that age it's a simple business. Start the engine, join hands, and off you go ! I wonder why people in Tim's condition always come and badger me with their love affairs. I wonder ! I'm doing a lot of wondering to-night. [Begins to whistle absently, as he puts writing materials together."] What am I whistling? It is the tune she used to whistle as she hammered on my door when she brought my meals up to me that time I was ill. She never whistled any- thing else. I spoke to her about it at last. Fat lot of good that was ! How did it go ? Tum-ti-tum-ti-tiddley-um, tum-ti-tum-ti-ti-ti. [He whistles it. There is an echo of the same tune in the passage outside, followed by a rat-tat-tat, as the tune is played on a "knocker. Bill starts excitedly to his feet, and Makjorie appears in the doorway. She is in a ball dress, and is wearing an evening wrap. She is a very pretty 68 A LATE DELIVERY girl of about twenty, with rather thoughtful eyes. She speaks in a melodious drawl, and is evidently not the sort of ymcng person who would allow herself to be u carried off her feet" however greatly she might appreciate the efforts of the would-be carrier. .] Marjorie ! [Mar- jorie smiles disarmingly, and performs an obeisance, d la Geisha.'] What on earth are you doing here ? Marjorie. [ With a seraphic smile.] I came to see you, Bill dear. Bill. [ With attempted sternness.] Marjorie, this is most reprehensible. Marjorie. Yes, isn't it ? May I sit down ? The door of your flat was on the jar, Bill. Your last visitor must have left it open. Very careless ! [By this time she has taken off her wrap and sat down on the sofa. She now looks round, chattering all the time.] What snug rooms you have. But very untidy. Look at those books — all anyhow. And your mantelpiece. Perfectly tragic ! [Rising, and running her finger along the edge.] Look ! Filthy ! [Holds up her finger. The tip of her glove is all black. A LATE DELIVERY 69 Bill. [Drily. 1 I apologize. You have dropped in just before dusting day. Very unfortunate ! Marjorie. [Still inspecting the mantelpiece.'] And these pipes ! You ought to put them out of sight, you know, really ! Then you could have a row of photographs of fair ladies instead. Bill. Afraid I don't know any. Marjorie. [Freezingly.] Tk-deed ! I have an idea that I presented you with my portrait once. Bill. I apologize again. I spoke in haste. Here is yours. [Points to a photo on small table L. Marjorie. H'm ! On a side-table ! I suppose this space in the middle of the mantelpiece is reserved. Bill. Reserved — what for ? Marjorie. Whose photograph does a man eventually plant in the middle of his mantelpiece ? Hasn't she come along yet ? You must hustle a bit, yo A LATE DELIVERY Bill. You are getting on, you know. Don't get left on the shelf ! [Sits down again on the sofa. Bill crosses R. and stands with his bach to the fire, looking down on her. Bill. Marjorie, would it be presumptuous on my part to enquire why you have honored me with a visit at this time of night ? Marjorie. Bill, I want to tell you something, and I want to ask your advice. In the first place, I have just had a proposal. Bill. [After an almost imperceptible start.] "Where ? When ? Marjorie. [Readily.] On the top flight of stairs at the Freeborn's dance, about three-quarters of an hour ago. Bill. [Involuntarily.] Not in the conservatory ? Marjorie. [Surprised.] Conservatory ? No. Why ? Bill. [Lamely.] I — I had a kind of notion that A LATE DELIVERY yi these events always came off in the conserva- tory. You know — Chinese lanterns, azaleas in tubs, distant music, a drip of water down your neck ! Well, w T as it a good proposal ? Maejoeie. Fair to middling, I should say. Bill. Didn't — didn't he carry you off your feet ? Maejoeie. No. I maintained my equilibrium. It's a way I have. But you mustn't think I didn't enjoy the proposal. It was lovely. Still, I dare say I am not very critical, you know, my experience being limited. It was the first one I ever had. Bill. And probably the first he ever attempted. Maejoeie. Who? Bill. Timmy. Maejoeie. [Quite calmly.] How very upsetting of you to guess, Bill. I wanted it to be a surprise. How did you know ? 72 A LATE DELIVERY Bill. Master Tim was in here an hour or two ago, bound for the Freeborn's dance, and obviously on the war-path. But I never dreamt you were the objective. So that is what you came to tell me — eh ? [Crosses to tcible. Marjorie. Not altogether. Bill — [she rises and stands before him with folded hands / he sits on the corner of the table] it's a big thing for a girl to have to decide on a plunge like this — the big- gest thing she ever does. If she has no mother, and no brothers and sisters, and — and a father like my father — it becomes a bigger thing than ever. It rather — it rather frightens her at times. Her only course, then, is to pick out the whitest man she knows, and ask him to advise her. [Sedately.'] That's why I am here. Bill. Why not ask a woman to advise you ? Marjorie. Because women are such born match-makers ! If you go to a woman and confide to her that you are wobbling on the brink of matrimony, she won't advise you. In nine cases out of ten she just slips behind you and pushes you in ! No, I must have a man^ Bill, and I have picked you, first of all, because you are the best sort I A LATE DELIVERY 73 know, and secondly because you have seen a good deal of life, and thirdly because you are absolutely unbiased. Now, Bill [turns and walks slowly R. to the fire, then turns and faces him again], you know me, and you know Tim. Shall I marry him ? [A long pause. Bill. May I ask you a few old-fashioned and ob- vious questions ? Do you — care for him ? Marjorie. [Standing with her hack to him, fingerimg the mantel-border.] Well, he's rather a dear, you know. . . . And I am fond of him. . . . But I don't quite know how much of it is the real thing and how much is gratitude. [Hesita- tingly.'] I think you know, Bill, that I have a pretty stiff time of it at home, sometimes Bill. [ With sudden vehemence.] Yes, I do know ! That is — go on ! Marjorie. I only got to the dance to-night by playing truant. I shall pay for it to-morrow, I fancy. Dad doesn't allow me many friends, so I don't get much society. You, for instance, have given up coming near us. 74 A LATE DELIVERY Bill. Marjorie, you know I had no other alterna- tive. Two years ago I came to spend a few days at your house. The evening I arrived I was taken ill with what turned out to be typhoid fever, and I couldn't be moved for weeks. I left as soon as the doctor would let me, but not before your papa had practically accused me of selecting his house to come and have a cheap attack of typhoid in. Marjoeie. I know. I apologize. But you know what Dad is. Bill. Your parent furthermore added Maejorie. Yes. I know what he added. I overheard him. He shouts, rather, when he is making a point. And of course you couldn't answer back, poor thing ! \In a more cheerful tone.] The fact is, the old gentleman took a sort of dislike to you the first time he found me washing your face. After all, somebody had to do it. Still, the long and short of it is, Bill, that you don't come about the house any more. Tim does, though. Apparently Dad regards him as harm- less. Tim has been very kind to me, and, as I say, I am grateful. A LATE DELIVERY 7$ Bill. And you are thinking of marrying him ? Marjorie. [Frankly.] Yes, I am. The next question, please ! You said " a few." Bill. You are sure he loves you ? Marjorie. Well, from the way he went on on the top step, I should call him a pretty severe case. Bill. Where is he now ? Marjorie. I left him at the ball. He was particularly anxious to have a farewell waltz with a certain girl. You see, he is by way of burning his boats to-night. Bill. Who is the lady ? Marjorie. Hilda Smithson. He told me all about her. She is one of the only other girls he ever loved. I gather that she is practically the pick of the " also rans." I told him he could have half an 76 A LATE DELIVERY hour to close his account with her, and then he could come along here and call for me. Now, Bill, shall I ? Bill. He has plenty of money, I know. ... I want to ask one more question, Marjorie. I feel infernally grandfatherly, but after all, there is no going back on these things, once they are done. [Hesitatingly. ,] Are you — are you quite sure there is nobody else ? Maejorie. How can there be anybody else ? You and Tim are the only two men I know — really well, that is. [Coming closer.] I — I'll go by your advice, Bill. Be a big brother for a minute, and tell me what to do. Shall I marry him ? May I marry him ? I'm rather lonely, some- times. [A silence. They are standing face to face. Bill. [Suddenly.'] Yes — marry him ! And I'll come and be best man. [Briskly.'] Now if you will sit down and warm your toes at the tire for a few minutes I will go out and get you a cab. There's a thick fog, and I doubt if Master Timothy will ever find his way here. I suppose I can't offer you a whiskey and soda ? A LATE DELIVERY 77 Makjorie. [Sitting on the sofa.] I'll take some soda- water, please. [Bill draws some from the siphon and hands it to her.'] You are a good sort, Bill. You ought to marry some day. You are wasted at present. And when you pick your wife, let me see her first, and I'll take care you aren't imposed on. Bill. [Putting on coat.] Hansom or fourwheeler — presuming I can get either ? Makjorie. I'm not particular. You had better be quick though, because I am going to explore your room and examine all your treasures. [But Bill has hurried out by this time. Presently Mar J OKIE gets up and begins a tour of the room.] I don't think much of Bill's taste in art [examining photographs], or his friends ! [Coming to bookcase.] But he has some nice books. [Crosses to table and puts down empty glass.] Hallo, he has forgotten to post a letter. I wonder if it's imp [Her eye suddenly falls upon the name and address on the enve- lope. She picks it %ip and reflects^] "Hard Case Number One Hundred and something. A, a young spinster, casually visiting the dwell- ing of B, a bachelor acquaintance, finds upon 78 A LATE DELIVERY the table a letter in B's handwriting addressed to herself and stamped for post. What should A do ? Answer adjudged correct : — Leave the letter alone and receive it at breakfast-time next morning. Answer adjudged incorrect : — Open the letter and read it at once." [Smil- ing ingenuously.'] A opens the letter at once ! [Does so.~] I will salve my conscience by pick- ing off the stamp and saving him a penny. [Does so.'] I'm afraid I never did have the instincts of a real lady. [Unfolds the letter; it consists of several sheets.'] What a screed ! What can [Glances hastily at the end.~\ Oh ! . . . Oh ! . . . [She sits down at the table in the light of the lamp and reads the letter through. Sometimes she reads in silence ; sometimes she reads passages aloud, with com- ments of her own, as follows?] " This is the letter of a man who suffers from an impediment in his speech." (I've never noticed it !) " The affliction is not chronic, but recurs whenever the sufferer finds himself called upon to talk about things that really matter. Hence pen and ink ! I have tried the other way twice." (Has he ? It's the first Pve heard of it.) " On the first occasion I was incoherent, on the second speech- less. Once was in a hansom, taking you home from tea at Rumpelmayer's. We had met by accident at the Queen's Hall. At least, you thought it was by accident. The second time A LATE DELIVERY 79 was when I came to your house one afternoon a few months ago, to call. You had been cry- ing. I suppose your father had been unkind to you again. Not that you showed it, but I hap- pened to sit down in the same armchair with your handkerchief, which was soaking. [Her voice trembles between tears and laughter.] If necessary, I can produce the handkerchief as evidence." Dear Bill ! . . . " But I must tell you how it all began. It was a long time ago." I wonder why men always want to go back to the year One when they propose. Tim did it too. I suppose they want to show what a respectable and long-lived affection it has always been. "Established 1843" — that sort of thing. [Meads on in silence / then.] . . . " Do you remember the days when I lay ill in your house in the country ? " (I do, my boy ! Dad thought you were doing it on purpose, although I kept on explaining that typhoid fever could not be simulated.) ..." And the little tune you used to whistle when you rattled on my door at meal-times." (Yes, I remember that too. I did it to drown Dad, enquiring after your health from the foot of the staircase!) . . . [Turns over.] But what is this ? . . . Oh, Bill, this is very good ! . . . Bill, you're a man ! [She reads on and on.] . . . Oh, Bill dear, I never knew all this, I never knew ! [She finishes the letter. 80 A LATE DELIVERY folds it up very slowly and gently, and then sits leaning forward with her elbows on the table, gazing straight before her.] [Slow curtain, which rises again after one minute, denoting a lapse of a quar- ter of an hour. Marjorie is busily writing at the place recently occupied by Bill for the same purpose. Pres- ently Tim appears in the doorway. He stands gazing affectionately on Mar- jorie /w a moment, then quietly re- moves his overcoat and muffler. He is stealing across the room in the direc- tion of her chair. Marjorie. [ Without looking up.] That you, Timmy ? Tim. [Reaching her chair and putting his hands on the back.] Yes — dearest ! Marjorie. Don't bother me at present. I'm rather busy. [Blots pjage and turns it over. Tim. [Rather taken aback.] But, darling, I Marjorie. Trot along to the mantelpiece and help your- self to a cigarette, there's a good child. A LATE DELIVERY 8 1 Tim. [In a slightly injured tone.] Marjorie, I don't think that is quite the way for a girl to address her fiance. Marjorie. Her what ? Tim. Her — dash it all, Marjorie, don't be a little pig! Here I come hareing along from the dance in search of you, as full of beans as a — as a— as a Marjorie. [Helpfully.] Bean-pod ? Tim. [Shouting.] No ! Yes ! All right — bean- pod if you like ! Well, here I come, and you greet me as if I were — your solicitor ! Marjorie. [Gently.] I should never dream of address- ing my solicitor as " Timmy," Timmy. Tim. Well, you know what I mean. Just think — we have both been passing through the greatest crisis of our lives — the most thrilling moment of our joint existence 82 A LATE DELIVERY MARJORIE. [In simple wonder. ~\ Have we ? I had no idea. Tim. [Angrily striding about the room.'] Marjorie, what does all this mean ? Let us understand one another clearly ! Marjorie. [Putting the letter into an envelope and de- claiming theatrically.] " Tush ! " cried the Marquis, pacing the floor of the bijou boudoir like a caged lion. [Tim utters an exclamation, whirls round upon his heel, and drops on to the sofa.] Then, with a superb ejaculation of con- tempt, he turned upon his heel and flung him- self into the depths of an abysmal divan [Breaking off.] Careful, Timmy ! I heard the sofa crack. Tim. {In an extremely indignant voice.] Marjorie, I suppose you know you are breaking my heart. Also destroying my faith in women. Mere de- tails, of course, but possibly they may interest you! Marjorie. Have I ? [ With a sudden change of manner.] A LATE DELIVERY 83 I'm sorry — there ! Tim, I — I have been think- ing things over [Addresses the envelope and blots it. Tim. And you have come to the conclusion you don't love me. That's a woman all over. An hour and a half has done the trick in your case [Looking at his watch indignantly. Marjorie. [^Rising, leaving the letter on the table.] I wasn't going to say anything of the kind, Tim, dear. [Tim softens instantly. Marjorie comes R. and stands facing him, fingering his coat. Then, gently.'] Tim, do you think a man like you ought to marry at your age ? What lovely waist-coat buttons ! Tim. Don't treat me like a child, please. You think I am too young ? Marjorie. [Deliberately.'] I wasn't thinking of you at the moment. Tim. [Cross again.] Oh— yourself ! I see. 84 A LATE DELIVERY Marjokik. [Patiently. .] No : something bigger. I was thinking — well, of the nation at large. Tim. [Entirely puzzled, but not displeased.] Mar- jorie, what are you talking about ? Marjorie. Well, it's this way. Many a man of promise has spoiled his career by marrying too young. You are a man of promise, Tim. Tim. [Much inflated.] Oh, rot ! Marjorie. If you married now you would settle down as a contented domesticated husband, when all the time you ought to be working and fighting and becoming famous Tim. [Taking fire .] By Jove ! Marjorie. and growing great and glorious ! Would you sacrifice all that, Tim ? Tim. But you would help me, Marjorie. You wouldn't be in the way a bit, really ! A LATE DELIVERY 85 Marjorie. [Gratefully.] You do say kind things tome, Tim. But it would never do, really. Even a man of your great talents would find it hard to get on without friends and influence ; and very young married men have few friends and less influence, Tim. They are back numbers. No- body wants them. It's the rising young bach- elors who go everywhere, and are able to com- mand interest and popularity and fame. I should be a dreadful drag. [As Tim draws in his breatli to make some gallant interjection.] How beautifully you tie white ties, Tim ! No, I think you must establish yourself in the pub- lic eye "before you settle down. Don't you agree ? [ Turns- and walks slowly L. Tim. [Wavei^ing.] There's a good deal in what you say, Marjorie. Look here ! [ With sudden inspiration.] Supposing we got married in five years' time ? Marjorie. It would be a very difficult five years for you, Tim. Imagine yourself going about this big world, meeting all sorts of famous and influen- tial people, and growing more and more famous and influential yourself. Girls would be falling in love with you 86 A LATE DELIVERY Tim. [Much confused.] Oh, I say Marjorie. and all the time you would be unable to give them any encouragement, because you felt bound to come at the end of five years and marry me — and take in Dad as a parlor- boarder ! Tim. [Aghast] Your father ! D-do you think he would want to come and live with us ? Marjorie. [Serenely.] It's possible. You never know. [Turns and walks up stage. Tim. [Desperately.] I must think! [He thinks, furiously. Marjorie occupies herself in tidy- ing the uniting materials on the table. Pres- ently.] Marjorie, you have a sense of proportion quite unusual in your sex. You are the most far-sighted woman I have ever known. Marjorie. I believe I am. Tim. And the most unselfish. A LATE DELIVERY 8/ Marjorie. I'm not so sure of that. Tim. What you say about my making a career, and all that — well, there's something in it, you know, there's something in it ! [ With sudden enthusiasm.'] Gad, I rather see myself in Par- liament, letting those old chaps have it in the neck — what ? And I see that you are perfectly right about my not tying myself down by an early marriage. I consider it a jolly sporting and unselfish view to take. Still, I mustn't allow you to suffer. [Takes her hands.] Look here, Marjorie, if I come to you in five years, and ask you to marry me, will you ? Marjorie. Yes Tim. Cheers ! Marjorie. On one condition. Tim. And that is Marjorie. That neither of us has married any one else in the meantime. 88 A LATE DELIVERY Tim. You can set your mind at rest on that point, Marjorie. I'll stick to you. Then it's a deal ? [Marjorie nods.] I say, Marjorie, I should — like to kiss you ! {Drawing her closer. Marjorie. [Calmly.'] I think we said five years, not five seconds. [Slips away from him and goes L.] Now, Tim, you trot off to your ball again ; it's quite early. Bill will take me home ; he has gone to get a cab for me now. You go and perform a similar service for Hilda Smithson. Tim. [Scornfully.] Oh, I say — come ! Hilda Smithson ! Marjorie. Why not? She is a very nice, pretty girl, and her father is a most influential man. Re- member you have got to spend the next five years getting to know influential people. Start on Hilda. If you hurry up you may be able to catch her for the last extra. Tim. You are right, Marjorie. You are always right. [Begins to put on his coat and muffler.] I believe you know what is best for me better than I do myself. A LATE DELIVERY 89 Marjorie. I shouldn't be surprised. Good-night, Thnmy. Tim. {Looking at his watch.] Good-night, Mar- jorie. [Exit, hastily. Marjorie. [Alone.] I give that child six months ! [Bill and Tim are heard talking and enter together. Bill. Just as well I caught you, Tim. I can't find a cab high or low, but of course you will take Marjorie home in yours. Marjorie. Tim is going back to the ball, Bill. He has one or two duty dances to work off. But I'll share his cab as far as the Freeborns' and then go on home in it. I shall be quite safe. Tim. Hurry up, then, Marjorie. I should look rather a mug if I got there to find the place shut — what ? Good-night, Bill, old son ! [lie goes out, putting on his white glov.es. Bill. [Hesitatingly.] Shall I come too, and act 90 A LATE DELIVERY as subsequent escort; or should I find myself a member of the ancient French family of DeTrop? Marjorie. {Putting on her cloak and wrap with his help.] You would never be de trop anywhere, Bill. But I am not going to drag you to South Kensington to-night. Bill. [Shaking hands.] Have you given him his answer ? Marjorie. Yes. Bill. Can I guess it ? Marjorie. I don't know. You might. It's an even chance, isn't it? Tim. [Loudly, from the front door.] Marjorie ! Marjorie. [Calling.] Coming, Tim ! Bill. Tim seems rather to have taken command of things, hasn't he ? A LATE DELIVERY 9 1 Marjorie. Think so ? He's only in a hurry, poor lamb. But I must fly. It's as well you came in when you did. [Picking up fan, gloves, etc.] Two minutes later and you would have found me gone. [Deliberately.] You seem to have a habit of running things rather line, Bill. Bill. Have I ? How ? Tim. [Outside.] Mar-jor-ie ! Marjorie. Heavens ! Good-night, Bill ! Bill. Good-night, Marjorie. Marjorie. [Turning in the doorway '.] Good-night — big brother ! [She goes out. Bill goes to the door- way and watches her down the passage. Then he turns and walks rather heavily down L. Marjorie suddenly reappears in the doorway^] I say, Bill. Bill. [Turning.] Hallo ! 92 A LATE DELIVERY Mar.i OKIE. Don't forget to post your letter. Ta-ta ! [She vanishes. Bill. [Looking first at the empty doorway, then at the audience, then toward the tabls.] Now what the devil did she mean by that ? [Advances toward the table, and suddenly sees that the letter there is not his J] A-a-ah ! [Snatches up the letter.] What's this on the back ? " P. S. I have saved you a stamp by reading your letter now. P. P. S. You will find the stamp on the inkstand." [After inspecting the stamp in a dazed fashion he opens the letter.] I wanted her never to know about this. [He sinks doion on the chair by the lamp and reads.] . . . " This is the letter of a girl without any impediments, either in her speech or in her manners. As I have nothing to do while you are cab-chasing, I will answer your letter now. Please turn over : I can't say it on this page. [Turns over.] Bill, old man . . ." . [Hereafter he reads on in rapt silence. His eyes open wider as the meaning of the letter dawns on him. His foot begins to beat exultantly, and he breaks into the little tune mentioned before. He lifts his head and gazes giddily round the room. Suddenly a thought strikes A LATE DELIVERY 93 him. He rises and picks Marj ORIE's photograph off the side-table. Holding it aloft, he marches across the room to the sound of his own tune, and sweeping everything off the mantelpiece with one movement of his arm, triumphantly plants the photograph in the very mid- dle, as the curtain falls. CURTAIN The Missing Card A Comedietta in One Act The Missing Card CHARACTERS Mrs. Millington, a widow. Sophy, her maid. Nicholas Bindle, a solicitor. Major Tuckle, retired. Time. — The present. SYNOPSIS Two elderly gentlemen, Mr. Bindle and Major Tuckle, arrive almost simultaneously in the drawing-room of Mrs. Millington, a young widow, each determined to propose to her. The lady is not at home, and the two gentle- men, on discovering one another's intentions, engage in a fierce dispute as to which is to with- draw. They finally decide to cut through a pack of cards, whoever draws the Queen of Hearts having the right to propose first. The game is interrupted by the arrival of Mrs. Mil- lington herself. She welcomes them as old friends, and, suspecting nothing, invites them to stay to tea. The plot, however, has been overheard by Mrs. Millington's maid, Sophy, and she takes the first opportunity of revealing it to her mistress. Mrs. Millington, more amused than angry, quietly removes the Queen of Hearts from the pack, and then invites the gentlemen to finish their game, whatever it may be, before tea. They comply, and their excite- ment as the pack diminishes and the Queen does not appear is only equaled by their dismay when they discover that the card is not in the pack at all. Mrs. Millington, who has been 97 98 THE MISSING CARD watching the struggle with keen relish, now coyly expresses a hope that it was not the Queen of Hearts they wanted, as she had abstracted it from the pack for a special purpose of her own, which she will reveal to them, " as you are such old friends of mine." The Vicar, she explains, has that afternoon asked her to become his " Queen of Hearts," and she has decided to ac- cept him. She has therefore just dispatched to him an envelope containing the card in ques- tion, as a token of acquiescence. She invites their congratulations. Mr. Bindle and the Major, admitting to each other that they have been a pair of " old fools," take their departure, consoling themselves with the reflection that Mrs. Millington " will never know " what their errand was that afternoon. The Missing Card SCENE. — Mrs. Millington's drawing-room, about three o'clock on a summer afternoon. At back, curtained entrance. L. U. E., door to conservatory. R. Citable; L. c, armchair; L., tea-table. R., table, with card-box. Foot- stool under table. Enter SOPHY, C, followed by BlNDLE. He is a middle-aged solicitor, with fresh complexion and gray whiskers. lie is immaculately dressed and obviously nervous. He puts down his hat and umbrella on table R. BlNDLE. You are sure Mrs. Millington will be in quite soon, Sophy ? Sophy. Yes, sir. She went out to luncheon at the vicarage, sir, at half -past one, but she men- tioned particularly that she would be home for tea. She'll be about a quarter of an hour, 1 should say. 99 IOO THE MISSING CARD BlNDLE. [In a rather deprecating manner.] Then I — ah — suppose there would be no harm in my awaiting her return — eh, Sophy ? Sophy. [Slightly surprised that he should ask per- mission^ Oh, dear no, sir. Will you please to take a seat [presenting chair'}, and I'll tell Mrs. Millington you're here the moment she comes in, sir. BlNDLE. Thank you, Sophy. [Sophy turns to go. He suddenly f tumbles in his pocket.] Er — Sophy ! Sophy. [Turning sharply, surprised at his tone.] Yes, sir ? BlNDLE. Er — ha — for you, Sophy ! [Suddenly hands her half a crown. Sophy. [Mystified but grateful.] Thank you, sir ! [She goes out, turning at the door to con- template Bindle, who is feverishly taking off his gloves : and after look- ing again at the half-crown, taps her THE MISSING CARD IOI foreliead significantly. Left alone, BlKDLE sits L. of table and fans him- self with his handkerchief. BlNDLE. Nick, my boy, that last move was a mistake — a mistake and an extravagance ! Sophy was perfectly friendly from the start. That half- crown will merely rouse her suspicions. She'll wonder what I'm up to. Never mind ! Too late now. Dear, dear, I'm feeling very low ! [lie takes a small mirror from his pocket and examines his tongue.'] Slightly coated, slightly coated ! {Takes out his watch and holds it tn his left hand, while he feels his pulse with his right.] Twenty-three, twenty -four, twenty-live — simply racing, simply racing! Talk about the Lusi- tania ! [Produces a phial out of his pocket and eats a tabloid.] There, I think that will steady things down. [Looks round.] I do hope nobody else will come in and disturb my plans. Now I think of it, I drove past that old bore Tuckle on the road. I wonder if he was on his way here. Surely he couldn't be so crassly wanting in tact and — ah — discernment. A quarter of an hour, I think Sophy said. A quarter of an hour before I advance to the attack ! But I must arrange the — ah — field of battle. [Rises, and pushes armchair forward a little. Then he brings a small chair and places it by the 102 THE MISSING CARD armchair?] After all, there is nothing like a good rehearsal. [Sits in tJie small chair and lays his hand on the arm of the armchair.'] No, that won't do ! [Rises, takes back small chair, and brings a footstool instead. Then he props up a large cushion in the chair to represent Mrs. Millington, and goes to table r., where he produces a small bunch of roses from inside h is hat and advances toward the door, as if to greet the entrance of some one. At the door he bows, and offers the flowers to the imaginary person.'] A small token of — ah — esteem, dear lady. [Pause.] I am indeed glad to find that roses are your favorite flower. [Pause.] No, no, the pleasure is mine! Will you not be seated ? [He hands the imaginary lady to the "rm chair with much ceremony ; then, after lay- ing the roses on tlie table R. and having given a pull to his cuffs and waistcoat, he advances to the footstool and kneels laboriously. Then, in a deep sepulchral voice.] Er — Gertrude No, that won't do. [On a high throaty note.] Er — Gertrude No, that's too high ! [More normally.] Er — Gertrude — that's better !— the request which I am about to make to you may cause you some — er — surprise, but I trust no — ah — apprehension. Er — apprehension. You cannot have remained unconscious all these months — er — you cannot have remained unconscious all these months — um — all these months [Pes- THE MISSING CARD 103 perately.] You cannot have remained uncon- scious all these months Oh, confound it ! [Sits on the floor and produces a legal-looking blue document tied with red tape. Finds the place, and, adjusting his eye-glass, continues, reading.] that my feeling toward you is no common one. I have long admired you. [As he reads Sophy appears a, conducting Major Tuckle, a choleric-looking gentleman, with a brick-red face and white moustache.] I have long worshipped you ; and unworthy object though I feel myself to be, I trust [Looks up.] The devil ! Tuckle. [Advancing boisterously^ Hallo, Bindle ! Looking for sixpences ? Bindle. [Sophy goes into conservatory '.] Er — no. I had dropped my eye-glasses. Have you come to see Mrs. Millington ? Tuckle. [Rather fiercely.] Yes. Any objection ? Bindle. [ With offensive humility '.] It is not for me to criticize Mrs. Millington's choice of friends. But I may as well inform you that the lady is not at home. 104 THE MISSING CARD TUCKLE. And I may as well inform you that she will be, in ten minutes time. [Sits B. of table ^ Are you here by appointment ? Bindle. Er — not precisely. Are you ? Tuckle. Well — practically. BlNDLE. [Jealously. 1 You have been invited ? ■ Tuckle. [Reluctantly.'] Well, hardly that. [ With a sudden inspiration.] But there is no need for formal invitations between Mrs. Millington and myself. I just drop in when I want to. What are you here for ? BlNDLE. [Mildly.] Keally, Tuckle, we are old friends, but I do not think you have any right to ques- tion me like this. Ttjckle. Bindle, old man, you are concealing some- thing. Out with it ! Out with it ! THE MISSING CARD 105 BlNDLE. [Angrily.'] Major Tuokle, I decline to be hectored. [Sits in armchair L.] If it comes to that, what are you TUCKLE. [Excitedly, as he catcJies sight of the flowers on table R.] Bindle, what the devil are these ? [Rushes to flowers and holds them up. Bindle. To one so grossly ignorant of the first princi- ples of botany as yourself, it will suffice if I say that they are roses. [All this time Tuckle is tugging at something inside his own hat.] To any one else I might mention that they are Marechal Neils, and — Tuckle. [Suddenly displaying a similar bunch. ] Con- found it, sir, look at that ! Bindle. [Lamely.] Oh ! You have brought her some, too, have you ? Tuckle. Yes ; they are her favorite flowers. lo6 THE MISSING CARD BlNDLE. Thank you, sir, but I am aware of the fact already. {Both walk angrily tip stage, then down. Finally. TUCKLE. Well, Bindle, don't let us behave like chil- dren. Let us have all the cards on the table. / have come to ask Mrs. Millington to marry me. [Sits l. Bindle. So have I. [Sits R. A pause. They eye each other. T/w?i.] Well, Tuckle, considering that I was here first, I think it would be more delicate on your part to retire. Tuckle. I like that! You may have reached the house before me, but I started first. Recollect you passed me on the road. Bindle. [In conciliatory fashion.] There's something in what you say, Tuckle. But in this case I feel that it would be positively ungallant to Mrs. Millington if I were to give way. Tuckle. And I feel that it would be infernal rudeness to the dear creature if I retired. THE MISSING CARD loy BlNDLE. Well, what is to be done ? We can't propose simultaneously. Tuckle. Let us toss for it. Bindle. [Scathingly. .] My dear friend, we are not street-boys. Tuckle. [Facetiously.'] Well, I'll fight a duel with you. What's it to be — pom-poms or brickbats ? Bundle. Tuckle, at such a tense moment as this, friv- olity of any kind grates upon me. Tuckle. Well, dash it ! Suggest something yourself. Bindle. As a solicitor, I am in favor of submitting the whole affair to arbitration. Tuckle. Who is going to arbitrate — the parlor-maid ? Bundle. My dear sir, is this a moment for light bad- inage ? I was about to suggest a confidential conference with the Vicar. 108 THE MISSING CARD TUCKLE. By the time we had finished confidentially conferring with the Vicar, the afternoon would be over, and I — you — we should have to wind ourselves up afresh. BlNDLE. True! Tuckle. Besides, my boy, the Yicar is a bachelor him- self. Bindle. Well, Tuckle, though constitutionally averse to games of hazard in any form, I will consent — if you persist in declining to withdraw — to play you a game of — er — draughts; and the winner shall propose first. Tuckle. [Testily.'] My dear sir, there's no time. She'll be here in five minutes. No ; draughts are excluded. You might as well suggest croquet. Bindle. Well — picquet ? One hand. Tuckle. I don't play. Ecarte ? THE MISSING CARD 109 BlNDLE. I am unacquainted with the game. TUCKLE. Well, there is a box of cards over here. {Rises and goes E. to table^ I'll tell you what. I'll cut you through the pack for her ! Bestdle. {Plaintively '.] Tuckle, the card-playing so- ciety in which I move is doubtless formal and old-fashioned. Consequently I find this jargon of yours just a little obscure. Tuckle. I like that ! A lawyer complaining of ob- scure jargon ! Well, I'll explain. We lay the pack on this table, and go on drawing in turn until one of us draws a certain card, which we will fix on beforehand. Re stays here and pro- poses to Mrs. Millington, and the other may go home to bed until he's sent for. Bindle. Very good. What is the winning card to be ? Tuckle. Anything you please. What do you suggest ? Bindle. Ha — shall we say the Ace of Spades ? IIO THE MISSING CARD TUCKLE. What — old Mossy Face? Confound it, man, haven't you a spark of sentiment about you ? The winning card shall be — the Queen of Hearts, and no other ! Bindle. [ Warming up.] By all means, my boy. A most appropriate choice. [ They sit opposite sides of table. Bindle on k. Tuckle shuffles the pack and d rates the first card. Tuckle. Nine of clubs. Bindle. [Drawing rapidly 7\ Knave of spades ! Tuckle. {Drawing rapidly -.] Four of hearts ! Bindle. [Drawing rapidly .] Six of hearts ! Tuckle. {Drawing rapidly '.] King of spades ! Bindle. [Draioing rapidly '.] Ace of clubs ! THE MISSING CARD III TUCKLE. [Drawing rapidly .] Ah ! the Queen of — dash it ! diamonds ! Bindle. [Drawing rapidly.] Nine of spades ! Tuckle. [Drawing rapidly.] King of hearts ! That's a good omen for me, Bindle. The Queen is usually accompanied by the King, isn't she ? Bindle. [Drily. ~] Or the knave ! You will recollect, Tuckle, that from all accounts the domestic relations of the Heart family were of the most unhappy description. [Drawing.] Three of diamonds ! Tuckle. [Drawing.] Ace of spades ! Why didn't I agree to that when you suggested it ? Bindle. [Drawing.] Seven of hearts ! Tuckle. [Drawing.] Six of clubs ! Bindle. [Drawing.] Knave of diamonds! I say, Tuckle ? 112 THE MISSING CARD TUCKLE. [Drawing.] Five of clubs ! Well ? Bundle. Don't you think you'd better withdraw ? I vjas here first, you know. And besides, you would probably be saving yourself a most pain- ful interview and a severe disappointment. Tuckle. Confound your impudence, sir ! What grounds have you for making such an assertion ? BlNDLE. Well, if I may say so, Mrs. Millington is hardly suited, with her refined and sensitive nature, to a man of your — ah — stamp. [Draw- ing.] Queen of spades ! Tuckle. And what the blazes do you mean by my "stamp," sir? It's not a six-and-eightpenny one, anyhow ! [Drawing.] Five of hearts ! Bindle. Tuckle, you are getting excited. Calm your- self. [Drawing.] Hang it all, the two of spades ! At your age, a sudden rush of blood to the head THE MISSING CARD 113 TUCKLE. What has my age got to do with you, sir ? If it comes to that, how old are you ? Bindle. Ah — uin — fifty -eight ! Tuckle. And you want to marry a woman on the right side of thirty ! Bindle, I am ashamed of you. Bindle. How old are you ? Tuckle. {Drawing^ Ten of spades ! Bindle. You are evading the question, sir. How old are you ? Tuckle. Young enough to be your — your — nephew ! Bindle. How old are you ? Tuckle. Fifty-seven. 114 THE MISSING CARD BlNDLE. Speaking as a solicitor with a large family practice, I may state with confidence that for a man of fifty-eight to possess a nephew of fifty- seven is the rule rather than the exception. [Drawing.] Three of clubs ! Tuckle. A man is as old as he feels. [Drawing.] King of diamonds ! I feel forty now ; I shall feel thirty-five when I set eyes on Mrs. Mill- ington; I shall feel thirty when I clasp her dear little hand BlNDLE. And by the time she has finished telling you exactly what she thinks of you, you'll feel about two-and-a-half ! [Drawing.] Ten of clubs ! [Tuckle gets njp and stamps about. Tuckle. You miserable old mummy! For two pins I'd throw you out of the window. BlNDLE. [Calmly.] Threat of assault, accompanied by violent language ! Two pins wouldn't cover the expense. More like forty shillings — or a month. Your draw, I think. THE MISSING CARD 115 TUCKLE. You infatuated old ass ! Do you think she'll look at you ? Bindle. [Complacently.'] She has frequently achieved the feat, without apparently doing herself an injury. TUCKLE. Bah ! You miserable pettifogging attorney ! You orphan-robber ! You widow-swindler ! You — you charitable-organization-fund-embez- zler ! Bindle. [Roused at last.] Sir, your words are action- able. [Mrs. Millington appears in the door- way.] I shall ring the bell, and we'll have a witness, and then perhaps [Rises and catches sight of Mrs. Millington.] My dear Mrs. Millington ! Mrs. Millington. [Coming down and shaking hands with both.] How do you do, Mr. Bindle ? How do you do, Major ? How angelic of you both to wait till I came in. I was lunching at the Yicar's. [Rings bell.] His sister goes away to-morrow, you know, and I lingered over a last gossip with her, I'm afraid. Sit down and make Il6 THE MISSING CARD yourselves comfortable, and we'll have some tea. {Looks at table.] I see you have been amusing yourselves with a game of cards. Ecarte ? [Sits l. BlNDLE. [ Who has recovered his equanimity.'] No, dear lady. It is a new game which my friend Tuckle has been teaching me. Most amusing ! Mrs. Millington. Oh ! How do you play it ? Tuckle. "Well, we cut through the pack in turn BlNDLE. And the man who draws a particular card Tuckle. Takes the stake. Mrs. Millington. You wicked gamblers ! I suppose it was a very high stake, too. [Sophy enters from conservatory. Tuckle. [Confusedly^] Oh, no. A mere nothing. BlTSTDLE. A trifle, a trifle ! THE MISSING CARD 117 Mrs. Millington. Tea, please, Sophy. Have you picked the flowers for the dinner-table yet ? Sophy. I am doing it just now, ma'am. The basket and scissors are still in the conservatory. Mrs. Millington. Well, bring in the tea, and I will get the flowers myself. You are a great gardener, I know, Mr. Bindle. Will you come and help me? It will bore you, Major, so you shall have a cigarette in here. We shan't be five minutes. [Rises. So does Bindle. Tuckle. [To himself .] That fellow shall not be left alone with her. [Rises.'] My dear lady, how cruel ! May I not come too ? Mrs. Millington. Certainly. Come along, both of you. {They go out to the conservatory. As Mrs. Millington is leaving the room, Sophy enters with tea-tray. Sophy. [Quietly?] Please'm ! Il8 THE MISSING CARD Mrs. Millington. [Pausing.] Yes ? [Tuckle and Bindle go out Sophy. Could I speak to you ? Mrs. Millington. In a moment. [Exit. [Sophy puts down tea-things on table L. Sophy. Such goings on ! At their time of life, too ! A pair of old images like that! Still, half a crown from Bindle and five shillings from old Tuckle doesn't make a bad afternoon's work. [Enter Mrs. Millington, laughing. Mrs. Millington. [Looking back into the conservatory^ There, I've left them quite happy for the moment. Mr. Bindle is syringing the geraniums and wet- ting himself, and the Major is smoking green fly off the roses and choking himself. [Claps her hands and chuckles softly as she comes clown.~] Well, Sophy, what is it this time ? Or rather, wmo is it ? The butcher or the postman ? [Sits L. Sophy. [Simpering^ Oh, it's nothing of the kind this time, ma'am. Thanking you all the same. THE MISSING CARD 119 You are always so kind. But I'm engaged to the young gentleman at the grocer's just now. His eyes are dark gray Mrs. Millington. Sophy, did you bring me in here to tell me that ? Sophy. {Recalling herself from an attitude of rap- ture.'] No, ma'am. It's about you. Mrs. Millington. About me f Sophy. Yes, ma'am. I wanted to say that you ought to be careful with those two old gentlemen. Mrs. Millington. [Startled.] What on earth do you mean, Sophy ? Sophy. Well, ma'am, Mr. Bindle called this afternoon, as you know. There was rather an odd look in his eye, and when he heard you weren't at home he said could he wait ? And when I said yes, of course, he — acted rather strangely. Then the Major called, and he acted the same, only more stranger still, ma'am. I put them 120 THE MISSING CARD both in here, and then I went into the conserva- tory to get the flowers for the table. Being in there, I couldn't help Mrs. Millington. Sophy, you listened ! Sophy. [ With great dignity.] I could not help hear- ing something of what they said. They were talking about you, ma'am. Mrs. Millington. Sophy, if I hadn't known you since you were a little girl, I should bundle you straight out of the house. I can't listen to this. [Ibises. Sophy. You'll be sorry all your life if you don't, ma'am. Those two old creatures have both come to — to Mrs. Millington. [ Turnmg.] To what ? Sophy. To ask you to marry them. Mrs. Millington. [Incredulously.] What? Those two old fossils ? THE MISSING CARD 121 Sophy. Yes'm. And they were each so vexed when they found out what the other was after. And neither would go away. Mr. Bindle, he said Mrs. Millitjgton. Sophy, that will do. I can't listen to this tattle. As for you, you want shaking. I think I shall ask the young gentleman at the grocer's to do it. Sophy. And Major Tuckle, he said Mrs. Millington. Go away ! Sophy. But of course they had to decide which was to ask you first Mrs. Millington. {Divided between anger and amusement^ Sophy, will you go ? Sophy turns reluctantly^ Stop ! I might as well know which of these dashing suitors I must avoid most carefully. Who is to ask me first ? Sophy. [Primly 7\ I couldn't say, ma'am, I'm sure. By that time I had realized that I was overhear- 122 THE MISSING CARD ing a private conversation, so of course I just shut my ears and went on with my work. {Tearfully.'] I should be the last to eavesdrop, whatever you may say, ma'am. I'm not that sort of girl, although— although I do want shaking ! [ Weeps into her apron. Mrs. Millington. [Smiling.] Well, I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings, Sophy. But it's no use turning on the waterworks with me, I've known you too long. Bottle your tears up for the young gentleman from the grocer's. Now run away, and I'll bring Mr. Bindle and Major Tuckle in to tea. Sophy. [Still sobbing.'] I — I did happen to hear one thing more, ma'am. My ears opened just for a moment when I was off my guard. I think they were settling to play cards for you. Mrs. Millington. The old wretches ! [Buns and examines the cards on tJie table.] I wonder what form the game took ? Did your ears happen to open any more after that, Sophy ? Sophy. No, ma'am — except — I did hear something about the Queen of Hearts. THE MISSING CARD 1 23 Mrs. Millington. [Softly.] O-o-oh ! I see now. So that was what they were cutting through the pack for ! "The man who draws a particular card takes the stake." Oh, does he ? The old villains ! Ask them to come in, Sophy. [Exit Sophy, l.] The Queen of Hearts, indeed ! [She picks up the pack and ponders.] Now — ah! [She picks out a card, and, chuckling delightedly, takes it to a side table and puts it into an envelope, ~t^ / which she addresses.] [Reenter Sophy, giggling. Sophy. They are so cross with each other, ma'am ! The Major has blown some of that green fly smoke into Mr. Bindle's eye, and Mr. Bindle has syringed the Major's waistcoat. [Exit. [Enter Bindle and Tuckle, glaring at each other. Bindle is wiping his eye, and Tuckle is patting his waistcoat with his handkerchief. Mrs. Millington. Come in, both of you. Everything is ready, except the kettle. By the way [pointing to table], did you finish }?our game ? Tuckle. Er — no. 124 THE MISSING CARD Mrs. Millington. Well, why not finish it off before tea ? Bindle. It's of no consequence, dear lady. Mrs. Millington. Was the stake as insignificant as all that ? TUCKLE. [Bounding up.] By Jove, we will finish now ! Come along, Bindle. Bindle. By all means. On the same terms ? [They regard each other fixedly for a moment, then Tuckle nods with mean- ing, and they begin drawing cards again. They call out the cards quickly till there are only four left. Bindle sits r., Tuckle l. of table. Mrs. Millington stands behind it. On cue "Ace of diamonds." Mrs. Millington. Only four left ! And the winning card hasn't turned up yet. How exciting ! [Bindle and Tuckle pause. Tuckle wipes his brow. Bindle surrepti- tiously gets out a tabloid and eats it. THE MISSING CARD 1 25 BlKDLE. [Drawing.] Eight of spades ! Tuckle. [Drawing.] Queen of — clubs ! BlNDLE. [Drawing.] My last card. [Despairingly.] Four of diamonds ! [Groans. Tuckle. [Triumphantly turning up the last card.] And here at last is the — confound and dash it ! — the three of spades ! Where the dev — ha — h'um ! [Coughs. Both. Where is the Queen of Hearts ? Mrs. Millington. [Much distressed.] Oh, was it the Queen of Hearts you were after ? I am so sorry. I took it out of the pack just now. I — I wanted it. Both. What on earth for ? Mrs. Millhntgton. [Kneeling on floor, with her elbows on the table ; rather confusedly '.] Well, you are both such dear old friends of mine that I will tell 126 THE MISSING CARD you. You shall be the first to — to know. [Both start.] To-day I had a talk with the Vicar. Both. Ah! Mrs. Milllngton. Curiously enough, we were discussing card games. He said he used to be a constant whist- player at the University, but now he thought it better not to play at all, although he loved it. It gave him a clear conscience, he said, when he preached against gambling. Wasn't it noble of him ? [Both mumble something inarticulate.] Then he asked me to marry him ! [A horrified gasp from BiNDLE and Tuckle. BiNDLE. \In a strained voice.] I fail to see the con- nection between card games and a proposal. Mrs. Millington. Ah ! he did it so beautifully. [Baptly.] He asked me to be his Queen of Hearts ! Tuckle. The blackguard ! BiNDLE The unprincipled rascal ! THE MISSING CARD 12/ TUCKLE. Besides, he's a mere boy. Bindle. An irresponsible infant ! Tuckle. Barely thirty -six ! Bindle. Thirty-five, at the outside ! Mrs. Millington. [ Who appears not to have heard.'] Wasn't it clever of him to work it in that way ? Both. Did you accept him ? Mrs. Millington. Well, dear friends, I asked for a little time to think it over. But now my mind is made up. I am so happy ! [She rises and goes to table R., takes the card and envelope, and comes down. Holds up card.] The Queen of Hearts ! There is his answer, the dear fellow ! [Rings bell, and fastens up envelope. Bindle and Tuckle sit transfixed. Enter Sophy.] Sophy, tell John to ride over with this to the Vicarage at once. [Exit Sophy. Mrs. Millington 128 THE MISSING CARD comes doion.] Well, haven't you two anything to say to me ? [There is a pause. Then Tuckle rises resolutely and takes her hand. Tuckle. Mrs. Millington, will you accept the heart- iest congratulations of — an old fogy ? [Kicks Bindle gently under the table. BlNDLE. [Not to be outdone / taking her oilier ha?id.~\ Mrs. Millington, will you accept the very kind- est wishes of one who has always regarded you as — a daughter ? [They each kiss a hand of hers. Mrs. Millington. [ Quite overcome^ Oh, thank you so much ! You are nice ! [Bindle and Tuckle go R. and get their hats, etc. Each surreptitiously stuffs his roses inside his hat. Mrs. Millington goes down l. Tuckle. Now we must be off, Bindle. Bindle. Quite right. Good-afternoon, dear Mrs. Mill- ington. [Shaking hands. THE MISSING CARD 1 29 Mrs. Millington. But surely you will stay to tea ? Tuckle. [Shaking hands.] I'm afraid not, thank you. Bindle and I have a call to pay. Mrs. Millington. Another ? Bindle. Yes. We are going to the Yicarage to offer our felicitations to — er — the future King of Hearts ! Tuckle. [Explosively, taking Bindle's arm and going up.] No— dash it all ! — the knave ! Come on, Bindle ! [They pause in the doorway, and look back at Mrs. Millington, who is facing the audience. Tuckle. Bindle, we've been a pair of old fools. Bindle. Yes. But we drew back in time. She'll never know now. I30 THE MISSING CARD TUCKLE. Yes, that's a comfort. She'll never know! Come on, Nick ! Bindle. All right, Jack. {They go out arm in arm. Mrs. Millington. {Turning impulsively, and holding out her hands to the empty doorway.] You old pets! CURTAIN YB 31480 S 3s-S*tf&'' UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY