BOYS ” 
 
 c c 
 
 A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS 
 
 BY 
 
 HENRY J. BYRON 
 
 New American Edition, Correctly Reprinted from the 
 Original Authorized Acting Edition, with the Original 
 Cast of the Characters, Argument of the Play, 
 Time of Representation, Description of the 
 Costumes, Scene and Property Plots, Dia¬ 
 grams of the Stage Settings, Sides of 
 Entrance and Exit, Relative Posi¬ 
 tions of the Performers, Expla¬ 
 nation of the Stage Direc¬ 
 tions, etc., and all of 
 the Stage Business 
 
 Copyright, 1890, by Harold Roorbach. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 HAROLD ROORBACH 
 
 PUBLISHER 
 
“OUR BOYS.” • 
 
 CAST OF CHARACTERS. 
 
 Vaudeville Theatre 3 
 Stra?id , London , 
 January i6 f 1875. 
 
 Sir GeOFFRY Champneys (tf County Magnate) 
 Talbot Champneys (^5 
 
 V' Perkyn Middlewick, of Devonshire House (« 
 retired Butterman ) 
 
 Charles Middlewick (te .Sh/z) 
 
 Kempster (Geoffrjs Man Servant) 
 PODDLES ( Middlewick? s Butler ) 
 
 Violet Melrose («?z Heiress') 
 
 Mary Melrose (Jier poor Cousin) 
 
 Clarissa Champneys (Az> Geoffry's Sister) 
 Belinda (a Lodging House Slave) 
 
 Mr. William Farren. 
 Mr. Thomas Thorne. 
 
 Mr. David James. 
 
 Mr. Charles Warner. 
 Mr. W. Lestocq. 
 
 Mr. Howard. 
 
 Miss Kate Bishop. 
 Miss Roselle. 
 
 Miss Sophie Larkin. 
 Miss Cicely Richards. 
 
 Time of Representation— Two Hours. 
 
 Act I.-AT THE BUTTERMAN’S. 
 
 Act II.-AT THE BARONET’S. 
 
 Seven months are supposed to have elapsed. 
 
 Act III.—MRS. PATCHEM’S THREE-PAIR BACK. 
 
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 “OUR BOYS." 
 
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 THE ARGUMENT. 
 
 
 V* 
 
 
 
 Perkyn Middlewick is a retired butterman ignorant and coarse in 
 manner, but kind and generous of heart. Sir Geoffry Champneys, a 
 county magnate proud of his birth and position and tolerating Middlewick 
 only because of his wealth, has come to the latter’s house to await the 
 arrival of their two sons, “ Our Boys,” who, while travelling on the conti¬ 
 nent, have met in Paris and are now coming home together. It seems that 
 young Middlewick, while at Bonn, had met a Miss Violet Melrose, 
 young, handsome and rich, who is now visiting Sir Geoffry’s sister 
 Clarissa. An attachment had sprung up between the two young people; 
 but, owing to a quarrel involving a duel with a student, he had concealed 
 his identity from her. 
 
 The action begins with the arrival of “Our Boys.” Charles Middle¬ 
 wick, a bright and dashing young fellow, is overflowing with enthusiasm 
 at what he has seen, and most demonstrative at meeting his old dad again. 
 Talbot Champneys, on the contrary, is rather plain in looks, dull, very 
 near-sighted, greatly over-dressed and, to use his own expression, some¬ 
 what of a muff—but withal good-hearted and not without common sense. 
 
 Sir Geoffry has mapped out a parliamentary career for his son, and 
 determined to marry him to Violet Melrose, to which arrangement 
 Talbot, never having seen the young lady, naturally objects. With 
 Violet is her cousin Mary Melrose, a frolicsome country girl, beautiful 
 in face and figure but poor in purse; and it is Sir Geoffry’s constant 
 anxiety that, by some chance, Talbot may fall in love with her. Violet, 
 being greatly shocked at old Middlewick’s lack of breeding, coarse man¬ 
 ners and abominable grammar, snubs him unmercifully on meeting him; 
 this so angers Charles that he retaliates by devoting himself to Mary, to 
 the delight of Middlewick who deems her worth a thousand of her 
 haughty cousin. Charles, in spite of Violet’s aversion to his father, 
 which he cannot believe real, still loves her. But old Middlewick, on 
 finding that Charles is devoted to the young lady, orders him to drop her 
 at once, Sir Geoffry, meanwhile, having commanded Talbot to insinuate 
 himself into Violet’s good graces. But “Our Boys” and our girls mate 
 contrary to orders; whereupon Sir Geoffry tells his son to go and starve, 
 Middlewick follows suit by disowning Charles, and the two boys depart 
 leaving the girls in a state of utter despair, while the old men are congrat¬ 
 ulating themselves and each other on being downright Roman fathers. 
 
 Seven months later finds “ Our Boys ” in the garret of a third rate London 
 lodging house, thin, shabby and otherwise showing extreme poverty, but 
 firm in the resolution not to apply to their relatives for aid. During their 
 absence from their lodgings, Sir Geoffry and Middlewick a.ppear, hav¬ 
 ing learned of their sons’ whereabouts, and listen to an account of their 
 pitiable condition from Belinda, a comical maid-of-all-work, which brings 
 them to the verge of. relenting, each waiting for the other to break down 
 first. Hearing steps outside, they retire hastily just as Clarissa comes in; 
 she brings a fowl with her and, in company with Belinda goes to the 
 kitchen to prepare it, leaving her bonnet on a chair. Violet and Mary 
 now appear and, on seeing the bonnet, suspect “ Our Boys” of being false ; 
 
4 
 
 “OUR BOYS." 
 
 so that on the boys’ return a stormy scene ensues, ending by the girls 
 indignantly taking their departure. The two fathers, though unable, from 
 their place of concealment, to understand what has been said, have recog¬ 
 nized female voices and, coming out of their ambush, upbraid their sons as 
 profligates, whereupon they, in turn, are ordered off the premises. The 
 two girls now return, after discovering their mistake, heartily ashamed of 
 their suspicions; Aunt Clarissa follows, and explanations ensue. Old 
 Middlewick breaks down completely, declaring that he can play the 
 Roman father no longer, and Sir Geoffry soon follows his lead. The 
 reconcilliation is now complete, and the would-be Roman fathers recognize 
 their mistake in attempting to regulate the matrimonial arrangements of 
 “Our Boys.” 
 
 COSTUMES. 
 
 Act I. 
 
 Sir Geoffry Champneys. —Fashionable walking suit, cane, gloves, 
 etc., gray wig, and gray side whiskers and mustache. Watch. Eye¬ 
 glasses. 
 
 Talbot Champneys. —Velvet coat and vest, light trousers, eye-glasses, 
 flashy necktie, blonde wig parted in centre, blonde side whiskers and small 
 blonde mustache. Wears eye-glasses. 
 
 Perkyn Middlewick. —Light coat and vest, dark trousers, bald wig, 
 short reddish hair, also short reddish side whiskers. 
 
 Charles Middlewick. —Fashionable walking suit, black wig and 
 mustache, gloves, etc. 
 
 Poddles. —Full dress. Carries watch. 
 
 Kempster. —Livery. 
 
 Violet. —Handsome walking dress. 
 
 Mary. —Suit somewhat plainer than Violet’s. 
 
 Clarissa. —Old lady’s dress. 
 
 Act II. 
 
 All in full evening dress. Middlewick’s coat and vest trimmed with 
 brass buttons. 
 
 Act III. 
 
 Sir Geoffry. —Overcoat, high hat and cane. 
 
 Talbot. —Short gray suit, quite shabby. 
 
 Middlewick. —Large ulster, old-fashioned hat, cane, etc. 
 
 Charles. —Dark suit, quite shabby. 
 
 Violet and Mary. —Plain walking dresses. 
 
 Clarissa. —Plain dress and shawl, very large bonnet trimmed with 
 quite an assortment of flowers. 
 
11 OUR BOYS ” 5 
 
 Belinda. —Old shabby short dress, torn apron, shoes unbuttoned, face 
 and arms smeared with dirt, hair generally mussed up. 
 
 PROPERTIES. 
 
 Act I. —Cigar for Talbot Champneys. Furniture as per scene plot. 
 
 Act II. — Money to rattle in Middlewick’s pocket. Pipe and tobacco 
 for Talbot. Furniture as per scene plot. 
 
 Act III. — Small piece of looking-glass and old shoe on mantel. Box 
 of blacking and brushes. Books, writing materials and roll of Mss. on 
 table R. Coal scuttle, with a little coal, shovel, tongs, hearth broom and 
 poker at fire. Empty coal scuttle for Belinda. Printed papers. Basket 
 and eatables for Clarissa. Tray. Remains of breakfast on table, r. c., 
 common teapot with broken spout, part of a loaf of bread, two egg cups 
 with shells, brown sugar in old cup, small piece of butter, etc. Furniture 
 as per scene plot. 
 
 STAGE SETTINGS. 
 Act I. 
 
 j Window* 
 
 / • 
 
 J Chair 
 
 Carden Backing 
 - 1 Doors 1 — 
 
 ~Windorv 1 
 
 Chair 
 
 Chair 
 
 Door 
 
 J4 
 
 o 
 
 Arm-Chair 
 
 Tahle b Chairs 
 
 Door 
 
 Chair 
 
 Act II. 
 
 Conservatory Backing 
 
 Jfindotr 
 
 1 r- 
 
 JX 
 
 J* 
 
 Chair 
 
 Chair 
 'ire-Piace 
 
 'oar 
 
6 
 
 “OUR BOYS.” 
 
 Act in. 
 
 Street Backing 
 
 Wmdovr^ 
 
 R 
 
 1 oor 
 
 Table & Chairs 
 
 0 *Ch 
 
 Table 
 
 air 
 
 Corridor Backing 
 Boor 
 
 St 
 
 ore 
 
 o 
 
 Arm * Chair 
 
 n 
 
 oor 
 
 SCENE PLOT. 
 
 Act I. — Drawing-room in Middlewick’s house, boxed in 3 g., backed 
 with garden drop in 4 g. Double doors c. in flat. French windows R. 
 and L., in flat. Doors r. 2 E. and L. 2 e. Chairs against flat between 
 doors and windows. Chair R., up stage. Arm chair R. C. Table and 
 chairs L. C. Arm chair L., down stage. Sofa down R. 
 
 Act II. — Drawing-room in Sir Geoffry’s house, boxed in 3 g., 
 backed with conservatory in 4 G. Double doors c., and French windows 
 r. and L. in flat. Doors R. 2 E. and L. 2 E. Fireplace, mantel and mirror 
 R. I E. Statues on pedestals against flat between doors and windows. 
 Sofa down L. Arm chairs R. and l. Chair up R. One tete-a-tete up L.; 
 another c., with ottoman before it. 
 
 Act III. — Shabby sitting-room boxed in 3 G., with corridor and street 
 backings in 4 g. Door L. c., and window R. C. in flat. Doors R. 2 e. and 
 L. 1 E. Fireplace, mantel and stove L. 3 E. Shabby old arm chair by 
 stove. Table and chairs up R. c., with remains of breakfast. Small table 
 and chair down R. Chair up L. 
 
 STAGE DIRECTIONS. 
 
 The player is supposed to be facing the audience. R., means right; L., 
 left; C., centre; R. C., right of centre ; L. C., left of centre ; D. F., door in 
 the flat or scene running across the back of the stage; R. F., right side of 
 the flat; L. F., left side of the flat; R. D., right door; L. D., left door; 
 C. D., centre door; I E., first entrance ; 2 E., second entrance; U. E., upper 
 entrance ; I, 2, or 3 G., first, second or third grooves; UP stage, towards the 
 back ; down stage, towards the audience. 
 
 R. R. C. C. L. C. . L. 
 
 Note.— The text of this play is correctly reprinted from the original 
 authorized acting edition, without change. The introduction has been 
 carefully prepared by an expert, and is the only part of this book pro¬ 
 tected by copyright. 
 
“OUR BOYS.” 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene. — Handsomely furnished drawing-room at Middlewick’s 
 
 house — Poddles enters, L. D. 
 
 Pod. {afterpause, looking at watch} Half-past two, I do declare, 
 and the young gents not arrived yet ; train’s late, no doubt. No 
 wonder master’s anxious; I dare say Sir Geoffry’s just as anxious 
 about his dear son. Bless me, to hear ’em talking about " Our 
 Boys," as they call ’em, one would think there were no other sons 
 and heirs in the whole country but these two young gents a com¬ 
 ing home to their governors this afternoon. 
 
 Enter, Kempster, c. 
 
 Kemp. Mr. Poddies, any news of the young gents yet ? Sir 
 Geoffrey has just driven over, and- 
 
 Pod. They ought to be here by this time. Mr. Charles wrote 
 mentioning the time and— (Sir Geoffry Champneys pushes past 
 him and enters, C.) 
 
 Sir G. What a time you are, Kempster. Why don’t you let me 
 know if Mr.- 
 
 Kemp. I beg your parding, Sir Geoffry; I were just inquiring 
 of- 
 
 Sir G. Yes, yes, get back to the carriage, (exit Kempster, — to 
 Poddles) Is your master in ? 
 
 Pod. I’ll see, Sir Geoffry.' If you will be seated, Sir Geoffry, 
 I’ll - Exit, L. D. 
 
 Sir G. ( pacing the room impatiently and looking at watch and 
 fidgeting ) Yes, yes. The train’s late ; but I suppose they won’t 
 —Why hasn’t Talbot answered my letter? Why does he keep 
 me on the rack ? He knows how anxious I am. Haven’t set eyes 
 
8 
 
 “OC/R BO vs: 1 
 
 on the dear boy for three years, and I’m longing to hear his views 
 on men and things. They’ll be the same as mine, I know. 
 
 Enter, Miss Clarissa Champneys, C. — the Baronet's sister—an 
 
 elderly young lady . 
 
 Clar. I couldn’t refrain from following you, Geoffry. I am so 
 anxious about the dear boy. 
 
 Sir G. ( tetchily ) Of course you’re anxious. I'm anxious. 
 
 Clar. And I’ve no doubt Mr. Middlewick is just as anxious about 
 his dear boy. 
 
 Sir G. Clarissa, I’m surprised at you. Because these young men 
 happen to have met recently in Paris, and are coming home in 
 company, that is no reason why you should link them together in 
 that ridiculous manner. My son comes of an ancient honored 
 race. The other young man is the son of a butterman. 
 
 Clar. A retired one, remember. 
 
 Sir G. Impossible ! A butterman can t retire. 
 
 You may break, you may. shatter the tub if you will, 
 
 But the scent of the butter will hang by it still. 
 
 Mr. Middlewick is a most estimable person,—charitable—as he 
 ought to be ; and has considerable influence in the neighborhood. 
 
 Clar. Which accounts for your tolerating him. 
 
 Sir G. I admit it. The dream of my life has been that my boy 
 Talbot should distinguish himself in Parliament. To that end I 
 mapped out a complete course of instruction for him to pursue ; 
 directed him to follow the plan laid down implicitly; never to veer 
 to the right or left, but to do as I bid him,—like—like- 
 
 Clar. Like a machine. 
 
 Sir G. Eh? Yes, like a machine. Machines never strike. 
 
 Clar. I hope he’ll answer your expectations. Considering his 
 advantages, his occasional letters haven’t been remarkable , have 
 they? [aside) Except for brevity—which, in his case, has not been 
 the soul of wit. 
 
 Sir G. Dear! dear ! Clarissa, what a woman you are ! What 
 would you have of the boy ? His letters have been a little short, 
 but invariably pithy. I don’t want my son to be a literary man. 
 I want him to shine in politics and- 
 
 Clar. Suppose Mr. Middlewick’s views regarding his son are 
 similar. Supposing he wants him to shine in politics. 
 
 Sir G. Clarissa, you seem to take a great interest in Mr. Middle¬ 
 wick. A man without an H to his back. A man who—who eats 
 with his knife, who behaves himself in society like an amiable 
 gold-digger, and who- 
 
 Clar. Who is coming up the path. So moderate your voice, 
 Geoffry, or he’ll hear you. 
 
“OUR BOYS” 9 
 
 Sir G. You’re a very irritating woman, Clarissa, and I don’t— 
 don’t- 
 
 Mr. Perkyn Middlewick appears at French windows—he is a 
 
 sleek, comfortable man of about fifty. 
 
 Mid. Hah ! Sir Geoffry, glad to see you. Miss Champneys, 
 your ’umble servant. ( shakes hands ; Sir Geoffry shakes hands 
 distantly , Miss Clarissa warmly) Phew! ain’t it ’ot? awful ’ot. 
 
 Sir G. {loftily , R.) It is very warm. 
 
 Mid. (c.) Warm! /call it’ot. (/<? Clarissa) What do you call 
 it ? 
 
 Clar. /call it decidedly “ hot." 
 
 Mid. That’s what /say. / say it’s ’ot. Well, Sir Geoffry, any 
 noos ? 
 
 Sir G, No news. 
 
 Mid. No noos ! Ain’t you heard from your son ? 
 
 Sir G. Not a line. 
 
 Mid. Oh, my boy’s written me a letter of about eight pages. 
 He’ll be here soon ; I sent the shay. 
 
 Sir G. Sent the what ? 
 
 Mid. The shay —the shay . 
 
 Sir G. Oh, the chaise ? 
 
 Mid. No, only one of ’em. They’ll be here directly. What’s 
 the good of Charley writing me a letter with half of it in foreign 
 languages? Here’s a bit of French here, and a morsel of ’Talian 
 there, and a slice of Latin , I suppose it is, further on, and then a 
 something out of one of the poets—-leastways, I suppose it is, for it’s 
 awful rubbish—then, lor! regler rigmarole altogether. S’pose he 
 done it to show as the money wasn’t wasted on his eddication. 
 
 Sir G. ( with satisfaction ) Hah ! rather different from my son. 
 He prefers to reserve the fruits of his years of study until he can 
 present them in person. Your son, Mr. Middlewick, has followed 
 the example of the strawberry sellers and dazzled you with the dis¬ 
 play of the top. Perhaps when you search below you may find 
 the contents of the pottle not so satisfactory, (goes up) 
 
 Mid. {down, C., aside) Mayhap I may. Mayhap the front tubs 
 is butter and the rest dummies. When I first started in business 
 I’d the finest stock in Lambeth—to look at. But they was all 
 sham. The tubs was ’oiler if you turned ’em round, and the very 
 yams was ’eartless delooders. Can Charley’s letter be?— No, I 
 won’t believe it. 
 
 Clar. {aside to him) Don’t, dear Mr. Middlewick, don’t, {goes 
 up in pleasing confusion) 
 
 Mid. {aside) That’s a very nice, sensible woman. It ain’t the 
 first time she’s been civil to me. I’ll play the polite to her if it’s 
 only to rile old poker-back, {goes up to her, L.) 
 
 Sir G. {down, R.) I knew “ our boys ” would drive here first, 
 
10 
 
 “our boys:' 
 
 Mr. Middlewick, which must be my excuse for this intrusion, and 
 
 -( noise of a carriage driving up heard ) Here they are! here 
 
 they are ! 
 
 Mid. (goes up to window) That’s them ! that’s them ! 
 
 Sir G. (r. ) I feel actually faint, Clarissa, (sinks on sofa ) The 
 
 thought of seeing my dear, handsome, clever boy again is—is- 
 
 Clar. (aside) Don’t exhibit this ridiculous weakness, Geoffry. 
 
 Sir G. Before a tradesman, too. You are right, (rises) 
 
 Mid. I feel a bit of a—sort of a—kind of a fluttering myself\ 
 
 Enter, Charles Middlewick, at l. d. 
 
 Char. Father! Dad ! Dear old governor ! (rushes to his father's 
 arms) 
 
 Mid. My boy! My boy ! (embraces him ; they are demonstrative 
 in their delight — Charley is a handsome , gallant young fellow) 
 
 Sir G. Yes but where’s my son? Where’s Talbot? 
 
 Enter, Talbot Champneys, l. —he is a washed-out youth , with 
 yellow-reddish hair parted down the middle ; a faint effort at a 
 fluffy whisker and moustache ; dreadfully over-dressed, and has a 
 limp look generally ; an eye-glass , and a soft namby-pamby mariner. 
 
 Sir G. Talbot, my dear boy, I’m so delighted to- 
 
 Tal. Yes, yes ; how are you ? Bless my life, how grey you’ve 
 got—shouldn’t have known you. And that’s not Aunt Clarissa ? 
 Dear, dear! such an alteration in three years—shouldn’t have 
 known you. (kisses her; they turn aside conversing) 
 
 Mid. (l.) Well, Charley, old boy, how do I look, eh? Pretty 
 ’arty, for an old ’un ? 
 
 Char. Yes, yes, splendid, (to him , aside) //earty, dad, hearty. 
 Mid. Well, I said ’arty. And you, Charley—there ! Growed 
 out of all knowledge. 
 
 Char, (aside) Growed—hem ! (seems annoyed at his father s ignor¬ 
 ance—aside to him) “Grown,” governor, “grown.” 
 
 Mid. Ain’t got nothing to groan for. (aside) Rum notions they 
 pick up abroad. But, Charley, you ain’t introduced me to your 
 friend, Mr. Talbot. Do the honors, do the honors. 
 
 Char. Talbot, this is my father. 
 
 Mid. Proud to know you, sir. 
 
 Tal. (through his glass) How do ? how do ? 
 
 Mid. ’Arty as a buck, and fresh as a four-year-old, thankee. 
 Hope we shall see a good deal of you, Mr. Talbot—any friend of 
 my son’s- 
 
 Sir G. (comes down , R.) Yes, exactly, Mr. Middlewick. Flat¬ 
 tered, I’m sure, but our boys’ lines of life will be widely apart, I 
 expect. Your son, I presume, will embark in commerce, whilst 
 mine will, I trust, shine in a public and, excuse me for adding, a 
 more elevated sphere. 
 
“our boys:' 
 
 i i 
 
 Mid. ( aside , L. c. ) Yes, he looks like a shiner. 
 
 Clar. But, Geoffry, probably Mr. Middlevvick and his son would 
 like to be alone a little, so- 
 
 Mid. Just so. (aside) She is a sensible woman, (to them) I 
 shouldn’t mind if you did “get out” for a short time. 
 
 Sir G. Exactly. I want a talk with Talbot too, and as the 
 ponies are put up, Talbot, we’ll have a stroll through the 
 grounds. 
 
 Tab I don’t mind. Only I’m jolly hungry, that’s all. 
 
 Exit, c. and R., with Sir Geoffry Champneys. 
 
 Mid. (aside to Clarissa) Miss Champneys, what’s your candid 
 opinion of your nephew ? 
 
 Clara. A numskull ! Exit, C. and R. 
 
 Mid. She is a sensible woman. Charley, not to put too fine a 
 point upon it, your friend’s a fool. I say it deliberately, Charley, 
 he’s a li ass. 
 
 Char, (deprecatingly) Oh, dad ! 
 
 Mid. And his father destines him for a public career. Ha ! ha ! 
 Him ever take the public—why, he ain’t got it in him to take a 
 beer-shop. 
 
 Char, (aside) Is it that he has grown more vulgar, or that / 
 have grown more sensitive ? Anyhow, it jars terribly. But who 
 am 1 to criticise—what should I have been but for His generosity 
 —his—Bah ! Ignorant—H-less as he is, I’d sooner have him for 
 a father than twenty stuck-up Sir Geoffry Champneys. 
 
 Mid. (sitting) And now, Charley, that we’re alone, my dear 
 fellow, tell your old dad what your impressions of foreign parts 
 were. When I was your age the Continent was a sealed book to 
 them as wasn’t wealthy. There was no Cook’s excursions then, 
 Charley ; leastaways, they seldom went further than White Con- 
 dick Gardens or Beulah Spor, when they in general come back 
 with their bonnets a one side, and wep’ when they was spoke to 
 ’arsh. No, no, you’ve been born when there was the march o’ 
 intellect, and Atlantic cables and other curious things, and 
 naturally you’ve benefited thereby. So of course you’re a scholar, 
 and seen a deal. Paris now—nice place, ain’t it? 
 
 Char. Glorious ! 
 
 Mid. ’ 0 \v about the ’orse flesh ? 
 
 Char. A myth. 
 
 Mid. Railly through ! And I suppose frogs is fallacies. Only 
 to think! 
 
 Char. Paris is a paradise. But Italy—well, there ! 
 
 Mid. But ain’t it a mass of lazeyroneys ? 
 
 Char. A mere libel. A land of romance, beauty, tradition, 
 poetry ! Milan ! Venice ! Verona ! Florence ! 
 
 Mid. Where the ile comes from. 
 
 U. OF. ILL Lib. 
 
12 
 
 “OUR BOYS.” 
 
 Char. Rome ! Naples ! 
 
 Mid. That’s where Vesoovius is, ain’t it ? 
 
 Char. Yes. 
 
 Mid. Was it “ fizzin’ ” when you was there, Charley ? 
 
 Char. No. There was no eruption when I was there. 
 
 Mid. That’s wrong, you know, that’s wrong. I didn’t limit you, 
 Charley ; I said “ See everything,” and I certainly expected as 
 you’d insist upon an eruption. 
 
 Char. But, my dear dad, I saw everything else—Pompeii and 
 Herculaneum. 
 
 Mid. Eh? 
 
 Char. Pompeii and Herculaneum—they were ruined , you 
 know. 
 
 Mid. Two unfortnit Italian warehousemen, I suppose. 
 
 Char. Nonsense ! They were buried, you remember. 
 
 Mid. And why not f It’d be a pretty thing to refuse an unlucky 
 firm as went broke a decent—— 
 
 Char. You don’t understand. 
 
 Mid. ( bluntly ) No, I don't. 
 
 Char. But Germany, dad—the Rhine—“the castled crags of 
 Drachenfels ”—the Castle of Erhenbreitstein- 
 
 Mid. Aaron who ? Some swell German Jew, I suppose, 
 u Char. And the German women. ( nudges him ) 
 
 Mid. Charles, I’m surprised. I’m simply—a—What are they 
 like, Charley ? (gets closer to him) 
 
 Char, (sighs) Hah! 
 
 Mid. Lost your heart, eh ? 
 
 Char. Not to a German girl, oh no—the lady /met who- 
 
 Sir G. ( heard without) Well, we may as well join our friends. 
 
 Char, (aside — rises) Here’s Talbot’s delightful father. I 
 wouldn’t swop parents with him for all his high breeding. Our 
 heart’s blood’s a trifle cloudy, perhaps, but it flows freely—his is 
 so terribly pure it hardly takes the trouble to trickle. No, Talbot, 
 old fellow, I don’t envy you your father. (goesup } L., and joins 
 Middlewick) 
 
 Sir Geoffry enters, followed by Talbot, c .from R. 
 
 Sir G. (coming down , R.) But really, Talbot, you must have 
 some ideas on what you have seen. 
 
 Tal. What’s the use of having ideas, when you can pick ’em up 
 in the guide books ? 
 
 Sir G. (pleased) Ah, then you are fond of reading? Good. 
 
 Tal. Reading! Ha! ha! I hate it. (sits, R. c.) 
 
 Sir G. (trying to excuse him) Well, well, perhaps some fathers 
 set too great a value on books. After all, one’s fellow man is the 
 best volume to study. And as one who I hope may ripen into a 
 
“OUR BOYS ” 13 
 
 statesman—your general appearance strongly reminds me of Pitt, 
 by-the-bye—perhaps you are right. 
 
 Mid. [aside, to Charley) Finest you ever saw. SirGeoffry, wc 
 shall be back shortly. Exit, l. d. , with Charley. 
 
 Sir G. And you actually saw nothing in the Rhine ? 
 
 Tal. Oh, yes, I did. 
 
 Sir G. That’s well. 
 
 Tal. No end of mud. 
 
 Sir G. But Cologne now ? 
 
 Tal. Famous for its Cathedral and its smells. Both, I regret to 
 say, unfinished. 
 
 Sir G. But Germany, generally ? 
 
 Tal. Detestable. 
 
 Sir G. Switzerland. Come, you were a long time there. There 
 you saw nature in all its grandeur. Your Alpine experiences 
 were- 
 
 Tal. Limited— very limited. I admired those venturesome beings 
 who risked their necks, but it was at a distance. I can’t say a 
 respectful distance for I thought them fools. 
 
 Sir G. No doubt you were right, [aside) Prudence, caution, fore¬ 
 thought—excellent qualities, [to him) Italy? 
 
 Tal. Second-hand sort of country. Things, as a rule, give you a 
 notion of being unredeemed pledges. Everything old and cracked. 
 Didn’t care for it. Jolly glad to get to Paris. 
 
 Sir G. [with a relish) Ha! The Louvre, eh? 
 
 Tal. Yes. I preferred “ Mabille.” 
 
 Sir G. A public building ? 
 
 Tal. Rather. But even Paris palls on a fellow. 
 
 Sir G. [rising and taking his hand) I see, Talbot, like a true 
 Champneys you prefer your native land to all these meretricious 
 foreign places. Well, dear boy, you’ve a glorious career before 
 you, and it only rests with you to follow it up. I have arranged a 
 marriage- 
 
 Tal. A what! 
 
 Sir G. Not arranged it exactly, but it can be arranged— shall he. 
 
 Tal. [quietly) Provided, of course, I approve of the lady. 
 
 Sir G. Eh ! You approve ! What have you got to do' with it ? 
 
 Tal. Quite as much as she has, and rather more than you, con¬ 
 sidering / should have to live with her and you wouldn’t. 
 
 Sir G. [annoyed) Talbot, I’m afraid you have picked up some 
 low Radical opinious during your residence abroad. I expect 
 obedience. I have done all a father can fora son. You will wed, 
 sir, as / wish ; you will espouse my politics, be returned for Lufton 
 by my influence, and-- 
 
 Tal. Unless Charley Middlewick chooses to stand - 
 
 Sir G. [in horror) Charley Middlewick chooses to stand? 
 
 Tal. In which case I- 
 
14 
 
 a 
 
 OUR BO VSR 
 
 Sir G. Yes? 
 
 Tal. Should sit down. 
 
 Sir G. ( sits back ) Talbot Champneys, you surprise me—you 
 wound me. You have received every advantage that money could 
 procure—you have come back after your lengthened foreign 
 experiences, not —I must admit with pain—;z<?/what I quite expected. 
 Possibly I looked for too much, but surely it was not an extrava¬ 
 gant hope to indulge in that you would obey me in the one 
 important step in a man’s life—his marriage. The lady I have 
 selected is wealthy, young and handsome. She is on a visit to 
 your aunt, so you will have ample opportunity for ingratiating 
 yourself. You will not thwart me in this, my dear Talbot? ( tak¬ 
 ing his hand) 
 
 Tal. Well, before promising anything you must trot her out. 
 
 Sir G. Trot her out? 
 
 Tal. Yes, yes, put her through her paces—let’s judge of her 
 points. You don’t expect a fellow to buy a pig in a poke ? 
 
 Sir G. Hem! [aside) Very remarkable language. If anybody 
 else spoke so, I should say it was vulgar, but my son! It’s—ha! 
 ha!—eccentricity; his great-uncle Joseph was eccentric—he— 
 [looks aside at Talbot and sighs deeply) 
 
 Tal. [aside) Married whether I like it or not. Not if I know it. 
 I’m going to “go it” a bit before /settle down. I have gone it a 
 bit already, and I’m going to “ go it ” a bit more. It’s the gov¬ 
 ernor’s fault ; he shouldn’t have mapped out my career with com¬ 
 pass and rule. A man’s not an express train, to be driven along a 
 line of rails and never allowed to shunt on his own account. There’s 
 Charley’s father let him have his fling and no questions asked. 
 The governor’s had his hobby—let him pay for it—he can do it. 
 
 Clarissa has entered, c., spoken briefly aside to Sir Geoffry and 
 
 is now down beside Talbot. 
 
 Clar. Talbot, it is so delightful to have you back again. I shall 
 now have such charming evenings with you at chess. 
 
 Tal. At what? 
 
 Clar. Chess—the king of games. 
 
 Tal. Do you call it a game? Ha ! ha! No, thankee ; life’s too 
 short for chess. 
 
 Clar. Well, well, we’ll say backgammon. 
 
 Tal. I don’t mind saying backgammon, but you don’t catch me 
 playing backgammon. 
 
 Clar. Weil, then, we must even continue our usual cosy even, 
 ings. /do my wool-work whilst your papa reads us the debates. 
 That’s our regular evening’s programme. 
 
 Tal. [aside) They must have had a rollicking time of it. The 
 debates ! a dozen columns of dullness filtered through your father. 
 Not for Talbot. 
 
“ OUR BOYSr 
 
 l o 
 
 Clar. But now we have music. Miss Melrose plays charmingly. 
 Do you like music ? 
 
 Tal. Ye-e-s. I don’t like pieces , you know—five and-twenty 
 minutes of fireworks. I like anything with a good chorus. 
 
 Clar. Ah, so does Miss Melrose’s cousin . 
 
 Sir G. ( at Clarissa, to stop her ) He-hem ! He-hem ! 
 
 Clar. (aside) I forgot. 
 
 Tal. (suspiciously , aside ) Halloa! Why did he make that elabor¬ 
 ate but utterly ineffective attempt to cough down the cousin ? (looks 
 at Sir Geoffry and Clarissa) I see it all at a glance. The 
 heiress is to be flung at my head, not the cousin at my heart. 
 Future, luck, destiny, and all the lot of you, 1 see my fate. I marry 
 that cousin. 
 
 Sir G. (aside to Clarissa) Mary Melrose, the cousin, must be 
 sent away. 
 
 Clar. (aside) But she won’t go. 
 
 Sir G. Talbot is a—Talbot is a- 
 
 Clar. Talbot’s a fool. 
 
 Sir G. (wounded, yet proud) Clarissa Champneys, Talbot is my 
 son. 
 
 Clar. Geoffry Champneys, Talbot is my nephew. I only wish I 
 could exchange him for young Mr. Middlewick. 
 
 Sir G. You irritate me—you incense me—go to the deuce, 
 Clarissa! 
 
 Clar. Ha ! ha! Come along, Talbot; let’s go and see Mr. Mid¬ 
 dlewick’s pigs, perhaps they ll interest you. (takes his arm) 
 
 Tal. (has been taking out a large cigar) You don’t mind my 
 smoking ? 
 
 Clar. Not a bit. 
 
 Tal. D’ye think the pigs ’ll object ? 
 
 Clar. (aside) He’s an idiot. 
 
 Tal. (aside) She’s a nuisance, (to her) Tell us all about the 
 cousin, (they go out) 
 
 Sir G. Of course women can never hold their tongues. Mary 
 Melrose is pretty—penniless though. Mischievous, too, as a girl 
 can well be. And no taste—goes to sleep when I read the debates. 
 Wakes up when it’s time to say “ good night,” and wants to play 
 billiards. A very dangerous young woman. (Violet Melrose 
 heard without, c. and R.) 
 
 Vio. Now, Mary, you must promise to behave yourself, or you 
 shall not come out with me again. 
 
 Sir G. That’s Violet, that’s the heiress —and of course her 
 cousin Mary with her. Confound it! They’re as inseparable as 
 —I’ll try and walk off Talbot. He must see and love Miss Mel¬ 
 rose. Yes, wdiy not “ love ? ” My father commanded me to love, 
 and I was too dutiful a son not to obey him on the instant. I loved 
 madly — to order . Exit hastily , l. d. 
 
 u. OF ILL UB. 
 
i6 
 
 “ OUR BOYS.” 
 
 Enter, Violet Melrose, c. 
 
 Vio. Where can they have got to ? 
 
 Enter, Mary Melrose, c .—the poor cousin—both dressed in the 
 
 best taste. 
 
 Mary. What a handsome place. Looks awfully new though, 
 doesn’t it? Seems as if it was painted and decorated yesterday, 
 and furnished in the middle of the night—in order to be* ready for 
 visitors this morning. I seem to smell the hay and sacking that 
 enveloped the legs of the chairs and tables. Don’t you , Violet? 
 
 Vio. Certainly not. Mary, don’t make remarks. 
 
 Mary. Why not ? J like to make remarks. 
 
 Vio. Yes, you like to do a great many things you shouldn t do. 
 
 Mary. So does every one. If one’s always to do what’s proper 
 and correct, life might as well be all rice pudding and toast and 
 water. I hate them both, they’re so dreadfully wholesome. 
 
 Vio. I don’t know what excuse we shall make for coming here. 
 It looks as if we were impatient to see the young men. 
 
 Mary. So we are. At least I am. We’ve seen no one of the 
 male sex at old Cliampneys’. 
 
 Vio. Mary ! 
 
 Mary. Begging his pardon—Sir Geoffry Champneys— Bart's — 
 no one, under the age of fifty. 
 
 Vio. Why, Mary, there’s Mr. Sedative, he isn’t thirty. 
 
 Mary. Oh, Sedative’s a curate and doesn’t count. Besides, he 
 blushes when you speak to him, and, altogether, he’s a muff. He’s 
 awfully good and devoted to his mother and all that, but—well, 
 there, he isn’t my sort. 
 
 Vio. I don’t know who is your sort, Mary. 
 
 Mary. Oh, it’s all very well for you , you know ; you can pick 
 and choose—if you haven’t picked and chosen. 
 
 Vio. Mary, you—how can you ? 
 
 Mary. Violet, my dear, don’t try to impose upon me. I know 
 the impression young Morton made upon your susceptible heart. I 
 tried hard to ensnare him, but you beat me. Oh, you quiet ones, 
 I wouldn’t trust you out of my sight— [aside) or in it for the matter 
 of that. 
 
 Vio. You’re always thinking of love and marriage and all that 
 nonsense. 
 
 Mary. Of course I am. There’s nothing else worth thinking 
 about. It’s all very well for you —you’re rich, and you have your 
 tenants, and your pensioners, and your dependents, and I don’t 
 know what, to interest you. I’ve nothing, [sighs) I wish I was 
 rich. 
 
 Vio. Then marry some one with money. 
 
 Mary. Never ! [after a slight pause) Unless he’s nice, then I will 
 
“ OUR BOYS .” 
 
 1 7 
 
 —oh, yes, I don’t go in for “love in a cottage.” I never could 
 understand the theory of “bread and cheese and kisses.” I hate 
 bread and cheese. 
 
 Vio. ( with admonitory finger) And - 
 
 Mary, (sighs) I know nothing about the rest. 
 
 Vio. You mercenary girl. Mark me, you’ll marry a rich man. 
 
 Mary. Certainly—if I like him. 
 
 Vio. But as for a poor one ? 
 
 Mary. I’ll marry him if I like him better. 
 
 Vio. I can’t make you out ; you’re simply the most- 
 
 Enter, Charles Middle wick quickly . 
 
 Mary, (aside) Morton! 
 
 Char. Why, Miss Melrose ! 
 
 Vio. Oh, can I be- (sinks into chair) 
 
 Mary. If anybody’d catch me I* think I could faint. 
 
 Char. Let me. (catches her in his arms) My dear Miss Melrose, 
 I- 
 
 Vio. (recovers suddenly) Mr. Morton ! ! 
 
 Char. Miss Melrose ! (leaves Mary and goes to Violet) Can I 
 —can I believe my eyes ? What are you doing here ? 
 
 Vio. What we you doing here ? 
 
 Char. Morton isn’t my name. I assumed it at Bonn, like a fool, 
 because of a scrape I got into with an offensive and warlike 
 student, which resulted in his being rather severely wounded—an 
 insolent hound. No, I’ve come back here to my home, to my 
 father, and- 
 
 Vio. (aside, romantically) Comeback to his father, to his home ! 
 Mary, is— is this destiny? 
 
 Mary, (aside to her) If it is destiny, dear, don’t you think I’d 
 better go away for a short time ? 
 
 Vio. No, no, Mary, don’t go, by any means. 
 
 Mary. I wouldn’t dream of such a thing. Exit C. and R. 
 
 Char. Life’s made up of surprises. Only to think of meeting 
 you here. 
 
 Vio. You took no parlicular trouble to find out where to meet 
 me, did you ? 
 
 Char. You left Vienna so abruptly. You wouldn’t have had me 
 advertise ? 
 
 Vio. Really ! 
 
 Char. Lost, stolen, or strayed, a young lady, etc., etc. Anyone 
 ^restoring her to her disconsolate admirer, Charles—a- 
 
 Vio. Mr. Morton, upon my word, I- 
 
 Char, (ardently) And upon my word this is the happiest moment 
 of my life *no, it’s run hard by the other moment, when under the 
 shadow of the trees, with the wild river rushing at our feet, you 
 half— half whispered a word or two that led me to hope. Oh, 
 
18 
 
 “ OUR BOYS.” 
 
 Violet, I swear by—by—by those eyes—and what could a man 
 swear by truer [or, query, bluer)^-Y\z never ceased to think of 
 you, to dream of you- 
 
 Vio. To dream of me ? What, not when you’ve been awake ? 
 
 Char. I’ve never been awake ; life, since we parted, has been 
 one long sweet siesta in which your image was ever foremost. 
 The chief cause, the only cause of my hastening home was to 
 search you out. I knew your wandering ways, and meant to track 
 you. You said you intended spending the summer at Biarritz. But 
 fortune has favored me as she never yet favored man, and placed 
 the prize in my arms. 
 
 Vio. ( pleased , but trying to be severe) In where ? 
 
 Char, [throwing his arms round her) There! [slight pause) 
 
 Vio. Mr. Morton, I’m ashamed of you. 
 
 Char. Miss Melrose, Y va proud of YOU. 
 
 Vio. Really, I- 
 
 Char. You wouldn’t have me think you a flirt—a coquette ? 
 
 Vio. Indeed, no. 
 
 Char. You would be one if when you breathed those half-dozen 
 delicious words, you only meant to trifle with me. I’ve lived upon 
 that sentence ever since—looking ardently forward to the day 
 when I could present myself in propria perso?ia as I do now. 
 Violet, don’t turn away, for- (Sir Geoffry coughs without) 
 
 Vio. [rather agitated) There’s somebody coming. 
 
 Char. Confound it! in this life there always is somebody com¬ 
 ing. [goes up , L.) 
 
 Sir G. (enters) I can’t find him—he isn’t with the pigs, [to 
 Violet) I regret that my son- 
 
 Vio. Why, Sir Geoffry—you must have intended it as a wicked 
 surprise. Your son and I are acquainted. 
 
 Sir G. Has he, then, already- 
 
 Vio. Oh, before- 
 
 Sir G. Good gracious! You must not mind his being a little 
 bashful and retiring. 
 
 Vio. Oh, I didn’t find him so at all. 
 
 Sir G. [aside) The deuce she didn’t! met before? 
 
 Vio. At Vienna. 
 
 Sir G. Is it possible ? And you don’t—don’t dislike him ? 
 
 Vio. Oh, who could ! 
 
 Sir G. [aside) I can’t believe my- The young rascal! all his 
 
 opposition was assumed then—a deep, young dog. Ha ! ha ! 
 Well, he took me in. Ha ! ha ! Yes, he took me in. 
 
 Char, [down) I hope, Sir Geoffry, we shall- 
 
 Sir G. Yes, yes, young gentleman, all in good time, but just at 
 present you see we- • 
 
 Vio. I should like to hear, though, what your son was about to 
 say. 
 
“OUR BOYS." 19 
 
 Sir G. ( seeing with horror the mistake ) My—my son ! This per¬ 
 son—he’s no son of mine. 
 
 Char, [half aside) No—thank Heaven ! 
 
 Vio. [shrinksfrom him; bitterly) Twice an impostor! 
 
 Char. Violet, I- 
 
 Enter, l. d., Middlewick and Miss Clarissa; at c., Mary and 
 
 Talbot. 
 
 Mid. It’s true, mum. Every one on ’em was agin me doing it. 
 
 Halloa—who’s the gals? 
 
 • 
 
 At hearing the intensely vulgar voice of Middlewick, Violet has 
 shrunk, and , evidently shocked, assumes a cold look — Charley 
 perceives it, and by his expression shows he resents her manner. 
 
 Tal. [to Mary) D’ye know I feel as if I’d known you ever so 
 long ? 
 
 Mary. And I’ve quite taken to you—fact - 
 
 Sir Geoffry, who has observed this with suppressed rage , takes 
 Talbot by the arm, with a slight wrench, brings him to Violet. 
 
 Char, [aside) I could read a volume in her altered look. 
 
 Sir G. This, Violet, is—is my son! 
 
 Char, [seizing Middlewick’ s hand with a grasp of affection; 
 proudly) And this , Miss Melrose, is my father ! 
 
 ACT DROP. 
 
 « 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene.— Drawing-room at Sir Geoffry Champneys’—Kempster 
 
 discovered. 
 
 Kemp. Well, things are coming to a pretty pass when we have 
 such visitors to dinner as Mr. Middlewick, senor. Three ’elps to 
 soup, and his napkin tucked round his neck for all the world like a 
 carver at a cafe —a common cafe, [down) And yet, somehow, I 
 fancy his ’art’s in the right place ; I know his ’and is (that’s his 
 pocket) a precious deal oftener than the governor’s. I’ve heard, 
 too, as the servants at his place are fed on the fat of the land. 
 Hem ! we ain’t. There’s a deal too much show here. Three 
 mutton cutlets for four people, who’ve the consolation of knowing 
 the dishes is ’all marked, though when a party’s hungry silver 
 ain’t satisfying. 
 
20 
 
 “ OUR BOYSr 
 
 Enter, Sir Geoffry and Middlewick, in evening dress , Middle- 
 
 wick’s a little old fashioned and extravagant — large , double- 
 
 breasted white waistcoat and plenty of necktie. 
 
 Sir G. Yes, yes, Mr. Middlewick, you are perfectly right, (to 
 Kempster) Send our coffee in here. 
 
 Kemp, (aside) They’re a-gettin’ thick, they’re a-gettin’ uncom¬ 
 mon thick. Exit, L. D. 
 
 Sir G. You enjoyed your dinner? 
 
 Mid. (sits) Fust-rate. H ay one . 
 
 Sir G. Good ! And you don’t mind leaving your wine for a 
 chat ? 
 
 Mid. Not a bit. Can’t abear claret, and port pays me out. I 
 never knew what gout was when I had my shop. 
 
 Sir G. He-hem ! 
 
 Mid. (aside) He always shies at the shop. Well, I won’t tread 
 on his aristocratic corns ; it ain’t fair, for after all, they're tender, 
 and T m ’eavy. 
 
 Sir G. I’m delighted, Mr. Middlewick, to welcome under my 
 roof so successful a representative of the commercial spirit of the 
 age. Champneys Hall, as a rule, has been honored by the visits 
 of people of birth solely. Your presence here is a pleasing excep¬ 
 tion. 
 
 Mid. Sir Geoffry, you do me ^onor. Of course money’s always 
 a- 
 
 Sir G. Not wholly. I anticipate your remark. Personal worth 
 must count for something. 
 
 Mid. Fust-rate theory— phyls-Dtropic and all that—but it don’t 
 wash, Sir Geoffry. Tak c yourself, for instance. When you stroll 
 about ’ere, everybody you meet touches his ’at. How many does 
 so when you walks down Fleet Street? 
 
 Sir G. Everybody touches his hat to you, Mr. Middlewick. 
 
 Mid. Not a bit of it. See here ; that's what they touches their 
 ’ats to. (slaps his pocket , which rattles with the sound of money) 
 Money makes the mare to go—the ?nare —rubbish ! It sets the 
 whole stable a gallopin’ ! If I go into a shop shabby the counter¬ 
 skipper treats me familiar, pre-aps ’aughty. If I wear new broad 
 cloth he calls me “ Sir.” There you ’ave it in a nutshell. 
 
 Sir G. Mr. Middlewick, I admit that money exercises an undue 
 influence in the world and to an extent with vulgar—I repeat, 
 vulgar minds—elbows birth, worth, virtue, and—a—all that sort of 
 thing a little out of the way. That is why so many of us—I say 
 US —live in the country, where—where- 
 
 Mid. Jes’ so. /know. You’re somebody ’ere—nobody there. 
 Quite right; that’s why / settled in the country. 
 
 Sir G. Your career has been a remarkable one. 
 
 Mid. Extry-ordinary. I was lucky from a baby. Found a farden 
 
“ OUR BOYSr 
 
 21 
 
 when I was two years old, and got a five-shilling piece for ‘olding 
 a ’orse when I was playing truant at the age of six. When 1 
 growed up everything I touched turned up trumps. I believe if 
 I’d purchased a ship-load of Dutch cheeses, the man with the van 
 ’ud a’ delivered me Stiltons. I believe as the Government went 
 to war a purpose to give me a openin’ for contracks. Bacon ! 
 Well, there—bless your ’art, what I made out of bacon alone was 
 a little independence. I never meet a pig in the road that I don’t 
 feel inclined to take off my ’at to him. 
 
 Sir G. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Mid. Every speculation proved a success. It seemed as if I 
 was in the secret of life* s lucky bag, and had been put up to where 
 I was to pick out the prizes. Some folks said, “ ’Old ’ard, Perkyn, 
 my boy, you’ll run aground.” Well, I didn't “ ’old ’ard,” 1 “’eld 
 on,” and here I am, Sir Geoffry, at the age of fifty-three able to 
 buy up any ’arf a dozen nobs in the county. 
 
 Sir G. [aside) Nobs ! He is a pill for all his gilding. 
 
 Mid. But if I'm not a gentleman, there’s my boy. 
 
 Sir G. Who, I have a sort of suspicion, admires Violet Melrose. 
 
 Mid. What! The stuck-up rich gal. No! no! 
 
 Sir G. [eagerly) You think not? 
 
 Mid. Certain. My son knows better than to thwart me. Miss 
 Melrose snubbed me when we fust met—has cold-shouldered me 
 ever since. Do you suppose my boy Charley would have any¬ 
 thing to say to a young woman as despised his father? 
 
 Sir G. [shaking hands) My dear Middlewick, you delight me. 
 Of course not. I was foolishly suspicious. I want my son to marry 
 Miss Melrose. He will do so of course—for he has never dis¬ 
 obeyed me ; he has been brought up strictly to acknowledge my 
 authority and- 
 
 Mid. And wont , I’ll warrant. Your system’s a mistake— mine's 
 the correct one. I’ve always given my boy his fling—never 
 baulked him from a baby. If he cried for the moon we give him 
 a Cheshire cheese immediate— that being the nearest substitute 
 ’andy. Now he’d obey my slightest wish. 
 
 Sir G. Will he ! Ha ! ha ! Let us hope so. 
 
 Enter, Violet Melrose. 
 
 Vio. Interrupting a tete-a-tete , I’m afraid. 
 
 Sir G. Not at all, Miss Melrose. 
 
 Mid. Oh, no, not at all—not at all. [rises and goes up—aside ) 
 “Taturtate”—always coming out with her /talian. Ha, she’s not 
 a patch upon the cousin ; she’s the gal for my money. 
 
 Sir G. [down — aside in an undertone to Violet) Miss Melrose— 
 may I say Violet —I trust Talbot’s manner, modest as it is, has 
 impressed you. You must not take him for the foo— I mean you 
 
22 
 
 “ OUR BOYSr 
 
 mustn’t imagine lie is the less ardent because he doesn’t talk 
 
 poetry like young Mr. Middlewick, or- 
 
 Vio. (with temper ) Oh, don’t mention him , Sir Geoffry —that 
 young gentleman seems to ignore my existence. 
 
 Sir G. (aside) Good. Son sees father’s snubbed and retaliates. 
 (to her) Ha! ha! do you know—pardon my absurdity—at first I 
 actually imagined there was some trifling tenderness in that 
 quarter. But I see by your face I was mistaken. You are above 
 being dazzled by good looks. 
 
 Vio. (with a natural burst) And he is good-looking, isn’t he? 
 
 Sir G. (a little haughtily) He—hem ! He’s long —but nothing 
 distingue -—Talbot now is not what one call a striking figure, but 
 there’s a concealed intellectuality—a hidden something or other— 
 you’ll understand what I mean but I’m at a loss for the word at 
 the moment—that is none the less effective in the long run —(with 
 pleasant earnestness) a—then, my dear Violet, he’s the heir to a 
 baronetcy. He’s an embryo statesman, and he adores you. Didn’t 
 you observe him at dinner ? He ate nothing —drank nothing— 
 which—and I say it at the risk of being considered a too observant 
 host—is more than can be said of young Middlewick. 
 
 Vio. (aside) That’s true, for I watched him. 
 
 Char, (heard without , L.) Ha! ha! ha! You play billiards! 
 why, you know as much of the game as the King of Ashanti knows 
 of- 
 
 Tal. (heard, L.) Ha ! ha ! Play you any day in the week. 
 
 Mid. (down) I say, Sir Geoffry, them boys are going it, ain’t 
 they ? 
 
 Vio. (aside) “Them boys ! 
 
 Mid. (aside) I see her sneer. 
 
 Sir G. (aside) Every time he opens his mouth improves Talbot’s 
 chance. 
 
 Enter, Charley and Talbot l.—Charley is a little excited with 
 wine , but not in the least tipsy—he has been helping himself f?'eely 
 to drown his annoyance at Violet’s hauteur and evident horror 
 of his father — Talbot’s manner is of the same washed-out, flabby 
 nature as previously shown. 
 
 Char. Ha! ha! ha! Here’s Talbot Champneys trying to argue 
 with me about billiards. Why, man, you can’t see as far as the 
 spot ball. 
 
 Sir G. The fact of being short-sighted is scarcely a happy sub¬ 
 ject for jesting. 
 
 Vio. (with suppressed temper) I quite agree with you, Sir 
 Geoffry. 
 
 Clar. (has entered) It’s aristocratic ; double eye-glasses look 
 rather distingue , /think. 
 
 Char, (at Violet) Yes, those who are not aristocratic may 
 
“ OUR BOYSr 
 
 23 
 
 sometimes suffer from the affection. There are short-sighted fools 
 in the world who are not swells. 
 
 Vio. ( aside ) He thinks that severe. 
 
 Mid. Bless your ’art, yes ; we had a carman as was always 
 driving into every think ; at last he run over a boy in the Boro’, 
 and that got him his quietum. 
 
 Char. Yes, yes, you told us before about him. 
 
 Mid. (< aside) Don’t, Charley, don’t. If you only brought me out 
 to shut me up, I might as well be a tellyscoop. 
 
 Sir G. ( aside to Violet) Charming papa-in-law he’ll make to 
 somebody. 
 
 Vio. Don’t, don’t, (looking at Charley) He’s looking daggers 
 at me, and I’ve done nothing. 
 
 Tal. It’s rather rich your talking of beating me at billiards, con¬ 
 sidering that I’ve devoted the last three years to billiards and 
 nothing else. % 
 
 Sir G. (aside) The deuce he has ! That’s pleasant for a father 
 to hear. Oh, a—exaggeration. 
 
 Tal. It’s rather amusing your bragging of rivalling me. And 
 when you talk about my not being able to see the spot ball, all I 
 can say is- 
 
 Char. Ha ! ha ! ha ! If you can't, you’ve a capital eye for the 
 pocket, (at Violet—Violet shows she sees the thrust) 
 
 Mid. Ah, well, bagatelle s more in my way. When me and a 
 few neighbors used to to take our glass at the Peterboro’ Arms, 
 we- 
 
 Char. Yes, yes, father - 
 
 Mid. (aside) He’s bit. That gal’s bit him. It’ll be an awk¬ 
 ward day for Charley when he shows he’s ashamed of his gover¬ 
 nor. 
 
 Clar. I agree with Mr. Middlewick—bagatelle’s charming. 
 
 Vio. So it is, Miss Champneys. 
 
 Clar. So innocent. 
 
 Sir G. (rising) Come, who’s for a game of billiards then? I 
 never touch a cue, but I’ll play you fifty up, Mr. Middlewick, and 
 my sister here and your son shall see all fair. Come, you shall 
 see that there is even a worse player in the world than yourself. 
 (aside) There couldn’t be a better opportunity for leaving Talbot 
 and Violet alone, (to him) What say ? 
 
 Mid. I’m agreeable—you must teach me though. 
 
 Clar. /will do that, if you will allow me. 
 
 Mid. Only too happy, (goes off t R. d., with Clarissa) 
 
 Sir G. (aside to Talbot) Now’s your time, bring matters to a 
 crisis. 
 
 Vio. (taking Sir Geoffry’s arm the other side) Sir Geoffry, 
 I’ll back you. 
 
24 
 
 “ OUR BO VSR 
 
 Sir G. ( going towards R. D., annoyed — aside) Confound it! (to 
 Violet) You really are most—a— 1 can’t play a bit- 
 
 As they go out Violet gives a sort of half sneering, half mischievous 
 laugh at Charley, who can with difficulty restrain his annoyance; 
 when they are off\ he turns, finding himself face to face with Tal¬ 
 bot—Talbot is bringing out a pipe, and filling it. 
 
 Char. Well. 
 
 Tal. Well. 
 
 Char. What are you going to do ? 
 
 Tal. What are you ? 
 
 Char. I don’t know. 
 
 Tal. I do. I’m going to have a smoke in the stable. Also a 
 good think. 
 
 Char. A good what ? 
 
 Tal. Think. I’m in love. 
 
 Char. You ! 
 
 Tal. Why shouldn’t I be ? You tall chaps always think you can 
 monopolize all the love-making in the world. You can love short , 
 just the same as you can love long . I tell you I’m gone . D’ye 
 hear ? Gone. 
 
 Char. ( bitterly ) I’m happy to hear it. I shall be happier when 
 you prove the fact. ( moves away) 
 
 Tal. I’m off. When you want a weed you know where to find 
 me. Exit. 
 
 Char. In love , is he? I don’t wonder at it—she’d entice a hermit 
 from his cell —and—and—send him back sold. She can’t have a 
 heart, (enter Mary) Ah, women are all alike. 
 
 Mary. What a frightful observation! And at the top of your 
 voice too. 
 
 Char. I mean it. 
 
 Mary. No, you don’t. 
 
 Char. If I don’t may I be- 
 
 Mary. Jilted ? 
 
 Char. Jilted. The foolish phrase for one of the cruellest crimes 
 —I say it advisedly, crimes —that can disgrace female —I won’t say 
 human —nature. 
 
 Mary. Dear ! dear ! dear ! 
 
 Char, [withfeeling) Hearts are not playthings to be broken like 
 children’s drums just to see what’s inside them. A man’s feelings 
 are not toys to be trifled with and tossed aside. Love in a true 
 man means love —love pure and simple and unselfish—the devo¬ 
 tion of his whole mind and being to one in whose weal or woe his 
 
 very soul’s wrapped up. With women- 
 
 Mary. What a pity it is Talbot Champneys can’t talk like you— 
 and going into Parliament too. 
 
“ OUR BOYSr 25 
 
 Char. Talbot Champneys—yes— his relatives are well-spoken, 
 well-born somebodies, and so she favors him. 
 
 Mary. She ? Who ? 
 
 Char. Absurd ! there’s only one she. 
 
 Mary. That’s very polite to me. I’m sure. 
 
 Char. Oh, you know what I mean. In my eyes. 
 
 Mary. Exactly. But you don’t monopolize all the visual organs 
 of the universe. There are other eyes that may have looked else - 
 where. 
 
 Char. Why, what on earth- 
 
 Mary. ( modestly ) I don’t think Talbot does admire Violet. 
 
 Char. Eh ? 
 
 Mary. Not so much as he does—a—somebody else. 
 
 Char. Why, who is there he could- 
 
 Mary. Well, upon my word—considering that I—{pauses awk¬ 
 wardly ) 
 
 Char. Why, what a fool I’ve been ! 
 
 Mary. And are. 
 
 Char. But—oh, impossible ! 
 
 Mary. Thank you. 
 
 Char. No, I don’t mean that , because, of course, you are a 
 charming young lady, and- 
 
 Mary. Thank you again. 
 
 Char. I mean it’s impossible on your side. I really believe Talbot 
 to be not half a bad fellow in the main, but his manner, his 
 appearance, and- 
 
 Mary. Oh, handsome men are like the shows at the fairs, you 
 see all the best outside. 
 
 Char. There’s some truth in that, perhaps. 
 
 Mary. Talbot Champneys isn’t either the fool he looks or affects 
 to be. He’s wonderfully good-hearted, I know, for I watched his 
 manner only yesterday towards a crippled beggar boy when he 
 thought no one saw him ; and—and he snubs his pompous old 
 father like a—like a- 
 
 Char. A young cub. 
 
 Mary. Well, a young cub’s better than an old bear. I don’t 
 believe in surface—I like to know what’s inside. You’ve often 
 noticed confectioners’ tarts, with their proud upper-crust—hollow 
 mockeries—delusive shams ; when the knife dives into their dim 
 recesses what does it disclose ? fruit, occasionally ; syrup, seldom ; 
 flavor, never. Now, Talbot’s not a confectioner’s tart! 
 
 Char. No, I should say he was more of the cake. 
 
 Mary. Never mind, I like cake. . He may be eccentric, but his 
 heart’s in the right place. 
 
 Char. That means you ve got it. 
 
 Mary. He hasn’t told me so. 
 
 Char. Until you make him I- 
 
26 
 
 “OUR BOYSr 
 
 Mary. Make him ! well, you are - 
 
 Sir G. (heard, r. ) Don’t mention it—a trifle. 
 
 Mid. (heard, R.) ’Pon my word I’m downright- 
 
 Sir G. No, no ; not at all. 
 
 Char, (earnestly) You will—you will make him declare himself, 
 Mary Melrose, and make me the- 
 
 Enter, Sir Geoffry and Middlewick,/?//^^^ Violet—Mary 
 
 and Charley, sit up, l. 
 
 Mid. I declare I wouldn’t have done such a thing for any 
 money, (aside) I knew I should come to grief at them billiards. 
 
 Sir G. (blandly) My dear Mr. Middlewick, commonest thing 
 with beginners. Cutting the billiard cloth with the cue is a trifling 
 accident that might happen with any one. Don’t mention it any 
 more, (aside) An awkward brute. Treated the table like his con¬ 
 founded counter. 
 
 Mid. (aside) Serves me right, trying to play billiards, and poker- 
 back pretending HE couldn’t, and him all the time a regular dab. 
 He’s up to these grand games, but one of these days I’ll loore him 
 on to skittles —and astonish him. 
 
 Sir G. (aside to Middlewick, pleased) Middlewick, look, my 
 dear sir. (points to Charley and, Mary, in conversation up stage 
 on sociable, L.) D’ye see that? Ha! ha! Seem rather interested 
 in each other’s conversation, eh? (nudges him) 
 
 Mid. Why, anything more like spooning I- 
 
 Sir G. I hope, for your sake, it may be so ; that girl is worth a 
 thousand of her haughty cousin. 
 
 Mid. (seizing his hand) Ybu’re right, Sir Geoffry. And I’m 
 proud to hear a swell as is a swell give vent to such sentiments— 
 they do you honor. 
 
 Vio. (aside) He means to wound me—to insult me. Mary can¬ 
 not willingly have lent herself to so mean and poor a trick. She 
 is honest—but he—(enter, Clarissa ; goes to Middlewick) How 
 taken up with each other they seem. There isn’t an atom of 
 jealousy about my disposition, but I’d give the world to know what 
 they’re talking about. (Charley and Mary laugh) Now they’re 
 laughing. Perhaps at me . Oh, how I wish Mary wasn’t poor— 
 I’d have such a quarrel with her. 
 
 Mid. (aside; has been talking with Clarissa) A more sensible 
 woman I never come across. 
 
 Clar. (aside) A delightful person if a little eccentric. 
 
 Mid. (aside) I’ll find out what she thinks of my sentiments 
 regarding Charley’s fancy. 
 
 Clar. (aside) I hope his evident attentions to nie have not been 
 noticed by my brother. 
 
 Mid. (seated by her) Miss Clarissa—nice name Clarissa. 
 
 Clar. (coquettishly) Think so ? 
 
27 
 
 “ OUR BOYS." 
 
 Mid. Yes—I wouldn’t change it for no other. Your other name 
 I would though. 
 
 Clar. [aside) What can he mean? These successful commercial 
 people are so blunt and business-like—can he possibly be about to 
 — [sighs) Well, I must say I consider him rather a fine man. 
 
 Sir G. [to Violet, who has been and is watching Mary and 
 Charley—Sir Geoffry has sat beside her) Depend upon it, ill- 
 assorted marriages are a mistake. For instance, we’ll say, young 
 Middlewick there—the poor lad’s in a false position. 
 
 Vio. [aside, in temper) He is —sitting by her. 
 
 Sir G. A husband’s relations, too, should not be ignored. Should 
 the young man marry a lady, imagine her humiliation at the 
 periodical visits of “ Papa.” 
 
 Vio. [turning to him , a little nettled) And yet you tolerate him 
 here—make much of him. 
 
 Sir G. My dear Violet, in the country one is obliged to swallow 
 one’s feelings occasionally. I take good care no one shall ever 
 meet him for whom I have the least—a—he-hem ! [aside) Nearly 
 put my foot in it there. 
 
 Middlewick and Clarissa have been conversing very earnestly. 
 
 Mid. Of course—of course when people get to a certain time of 
 life they ought to settle. 
 
 Charley and Maky stroll off, c. and r. 
 
 Clar. My sentiments precisely. 
 
 Mid. And after all high birth’s all very well, but if the other 
 party has the motiey - 
 
 . Clar. Certainly—certainly. It may be radical and all that sort 
 of thing, but give me intellect before mere family. And 1 am 
 worldly enough to revere success—such as yours, for instance. 
 
 Mid. [aside) She certainly is one of the most sensible women I 
 —and after all they’d make an uncommon handsome couple- 
 
 Clar. Eh ? 
 
 Mid. Charley and- 
 
 Sir G. ( abruptly , and annoyed) Clarissa, my dear, where on 
 earth has Talbot got to ! 
 
 Clar. ( rising , enraged at discovery of her mistake in Middle¬ 
 wick) How should / know where he’s got to! 
 
 Sir G. [astonished) Why, gracious me ! My dear, I —[aside to 
 her, but aloud) Remember, Clarissa, if you please, there are visi¬ 
 tors present. 
 
 Clar. Visitors indeed ! Such canaille ! [goes up and exit) 
 
 Mid. [aside) I heard you, my lady. So the old ones going 
 in for snubs as well as—It’s the last time me or Charley sets a foot 
 in this 'ouse. 
 
28 
 
 “OUR BOYS.” 
 
 Vio. (who has gone up to conservatory ; looking off} How mean 
 I feel, watching them. I’ll—I’ll leave this house to-morrow. 
 
 Sir G. [aside] What on earth’s the matter with the woman? 
 Something’s annoyed her, but she mustn’t be rude to my guests. I 
 have one system with my son, my servants, and—yes, and my 
 sister. She must come back at once and—Miss Melrose—Middle- 
 wick, excuse me a moment or two. Exit, r. d. . 
 
 Mid. All alone with Miss High-and-mighty ! Hang me if I 
 don’t tackle her! You’ll—you’ll excuse me, Miss, but- 
 
 Vio. [in horror] Oh, pray don’t say “ Miss.” 
 
 Mid. [softened] Eh? [aside] not “Miss?” [to her] Well, then, 
 we’ll say “Voylet.” 
 
 Vio. [disgusted, but unable to restrain her amusement] Mr. Mid- 
 dlewick, you really are too absurd ! 
 
 She moves towards R. door, and exit; as she does so Charley 
 enters, Q.., from l., and is about to follow her. 
 
 Mid. [aside] If ever I set foot again in this house —[catches 
 Charley by the arm, and turns him round abruptly towards him - 
 self) 
 
 Char. Why, dad, I- 
 
 Mid. Charley, where are you a going of? 
 
 Char. ( annoyed ) Oh ! father, I really- 
 
 Mid. [severely) Charles Middlewick, you’re a going after that 
 young lady. 
 
 Char. Well, sir, if I am f 
 
 Mid. Charley, I don’t want you and me to fall out. We never 
 have yet. All’s been smooth and pleasant with me hitherto, but 
 when I do cut up rough, Charley, I cut up that rough as the road 
 a being repaired afore the steam roller tackles it is simply a feather 
 bed compared to your father. 
 
 Char. I don’t understand you. 
 
 Mid. [with suppressed passion) Obey me and my nature’s olive 
 ile ; go agin me and it’s still ile, but it’s ile of vitterel. 
 
 Char. If, sir, you’re alluding to my feelings towards Miss Mel¬ 
 rose, I- 
 
 Mid. I am. Think no more of her. Between you and her there’s 
 a gulf, Charles Middlewick, and that gulf’s grammar. Perhaps 
 you think I’m too ignorant to know what pride means. I’m not. 
 If you ever cared for this stuck-up madam you must forget her. 
 [determined) She ain’t my sort ; never will be, and she shan’t be 
 my daughter-in-law neither. 
 
 Char. You have always prided yourself on allowing me my own 
 way in everything—it was your system, as you called it—and now, 
 when it comes to a matter in which my whole future happiness is 
 involved, you are cruel enough to- 
 
 Mid. [sharply) Cruel only to be kind, Charley. You wouldn’t 
 
29 
 
 “OUR BO VSR 
 
 marry a woman who despised your father? (Charley moves aside, 
 ashamed; pause) If you would, if you do, I 11 cut you off with a 
 shilling. I—I— [in a rage) Why don't you meet me half way and 
 say you’ll obey me, you shilly-shally numskull! 
 
 Char, (in a passion) You have no right to speak like this to me, 
 if you are my father, (pause ; Middlewick astonished) 
 
 Mid. (in softer voice) He’s right, he’s quite right; calling names 
 never did no good at any time, (to hint) Leastaways not a num¬ 
 skull, Charley, of course ; that was a “ lapsy lingo,” a slip of the 
 pen, you know. I’m speaking for your good. You’re her equal 
 in everything except one, Charley—I’m rich, but I’m a common, 
 ignorant man. Wait, anyhow, until—until I—I—ain’t here to dis¬ 
 grace you. (turns aside , breaks down) 
 
 Char, (after slight pause) My dear, kind dad, there’s nothing in 
 the world I wouldn’t sacrifice to please you- 
 
 Mid. (turns to him , pleased) Ah ? 
 
 Char. But in this instance- 
 
 Mid. (turning back grumpily) Hah! 
 
 Char. I can never be happy without Violet Melrose. 
 
 Mid. Then make up your mind to be miserable. 
 
 Char. The appearance of superciliousness which you imagine 
 you- 
 
 Mid. Imagine —but it ain’t for you to bandy any further words 
 with me. If you disappoint me, disobey me, defy me, take the con¬ 
 sequences. Say good-bye to your father, live on Violet Melrose’s 
 money, but don’t be surprised when your grand lady wife taunts 
 you with your mean position and flings your vulgar father's butter 
 shop in your teeth. (Charley attempts to speak) Not a word—I’ve 
 said my say, and what I have said, Charles Middlewick’s, my 
 ultipomatum. Exit, L. D. 
 
 Char, (distracted) Every word he said was true, and cut like a 
 knife ! How can I tell him that I know Violet’s apparent super¬ 
 cilious manner is only on the surface? That—But Ait? Am I 
 fooling myself all the while ? Does my blind admiration make me 
 —I’ll speak to her, learn the real depth of this seeming pride, 
 and ( is going r. ) 
 
 Mary enters R. 
 
 Mary. Oh, such fun ! 
 
 Char, (disgusted) Fun! 
 
 Mary. Yes, I’ve completely taken in the old gentleman. 
 
 Char. I believe you’re capable of it. 
 
 Mary. With half-a-dozen joking remarks in admiration of you, 
 I’ve completely put him off the scent. He firmly belives that 
 we’re awfully spoons, and that his son’s only to ask Violet to be 
 accepted. 
 
 Char. So you did that, did you ? 
 
30 
 
 “ OUR BOYSr 
 
 Mary. Yes, I did, and Sir Geoffry’s simply in raptures at the 
 success of his system, as he calls it, and Violet the- 
 
 Char, [in rage ) You’ve made matters ten times worse with your 
 meddling interference. You—you’ve widened the gulf, and still 
 further estranged us. But come what may I’ll speak out and 
 bring her to the point, if it’s under the baronet’s very nose ! I—* 
 Ugh! [with an exclamation of intense vexation at Mary, exit, R.) 
 
 Mary, [after a blank look) Moral! Mary Melrose, my dear, for 
 the rest of your natural life never attempt to do anything kind for 
 anybody. I’ll become supremely selfish, and settle down into a 
 narrow-minded and highly acidulated old maid. 
 
 Enter, Talbot, C .,from R. 
 
 Tal. Who’s that talking about old maids? 
 
 Mary. I was. 
 
 Tal. Why, you’re all alone. 
 
 Mary. Yes, I like to be alone. 
 
 Tal. That means I’m to- 
 
 Mary. Oh, no, you’re- 
 
 Tal. Nobody. Don’t count. Thanks. 
 
 Mary. I didn’t say that. 
 
 Tal. No, but you meant it. 
 
 Mary. Why ? 
 
 Tal. Because you didn’t say it. [pause) 
 
 Mary. What do you mean? 
 
 Tal. What I say. 
 
 Mary. What’s that? 
 
 Tal. Nothing. 
 
 Mary. Then you mean nothing. 
 
 Tal. On the contrary, I mean a lot, but I can’t say it. 
 
 Mary. Then I wouldn’t try. 
 
 Tal. I won’t, [slight pause) I say, Miss Melrose, do you know 
 I’m dreadfully afraid of you. 
 
 Mary. Am I so very terrible ? 
 
 Tal. You’re so fearfully sensible, you know—so satirical and 
 cutting, and “awfully clever,” and I’m not, you know. 
 
 Mary. Not what, you know? 
 
 Tal. None of that, you know. I’m a—a—muff, that’s what / 
 am. I haven’t got a second idea. I don’t believe I’ve got a first, 
 but I’ll swear I haven’t a second. 
 
 Mary. Well, at all events, you’re not conceited. 
 
 Tal. What on earth have /got to be conceited about ? What 
 are my accomplishments ? I can play a fair game of billiards, 
 though I’m too short-sighted for cricket. I can stick on the maddest 
 horse that ever gladdened a coroner, and I can smoke like—like 
 Sheffield. Not much to recommend oneself to a woman, eh? 
 
 Mary. I don’t know. Miss Melrose, for instance, my rich and 
 
“ our boys : 1 31 
 
 handsome cousin, has a great admiration for the Guy Livingstone 
 virtues. 
 
 Tal. Don’t like her—at least, don’t admire her. 
 
 Mary. Why not ? 
 
 Tal. Because I’ve been commanded to. Private feelings ain’t 
 private soldiers—you can’t order them about and drill them like 
 dolls. Human nature’s obstinate as a rule. Do you know how 
 they get the pigs on board ? 
 
 Mary. No. 
 
 Tal. Put their noses towards the vessel and then try and pull 
 them away, backwards. The result is that they run up the plank 
 into the vessel immediately . /’ m a pig. 
 
 Mary. You don’t say so? 
 
 Tal. And my sentiments are pig-headed , my governor’s are pig¬ 
 tailed —that’s to say, old-fashioned—the “ old school,” strict v 
 obedience, marry according to orders , you know, eh? [nudges her) 
 Ha ! ha ! Some of us know a trick worth two of that, eh ? 
 
 Mary. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Tal. [laughs with her ) You’re a sharp one, you are. [nudges her) 
 
 Mary. So are you. 
 
 Tal. Am I, though ? 
 
 Mary. Only in the elbow. Suppose you sit a little further off; 
 you never crowd up so closely to Violet. 
 
 Tal. No, I’m not given to poaching. 
 
 Mary. Poaching ! Eggs ? 
 
 Tal. Eggs be— hatched! Haven’t you seen Charley Middle- 
 wick loves her as much as—as— [aside) I’ll go it now—I’m wound 
 up to go it, and go it I will. 
 
 Mary. As much as what? 
 
 Tal. As I lo ve you. 
 
 Mary, [rising) Mr. Champneys ! 
 
 Tal. [rising) No, no, no, I don’t mean that. 
 
 Mary. No! 
 
 Tal. Yes, yes, I do , but in another way. I mean he doesn’t 
 love her half as much as I love you. 
 
 Mary. You don’t know your own mind. 
 
 Tal. Don’t want to. I want to know yours. 
 
 Mary. You don’t mean half you say. 
 
 Tal. No, I don’t. I mean it all. 
 
 Mary. Your father’d disown you. 
 
 Tal. So he might if I owned you. 
 
 Mary. You silly boy, what are you talking about? I haven t a 
 penny in the world. 
 
 Tal. Even if you did possess that humble but heavy coin, it 
 could scarce be considered capital , could it? A start at house¬ 
 keeping on a ha’penny a-piece would be a trifle rash, not to say 
 risky. 
 
32 
 
 “OUR BOYS ” 
 
 Mary. Housekeeping, indeed ! Well, I like your impudence-* 
 
 Tal. I adore yours. 
 
 Mary. I never was impertinent in my life. 
 
 Tal. Then don’t contradict. When I say, “ Be mine,” don’t 
 say “ Snan’t.” 
 
 Mary. I won’t. 
 
 Tal. Won’t what? 
 
 Mary. Say “ shan’t.” 
 
 Tal. ( delighted ) Do you mean it ? 
 
 Mary. Talbot, you’ve had too much wine. 
 
 Tal. I admit it. 
 
 Mary. You have admitted it. If your father suspected this he’d 
 cut you off with a shilling. 
 
 Tal. That’s fivepence a piece better than your penny. We’re 
 getting on. 
 
 Mary. You quite take one’s breath away—I don’t know what to 
 say. 
 
 Tal. Let me say it for you. 
 
 Mary. No, no, I never was proposed to before. 
 
 Tal. How do you like it ? 
 
 Mary. But I’ve read about people proposing and—and—( inno¬ 
 cently) They’ve always gone on their knees. 
 
 Tal. I’ll go on my head'd it’ll only please you. 
 
 Mary. No, no, don’t, it might give way. 
 
 Tal. Well, as far a knee goes— here goes—there ! ( kneels) 
 
 Mary. And then the lover always made a beautiful speech. 
 
 Tal. / know. Most adorable of your sex, a cruel parent com¬ 
 mands me to love another—I wont —I can’t —I adore you —you 
 alone. I despise heiresses, I despise Parliamentary honors, a 
 public career, and all that bosh . (Sir Geoffry and Middlewick 
 have appeared , C. ; Sir Geoffry now staggers,and supports him¬ 
 self on Middlewick’s arm) I prefer love in a cottage. I like love 
 —I like a cottage, where a fellow can smoke where he likes, 
 and- 
 
 Sir G. [bursting out) You shall have your wish, sir. You shall 
 have your love and your cottage, and your smoke and—and— 
 [breaking down) Talbot—Talbot, what does this mean? 
 
 Tal. It means that I’ve made my own bargain—you can’t call 
 it an ugly one, can you ? (Sir Geoffry overcome) 
 
 Mid. [almost unable to control his amusement) Never mind, 
 Champneys, it might have been worse. She’s a proper sort, is 
 Mary. 
 
 Sir G. Don’t “Champneys” me, sir. I’ll—I’ll turn him out! 
 
 Mid. Well, he hasn’t turned out himself quite as you fancied he 
 would, eh ? Ha ! ha ! ha ! Who was right in his system now, eh? 
 Ha ! ha ! ha ! [as he is laughing, Charley is heard) 
 
“OUR BOYS 33 
 
 Char. ( without , R.) My darling, I’ll put the whole matter right 
 in a moment. 
 
 Enter Charley, holding Violet ’ s hand , c., from R. ; pause abruptly 
 
 on seeing the others. 
 
 Mid. W-w-wliat’s this, Charles Middlewick ? Who is this you 
 are- 
 
 Char. This, father, is my wife , or will be, when I have your con¬ 
 sent. 
 
 Mid. ( overcome with rage) Why, you confounded- 
 
 Sir G. (taking tip same tone) Insolent, presuming young upstart, 
 why, I- 
 
 Mid. (in rage , to Sir Geoffry) Don’t bully my son, sir ; don’t 
 bully my son—that’s my department. 
 
 Sir G. Ha! ha! ha! Finely your system has succeeded, eh? 
 Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Mid. We’re insulted, defied, both of us. (excitedly) Turn your 
 disobedient cub adrift if you’ve the courage to stick to your prin¬ 
 ciples. 
 
 Sir G. And kick out your cad of a lad if your sentiments are not 
 a snare and a delusion. 
 
 Charley and Violet, Talbot and Mary, adl in a state of sup¬ 
 pressed excitement , have been earnestly talking in an undertone 
 
 dating the blustering row of the fathers —Clarissa enters. 
 
 Mid. So I will, sir, so I will. Charles Middlewick, madam, that 
 boy’s no longer any son of mine. If you accept him you blight 
 his prospects. 
 
 Clar. Mr. Middlewick, are you aware that Miss Melrose is- 
 
 Sir G. (* violently ) Don’t you dare to interfere, madam. 
 
 Vio. I have accepted him, sir, and I will not blight his pros¬ 
 pects. 
 
 Middlewick overcome with rape. 
 
 o 
 
 Sir G. (to Talbot) And as iox you, you impostor! 
 
 Tal. That’ll do. I won’t trouble you any longer. I’m off. 
 
 Sir G. Off, sir! where ? 
 
 Tal, That’s my business. 
 
 Char, (taking Talbot’s hand) Yes, our business. 
 
 Mid. Oh, yes—you can go with him if you please, and a good 
 riddance. 
 
 Sir G. Go—go and starve. 
 
 Tal. That we can do without your permission, anyhow. You’ve 
 kicked us out, remember, father, because, being grown men, we’ve 
 set our affections where our hearts have guided us—not your 
 
34 
 
 "OUR BOYS." 
 
 heads. And—and—Charley, finish it. I’m not an orator, and 
 don’t want to be. 
 
 Char, [togirls) We’ll prove ourselves worthy of you by our own 
 unaided exertions, and will neither of us ask you to redeem your 
 promise till we’ve shown ourselves worthy of your esteem. We 
 can get our living in London, and rely upon it you ll never hear of 
 our distress should we suffer it. 
 
 Clar. [distressed) Talbot, my dear nephew, you- 
 
 Sir G. (violently) Hold your tongue ! 
 
 Vio. (half crying ; to the fathers) You’re a couple of hardhearted 
 monsters, and I don’t know which I hate the most. 
 
 Mary. No—nor which is the uglier of the two. 
 
 Charley taking farewell of Violet, kisses her hand — Talbot 
 tries to get at Mary ; intercepted by his Aunt. 
 
 Sir G. (aside; violently shaking Middlewick’s hand) You’ve 
 acted nobly, sir—you—you’re a downright Roman father. 
 
 Mid. (reciprocating) You're another. 
 
 / m 
 
 The two old men shaking each other s hands violently but evidently 
 overcome by mingled emotions — Talbot pushes his Aunt aside , 
 and flings his arms round Mary, kissing her audibly ; Clarissa 
 falls upon ottoman ; on the movement of the scene. 
 
 ACT DROP. 
 
 Second Picture.— Clarissa discovered fainting; Violet holdmg 
 scent bottle to her nose — Mary at back waving ha?idkerchief on 
 terrace , off, r.; Sir Geoffry in easy-chair , overcome —Middle- 
 wick, with hands thrust deep into his pockets , standing doggedly . 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene.— The third floor at Mrs. Patcham’s— a very shabby sitting* 
 room in a third-rate lodging house—a tapping heard at the door , 
 in flat , repeated , and then Belinda, a slatternly lodging-house 
 serva?it , puts her head in. 
 
 Bel. Was you ringing? Please, was you a-(enters, carrying 
 
 an empty coal box) Neither of ’em here. Bother them cinders, if 
 I had my way with’em I’d chuck ’em out of winder instead of hav- 
 
“ OUR BOYS .” 
 
 35 
 
 ing to carry ’em downstairs as careful as coals. Coals ! Precious 
 few of them the young gents has, and prices a rising dreadful. 
 For they are gents, if they do buy only kitchen ones and has 
 
 ’em in by the yunderd. What a fire! it’s as pinched up as- [is 
 
 about to give it a vigorous poke when she is restramea by the e>itrance 
 <?/■ Talbot, d. f. — he is shabby, and a great cotitrast to his former 
 showy self ) 
 
 Tal. ( sharply ) Now then ! 
 
 Bel. ( turns with the poker in her hand ) Eh ? 
 
 Tal. What are you going to do ? 
 
 Bel. Only going to- 
 
 Tal. Of course. Strike a little fire like that, it’s cowardly. 
 
 Bel. Shall I put some more coal on ? 
 
 Tal. Certainly not. 
 
 Bel. You wouldn’t let it go out? 
 
 Tal. Why not? It’s a free country. 
 
 Bel. [aside) Sometimes I think they’re both a little — [touches her 
 head) It’s too much study, that’s what it is. [sweeps up the 
 hearth) 
 
 Tal. [aside) Capital girl, this ; simple and honest. A downright 
 daughter of the soil, and carries her parentage in her countenance. 
 [direct) Perhaps you had better put a pinch or two on. Mr. 
 Middlewick will be in directly, [she goes into room) He’ll be cold, 
 poor fellow, though, of course, he’ll swear he isn’t. I’m getting 
 uneasy about Charley. Ever since I was seedy, and he sat up so 
 much with me I’ve noticed a change in him ; if he doesn’t improve 
 I shall— [crash of coals heard) There’s a suspicious, not to say a 
 shallow, sound about those coals. (Belinda enters with shovel of 
 coals) 
 
 Bel. I tell you what, sir, your coals are dreadful low. 
 
 Tal. Low! Blackguardly, /call them ! 
 
 Bel. I can easily order some more when I go to Loppit’s! 
 
 Tal. Just so. Whether Loppit would see it in the same light’s a 
 question. There is already a trifling account which- 
 
 Bel. Oh, Loppit can wait. 
 
 Tal. He can — short weight. By the way, I saw some boxes in 
 the hall. 
 
 Bel. Yes, missus has gone out of town for a fortnight, and - 
 
 [is about to put on the lot of coal) 
 
 Tal. Gently—a bit at a time, [takes up a piece with the tongs) 
 There—there— [business) I say, Belinda, if Loppit were to call nis 
 coals‘‘not so dusty” it would be paying them a compliment, 
 wouldn’t it ? 
 
 Bel. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Well, you are a funny gent, you are. 
 
 As Talbot makes up the fire Charley enters, d. f. — he too is 
 
 shabby, and looks worn—he carries some papers, and MSS. 
 
36 
 
 “our boys:' 
 
 Char. Halloa ! Talbot, old man, what are you doing now ? 
 
 Tal. Giving Belinda a lesson in domestic economy—you know 
 a severe winter always hardens the coal-merchant’s heart! 
 
 Char. Yes, yes. ( takes off gloves and hat') 
 
 Tal. And they’re simply going up like—like- 
 
 Char. Smoke ! 
 
 Tal. There ! ( has done fire , stands before it , facing Charley ; 
 Belinda takes back shovel into room) I consider I make a first-rate 
 fire. 
 
 Char. Yes, you don’t make a bad screen . 
 
 Tal. I beg your pardon. ( moves aside) 
 
 Char. Don’t mention it. The attitude and position are 
 thoroughly insular and Britannic. It is a remarkable fact that an 
 Englishman who never turns his back on the fire of an enemy 
 invariably does it with his friends’. 
 
 Tal. [aside) We’ve got our “ sarcastic stop” on this morning, 
 eh? Well, Charley, I suppose you did no good with Gripner? 
 
 Char. I had a highly interesting interview with that worthy pub¬ 
 lisher. I thought you thought that the poem I commenced at 
 Cologne for amusement, had some stuff in it! 
 
 Tal. Stuff! Yidi—full of it. 
 
 Char. Exactly. Partial friends have declared I had a real vein 
 of poetry, but Gripner—Ha ! ha ! He —well, he disguised his senti¬ 
 ments by assuring me poetry was a mere drug in the market. 
 He’d also thrown his eye on those social sketches I’d thought were 
 rather smart, but he said he knew at least fifty people who can roll 
 out such things by the ream. However, he’s given us a dozen 
 pages a-piece for his new gazetteer. We begin in the middle of 
 M—you can start at Mesopotamia, and work your way on at ten 
 shillings a column. ( hands him fiof ers) It’s bread and cheese ! 
 
 Tal. I should think so. Ten shillings a column, [unfoldspaper; 
 printed sheets) By Jove, they are columns though. Regular Dukes 
 of York. Penny a lining’s coining compared to it. I can’t say at 
 the moment I know much about Mesopotamia, but- 
 
 Char. I remembered old Mother Patcham had a dilapidated 
 gazetteer downstairs, so I borrowed it, and you can copy the actual 
 facts. 
 
 Tal. Just so. Put it all in different language. 
 
 Char. Yes, the more indifferent the better. 
 
 Tal. Her book’s about twenty years old ; nevermind—I’ll double 
 the population everywhere—that’ll do it. 
 
 Char. Talking about population, I’ve had an interview with the 
 agent for emigration to Buenos Ayres—he rather pooh-poohed us 
 as emigrants. They don’t want gentlemen. 
 
 Tal. We don’t appear in particular request anywhere. It seems 
 absurd to be hard-up in the Cattle Show week. 
 
 Char. Our governors are up in town, I’ll swear. 
 
“ our boys : 1 
 
 37 
 
 Tal. Mine never missed the show for forty years. I can see him 
 critically examining the over-fed monsters—punching the pigs and 
 generally disturbing the last hours of the vaccine victims. 
 
 Char. Whom I envy. What a glorious condition is theirs—fed 
 on the daintiest food—watched and waited on like princes—■ 
 admired by grazing—I mean gazing crowds, and- 
 
 Tal. Eventually eaten, don’t forget that. I’llgoasfaras the 
 sheep with you, they can do what we can’t. 
 
 Char. What’s that? 
 
 Tal. Get a living out of their pens. 
 
 Char. Beginning to joke now. You’re a changed being, Talbot. 
 
 Tal. Yes. Genuine “ hard-upishness ” is a fine stimulant to 
 the imagination. The sensation of four healthy appetites a day, 
 with- 
 
 Char. The power of only partially appeasing two - 
 
 Tal. Exactly—makes a fellow- 
 
 Char. Thin. Our cash is assuming infinitesimal proportions, 
 Talbot. We must still further reduce our commissariat. I’ve 
 been calculating, and I find that henceforth bacon at breakfast 
 must be conspicuous by its absence. 
 
 Tal. Bacon—the word suggests philosophy, so with many thanks 
 for past favors, “bye-bye, Bacon.” 
 
 Char. When we first parted with our convertible property, we 
 had hope in our hearts and cash in our money box. Now things 
 don’t look rosy we must bow to circumstances. “ Tempora 
 mutantur. 
 
 Tal. “ Et nos mutamur in illis.” 
 
 Char. Which being loosely translated- 
 
 Tal. Means that we must give up the Times and take in the 
 Telegraph. 
 
 Char. We’ve parted with a good many things, Talbot, but 
 we’ve stuck to one —our word. We’ve never appealed to a rela¬ 
 tion. 
 
 Tal. Except, of course, a certain avuncular relative who-- 
 
 Char. Shall be nameless. Just so—but our governors must have 
 discovered by this time that our determination was no empty 
 beast, and Violet and Mary have never heard a word from either 
 of us. No one can say we’ve shown the white feather. 
 
 Tab One minute—I must clean my boots. ( takes up boots , and 
 brings blacking-bottle from corner with a bit of stick in it , and boot 
 brushes ) 
 
 Char. Why on earth do you always begin to- 
 
 Tal. [blacking boot ) Always begin to clean my boots when you 
 talk about Violet and Mary? Because I feel it’s necessary at the 
 mention of their names to work off my superabundant and irre¬ 
 pressible emotion. I feel if I don’t have ago in at my boots, I 
 shall do some awful—( begins to brush violently ) Now go it! 
 
38 
 
 “ OUR BOYS" 
 
 Char. Do you know, Talbot, I could almost swear I saw Violet 
 to-day ? 
 
 Tal. You don’t say so ! 
 
 Char. And I vow I saw Mary. 
 
 Tal. Hah! ( brush ing w ith tremendo us v iolence) 
 
 Char. I don’t think they saw me % but- 
 
 Tal. ( at the boot) What a shine there’ll be in a moment! 
 
 Char. For I dodged behind a cab and- 
 
 Enter, Belinda, d. f. 
 
 Tal. And got away without- 
 
 Bel. {brusquely ) What are you doing of? Drop them boots. 
 
 Tal. Belinda ! 
 
 Bel. I clean the lodgers’ boots. And it’s my place to clean 
 yours —if you are a third floorer, [takes boot and brush from Tal¬ 
 bot) 
 
 Tal. [aside) A third floorer ! 
 
 Char. Belinda, don’t talk as if you were reporting a prize fight. 
 
 (Belinda cleans boots) 
 
 Tal. And deal gently with the heels ; they won’t be trifled with. 
 
 Char. I’ve got a deuce of a headache, Talbot, and as I want a 
 good afternoon’s dig at the gazetteer, I’ll go and lie down a bit in 
 my den. 
 
 Tal. Do. I heard you walking up and down the room half the 
 night; you’re getting ill! 
 
 Char. Not a bit, old man, not a bit. [goes towards door) Nerves 
 a little shaky, that’s all—that’s all. Exit, D. f. 
 
 Bel. I tell you what—it’s my opinion you wasn’t half as ill as 
 you’ll soon have Mr. Middlesex ! 
 
 Tal. Middl ewick, Belinda. It’s the natural obstinacy of your 
 nature to call people out of their names. My name being Champ- 
 neys, you call me Chimneys— had it been Chimneys you’d have 
 had it Chimbley, of course, [aside) She’s right, though. I’ll go 
 and ask Barnard to come round and see him. [takes up hat) I 
 shall be in soon. By the way, those breakfast things are ?iot an 
 ornament—if, in a lucid interval, you should feel disposed to take 
 them down stairs, I shall not feel offended. Exit, D. F. 
 
 Bel. He’s a queer young gent, that ; so are both of ’em. But, 
 somehow, I’ve took to ’em—took to ’em /mnendous. I wonder 
 who they are. I’m sure they’re gentlemen ’cos they can’t do noth¬ 
 ing for a living. Then they don’t bully a poor lodging-house 
 slavey. “Slavey”—that’s what they call me, but, somehow, it 
 don’t seem rude like from them . Missis says they’re “ under a 
 cloud,” she thinks, and she’s always in a regler fluster every 
 Saturday till they’ve paid their rent. Ha, well, they knows their 
 own business [the door in flat opens and Sir Geoffry enters, then 
 
11 OUR BO vs : 1 39 
 
 Middlewick—Belinda is placing the things on tray) best, I sup¬ 
 pose. Couldn’t stand by and see him a blacking his- 
 
 Sir G. He-hem ! (Belinda starts) 
 
 Mid. {otherside of her) He-hem! 
 
 Bel. Bless us, who ar e you? (retires up a little) 
 
 The two old gentlemen look round the room with a rueful expression 
 of countenance , then they look at each other blankly. 
 
 Mid. Well? 
 
 Sir G. Well! 
 
 Mid. A—here we are. 
 
 Sir G. Confound it, sir, don’t talk like a clown. 
 
 Mid. I won’t. ( aside , ?niserably) I don’t feel like one. Panta¬ 
 loon, and a worse treated one than ornery’s more in my way a 
 deal. 
 
 Sir G. Why—why it's a mere garret. 
 
 Mid. Where did you expect to find ’em ? At Claridge’s Hotel ? 
 or the Langham ? Perhaps you hoped to see ’em driving mail 
 feeaXons in the Park, or a lolling out of a swell club winder in Pall 
 Mall. Garret as you call it, / don’t see as it’s so oncomfortable. 
 
 Sir G. (in broken voice) I’m glad you think so, sir, I’m glad you 
 think so. 
 
 Mid. (aside, in tone of pity) Poor dear boy, to think he should 
 have come to this ! 
 
 Sir G. (ajfectmg harshness) Not that I relent in any way. Oh, 
 
 no, no. 
 
 Mid. (assuming same tone) Nor I, nor I ! As they make their 
 beds so they must lie. 
 
 Bel. (overhearing) Bless your ’art, sir, they never make their 
 own beds. 
 
 Mid. He-hem ! (aside) The servant. The very image of the gal 
 as waited on me when I lived in a attic in Pulteney Street. It’s 
 my belief as nature keeps a mould for lodging-house servant gals 
 and turns ’em out ’olesale like buttons. She’s the identical same 
 gal—same to a smudge, (to her) These young men here, are they 
 pretty comfortable and all that? 
 
 Bel. (aside) Pumping ! Who are they ? (to them) Pretty well 
 
 Mid. Do they—do they dine at home ? 
 
 Bel. No—they breakfusses ! 
 
 Sir G. Oh, they breakfusses. Is that—or rather was that their 
 breakfast ? 
 
 Bel. Yes. 
 
 Mid. (aside; taking up egg) Shop ’uns. Sixteen a shilling. I 
 
 knows ’em. (puts it down) To think Charley should have to- 
 
 (breaks down) 
 
 Sir G. (through his glasses) Good Heavens ! what dreadful look¬ 
 ing butter! 
 
40 
 
 “ OUR BOYS." 
 
 Mid. ( faintly ) Dossit—my dear sir—inferior Dossit! [aside) 
 Precious inferior. 
 
 Sir G. Dorset , man, Dorset. 
 
 Mid. [in rage ) Come here, I say, you know—you may be at home 
 in all matters of //etiquette, and gene//allogy—and such like, but 
 dammy, do let me know something of butter. I tell you that it’s 
 Dossit — Dossit —that’s what it is —and what’s more it’s a two //ounce 
 pat! 
 
 Sir G. ( stiffly ) On such a minute matter of professional detail I 
 cannot, of course, attempt to argue, [goes up) 
 
 Mid. [aside) Now that’s all put on. Inside he’s a suppressed 
 ^earthquake. He’s a longing to throw his arms round his boy ; 
 but he wants me to give in first, [talks aside to Belinda) 
 
 Sir G. [aside, up) His rage is only a safety valve for his pent-up 
 affection ; poor fellow, he’d like me to propose a truce, but it’s 
 not for a man in my position to- succumb to sentiment. I’ve only 
 to wait, and his feelings, which are stronger—I may say coarser 
 than mine, are sure to melt. 
 
 Mid. (///Belinda) And how’s their appetites—pretty’arty? 
 
 Bel. Fine. I often hear ’em telling one another what they’ve 
 had for dinner, but when I see the way they devours their tea—do 
 you know, I sometimes fancy-- 
 
 Mid. Yes? 
 
 Bel. As they’ve had no dinner at all. 
 
 Mid. [after slight pause , in a low voice) No—no dinner at all. 
 [turns aside, and places his ha7id at his heart for a moment , shading 
 his eyes with his other 07ie) Here—you seem a decent young woman 
 —here’s a half-sovereign—not a word. We’re friends of frie7ids of 
 these young men. Speak out truthfully. Did you ever hear them 
 speak of—of their relations ? 
 
 Sir G. Yes, yes , friends, belongings—a—speak out! 
 
 Bel. Oh, yes, and more than once, by accident —for I ain’t got 
 time for listening—I heard ’em say they’d rather starve than write 
 to ’em. 
 
 Mid. [overco7ne) Did they —did they ? 
 
 Sir G. [proudly) That was firmness—pride ! 
 
 Mid. From your point of view. Being a tradesman, 7 call it 
 obstinacy. 
 
 Sir G. Fostered in your case by a system of absurd laxity. 
 
 Mid, [aside) And that to the man as he called a Roman father! 
 
 Bel. But at one time—when one of ’em was taken ill- 
 
 Mid G ' } What! 
 
 Sir G. Ill! Ill, girl—not VERY ill? 
 
 Mid. [almostfiercely) Which was it? 
 
 Sir G. Yes—speak, woman—which—not—not—the shorter one, 
 the one with the light hair, who- 
 
“ OUR BOYS” 
 
 41 
 
 Bel. Yes, him. 
 
 Sir G. (overcone ; in broken voice') But he—he got better? 
 
 Bel. Yes. Thanks to the other gent, who waited on him hand 
 and foot, and never took his clothes off for a week, looking after 
 his friend and attending to him for all the world as if he’d been his 
 brother. 
 
 Sir Geoffrey goes to Middlewick, grasps his hand, with a sob 
 aside —Middlewick silently returns the grasp , each holding head 
 down. 
 
 Mid. {after pause ; low voice) And—and the other—who—who 
 helped his sick friend so—so noble. 
 
 Bel. Well, it’s my opinion he’s in a worse way than the other, 
 though he won’t own it. . • 
 
 Mid. (very faintly , and in grief) No—no —(staggers slightly back. 
 Sir Geoffrey supports him) 
 
 Sir G. ( gently , aside to Middlewick) Come—come, old friend, 
 be a man, (giving way) be a man as—as /am—don’t give way. 
 I’m firm—firmer than—than ever. (blows his nose to hide his emo¬ 
 tion) 
 
 Mid. What—what makes you fancy so ? 
 
 Bel. Well, when he first come he was cheerful and happy, but 
 bit by bit—as he got shabbier—he grew quieter like—and some¬ 
 times I’ve spoke to him three or four times afore he seemed to 
 
 know I was a speaking, and- 
 
 Mid. {aside) Poor boy ! Poor boy ! 
 
 Sir G. {aside) And he helped and nursed Talbot—I wish I’d 
 come here sooner. 
 
 Bel. {aside) Who can they be? I don’t like leaving’em here, 
 and all the lodgers’ private papers about. There’s a sort of County 
 Court look about the short one. I’ve seen bailiffs enough in my 
 
 time, and it ain’t a bit unlikely as- 
 
 Sir G. Middlewick, something must be done. We—we mustn’t 
 forget ourselves and become maudlin , you know. 
 
 Mid. {pulling himself together) No, no, certainly not. 
 
 Sir G. After all, we did everything for them, and they showed a 
 shameful return. 
 
 Mid. {convincing himself) Yes, yes, so they did, so they did. 
 
 Sir G. Defied us. 
 
 Mid. No mistake about it, and when you turned ’em out-- 
 
 Sir G. You turned them out. 
 
 Mid. You suggested it first. 
 
 Sir G. Well, well, they’ve eaten the leek. 
 
 Mid. Ye-es, there ain’t much nourishment in leeks, though I 
 admit, relishy. 
 
 Sir G. I see you’re giving way. {sharply) You’re thawing. 
 
42 
 
 “ OUR BOYS.” 
 
 Mid. Me “ thawring! ” not me. But you was saying as some¬ 
 thing must be done, and I says ditto. Anonymous, of course. 
 
 Sir G. Quite so; permit me to arrange it. Young woman, 
 there’s something in your face thoroughly honest—the frequent 
 contact with cinders, or whatever it may be, cannot conceal your 
 innate truthfulness ; your face is a picture, and I am old-fashioned 
 enough not to object to a picture in a black frame. I prefer it. 
 
 Bel. [aside) Soft sawder. Something’s a coming. 
 
 Sir G. In the first place, you mustn’t say anything of our visit, 
 and when the young men come in you must give them an enve¬ 
 lope. 
 
 Mid. Two— two ^envelopes. 
 
 Bel. [standing back) Not if I know it. [aside) A summons, of 
 course, [to them) I don’t know neither of you gentlemen, but I 
 wouldn’t do nothing as would bring any harm to our third floorers 
 for nothing as you could offer me. And, perhaps, you’ll be good 
 enough to take back your ’arf crown. 
 
 Sir G. [aside) Remarkable ! But I never could understand the 
 lower classes. 
 
 Mid. [aside) If that ’arf sovereign doesn’t blossom into a fi-pun 
 note before the day’s out my name ain’t Middlewick. 
 
 Sir G. But whatever you do, don’t mention that—what’s that? 
 some one coming up the stairs? 
 
 Bel. Yes. 
 
 Sir G. We mustn’t be seen. 
 
 Mid. Not for the world. What’s this? [goes to door, l.) 
 
 Bel. That’s what the gents calls their ^omnium gatherum— 
 where they keeps- 
 
 Sir G. Is this Talbot’s—I mean, Mr.- 
 
 Bel. Chimneys’ room ? yes, but you mustn’t- 
 
 Sir Geoffry bolts into door , R. as a tap is heard , D. F., and shuts 
 
 door — Middlewick is peeping into room , L., when a tapping is 
 
 heard and a loud He-hem. 
 
 i 
 
 Mid. Get us out of this without the lodgers seeing us and I’ll- 
 
 [bolts into room as door in flat slowly opens ; he does not see who it is 
 —enter Miss Clarissa, dressed in walking dress and carrying a 
 reticule) 
 
 Clar. Young woman, are the gentlemen who lodge up here both 
 out ? 
 
 Bel. Yes’m. [aside) One is, and ’tother’s a lying down and 
 don’t want worrying. 
 
 Clar. Phew! [sits; aside) This is the servant, the young woman, 
 Mr. Warrington, the detective, told me was “ a good sort ”—an 
 odd phrase, but expressive. If I hadn’t employed him the poor 
 
“ OUR BOYS.” 43 
 
 young men might have done something dreadful, with their pride 
 and their sense of independence and all that. 
 
 Bel. Was you wanting to see either of’em ? 
 
 Clar. Well, no, not just now. [aside) Geoffry, after discovering 
 everything by shamefully intercepting one of Mr. Warrington’s 
 letters, thinks to frighten me with threats of even stopping my 
 allowance and turning me out of his house if I communicate with 
 Talbot. Bah ! he’s my own nephew, and he shan’t starve whilst 
 his Aunt Clarissa’s got a penny in the world. His father may act 
 like a brute, *and so may Mr. Middlewick, but—ugh ! Cattle 
 Show , indeed. Coming to stare at a collection of adipose sheep, all 
 sleep and suet; at islands of lean in oceans of obesity, called by 
 courtesy cows ; and a parcel of plethoric and apoplectic pigs, their 
 own sons all the while wasting away to shadows, [brings outfowl , 
 ready trussed , from reticule ) Mrs. Patcham’s out of town, isn’t 
 she ? 
 
 Bel. Yes’m. 
 
 Clar. Then there won’t be any one in the kitchen? 
 
 Bel. Not a soul, ’cept me and the beetles. 
 
 Clar. Very good. Your fire’s in, of course? 
 
 Bel. Trust me. Missus and the fire ain’t never out together. 
 
 Clar. Very good—then follow me. 
 
 Exit, D. F., carrying the fowl; leaves bonnet on a chair. 
 
 Bel. Here I say — [goes to D. F.) She don’t mean no harm. She’s 
 a relation of one of the gents, she is. [listens) She skips down them 
 
 kitchen stairs like a- [a distant knock heard at front door) These 
 
 breakfast things ’ll be here all day. Bother the knocker! [takes 
 up things on tray ; a door slams) Oh, Mrs. Radcliffe’s opened the 
 front door for me.n A nice woman that. Always ready to save a 
 poor girl’s legs. Bless my ’art, I forgot all about them two parties 
 in ambush. Well, they must wait until I- 
 
 Enter, d. F., Violet, then Mary. 
 
 Vio. This is the third floor, I believe. That very nice old lady 
 who opened the door said that- [both girls timid) 
 
 Mary. Oh, if you please, is Mr. Champneys in ? 
 
 Vio. Or Mr. Middlewick? 
 
 Bel. No, miss. 
 
 Both. How are they ? 
 
 Bel. Well, really—a- 
 
 Vio. They are not ill—Mr. Middlewick is not ill f 
 
 Bel. No, miss. 
 
 Vio. [aside to Mary) Isn’t it a dreadful place ? 
 
 Mary. Poor dear Talbot! 
 
 Vio. Oh, Charley ! [to Belinda) Are they likely to be long ? 
 
 BeL Can’t say. 
 
44 
 
 “ OUR BOYS.” 
 
 Mary. Are the gentlemen out much ? 
 
 Bel. Yes, miss. 
 
 Vio. Late ? 
 
 Bel. Don’t know. They both has latch keys. 
 
 Vio. Mary, we’ll wait till they come in, and surprise them. 
 
 Mary. If it’s proper, [to Belinda) I suppose they never have 
 any visitors? 
 
 Bel. Well, as to that , you see- 
 
 Vio. [aside) The girl seems confused. I almost wish I hadn’t 
 come. I always was of a suspicious nature. I can’t help it. Mary 
 believes in everybody, but I— [noise in room , R.) What’s that? 
 
 Bel. N—nothing, miss—It’s a printing machine next door. 
 When it’s at work it throbs like a regler ’ edache. 
 
 Vio. Whose room’s that? 
 
 Bel. Mr. Middlesex’s. 
 
 Mary. Middl ewick. I* ve a very good mind to— [moves towards 
 door — Belinda hastily jumps before it) 
 
 Bel. You mustn’t go there. 
 
 Mary, [aside to Violet) Do you see her alarm? 
 
 Vio. Am I blind ? 
 
 Mary. No, but perhaps we both have been, [screams at sight of 
 bonnet on chair ; in a low voice to Violet) Look—look there ! 
 
 Vio. [in horror) A human bonnet. Girl! [seises Belinda by the 
 arm) Don’t prevaricate. Speak the truth and I’ll give you more 
 money than you ever had in your life ! 
 
 Bel. [half cry mg) I don’t know what’s a coming to everybody 
 this blessed day—I wish missus would come back. 
 
 Vio. W'hose is this ? 
 
 Bel. A lady’s, of course. 
 
 Vio. You hear, Mary? 
 
 Mary, [tearfully) Oh, don’t speak to me ! 
 
 Bel. But she’s a nice sort of. woman as ever lived and she says 
 she’s as fond of- 
 
 Vio. Of which ? 
 
 Bel. Of both of them. 
 
 Mary. The wretch ! 
 
 Vio. This is no place for us, Mary, [noise heard , room , l. — with 
 a half scream) That’s not a printing machine. 
 
 Mary. I will see who—I mean what's in that room. Stand aside, 
 girl. 
 
 Bel. ’Scuse me, that’s the gents’ private apartment—their 
 ^ominum gatherum, and- 
 
 Vio. Come, Mary. We’ve been two fools, dear, and we- 
 
 4s they go towards D. F., Charley and Talbot enter; slight pause. 
 
 Tal. Mary! 
 
“ our boys: 
 
 45 
 
 Char. Violet! Can I believe my eyes ! 
 
 Vio. / can. And my ears. So can Mary. 
 
 Mary. Implicitly. 
 
 Char. But, Violet, this is so unexpected- 
 
 Vio. ( sarcastically ) Evidently. 
 
 Char. So—so bewildering. So inexplicable, and—— 
 
 Tal. So jolly rum ! 
 
 Mary, {coldly} Quite so. 
 
 Char. But how—how did you- 
 
 Tal. Did you find us out? 
 
 Vio. Never mind. Suffice it to say, Mr. Middlewick, that-—- 
 Mary. That we have - 
 
 Vio. “ Foundyou out." [the girls curtsey ; the men dumbfounded ) 
 Char. You saw me in the street. 
 
 Vio. Probably. We were foolish enough to think you—we 
 thought your silence proof of your truth—we deceived our¬ 
 selves— 
 
 Mary. Don’t, Violet! Where’s your spirit? Let us leave them 
 to their own consciences, if they have any. This is evidently a 
 well-trained confederate. Henceforth we are strangers. 
 
 Vio. Utter strangers, [girls exeunt, d. f.) 
 
 Tal. [after slight pause ) What have you been saying to those 
 ladies ? 
 
 Bel. Nothink. But they called me a " coffederate.” Now a 
 confederate’s a man as knows the conjuror and says he doesn’t,” 
 
 and I’m not a going to bear it. Look here, ladies, I- 
 
 Exit, D. F. 
 
 Charley and Talbot look at each other. 
 
 Char. This is some conspiracy. Somebody’s been vilifying us 
 —they shan’t leave without one word of explanation, though. 
 
 Exit, D. F. 
 
 Talbot goes to fire-place , his back to the door of the r»07n where his 
 
 father is. 
 
 Tal. The girl’s don’t mean it—can’t mean it. Unless our deter¬ 
 mined silence has seemed suspicious, and—slightly altering the 
 poet—suspicion ever haunts the female mind—always admitting 
 there is such a thing as a female mind, which I’m beginning to 
 doubt,— [leans head on arm on mantlepiece ) 
 
 Sir Geoffry opens door a little; it hides him from Talbot. 
 
 Sir G. [to himself ) They’ve all gone. Not one syllable could I 
 distinguish ; but women’s voices, and at high words, were only too 
 evident. This comes of leaving two head-strong lads to the temp- 
 
46 
 
 “ OUR BOYS.” 
 
 tations of the town. Oh, Talbot, I knew you were not a genius, 
 but I did hope you would never forget you were a gentleman ! 
 
 Charley re-enters quickly; as he does so Sir Geoffry steps back , 
 nearly closing the door; the side of the room is set obliquely so that 
 he is perfectly visible to the audience , though unseen by those on the 
 stage — Middle wick enters a little way . 
 
 Char. Well, upon my life, they’re a pretty pair. 
 
 Mid. [aside) Ah, I was sure I heard two of ’em. 
 
 Char. ( flinging himself into a chair ) A couple of beauties, I do 
 think. 
 
 Mid. [aside) So do I. A nice noisy couple whoever they were. 
 Pretty acquaintances for two young chaps as bragged of their 
 fidelity! 
 
 Tal. Fact is they’ve got tired of waiting for us. They see we’re 
 poor—and are likely to keep so. What a confounded draft there 
 is from that—( goes to close door of his room , r. ; Sir Geoffry 
 advances', Middlewick enters further simultaneously; both indig¬ 
 nant) 
 
 Mid. Sir Geoffry, you heard, of course. 
 
 Sir G. Not a word could I distinguish, for my hearing is utterly 
 failing me. But you heard women’s voices? 
 
 Mid. Distinctly—even through the row of some confounded 
 machine—a printer’s, I fancy—next door. 
 
 Sir G. Though we could not distinguish a word your female 
 friends said, some of yours reached us, and but too plainly indi¬ 
 cated the familiar terms which—Oh, Talbot, I had hoped there 
 would be still something of dignity and self-denial to qualify your 
 absurdly Quixotic conduct, but I was mistaken. From your birth 
 I mapped out your future, and hoped and prayed it should be a 
 bright one, and now I find my son, my only child, who should 
 have been my joy and pride, prove- himself not only wilful and 
 wrong-headed—I could have overlooked that —but a profligate , and 
 that, Talbot Champneys, I never will forgive. 
 
 Char. Don’t speak, Talbot; let me. So, sirs, you have been 
 playing the spy upon your sons. 
 
 Mid. Don’t exasperate me, Charles Middlewick, and no smug¬ 
 faced shamming. We’d hunted you out, ready to forgive every¬ 
 thing, but—a—there—I knew you were thoughtless, careless, reck - 
 less even, but I never dreamt you had a bit of vice in your whole 
 nature. 
 
 Char, [aside) This is too much ; the last straw breaks- 
 
 Tal. Who knows this is the last straw? After what I’ve heard 
 recently I’m prepared for an entire stack. 
 
 Char. You are not the only people who have misjudged us. 
 
 Tal. No ; others who were here but recently actually-- 
 
“OUR BOYS.” 47 
 
 Sir G. Pray, sir, spare us the opinions of such persons. Talbot, 
 I—I blush for you. 
 
 Mid. There’s no shame in you. You’re worse than your com¬ 
 panions who were here just now. 
 
 Tal. ( sharply ) What do you mean by that? 
 
 Mid. Eh? 
 
 Tal. Ladies whom you will mention with respect, if you please. 
 If we have been ill-treated by them it is not for you, no, sir, nor 
 you (to his father) to speak slightingly of them before us. 
 
 Sir G. (aside) Brazening it out. To think that six months in 
 this abominable city should have obliterated all sense of shame, 
 all sense of self-respect. Oh, London, London, what a lengthy list 
 of such sad cases lies at your debasing door ! 
 
 Char. For my part, as regards Miss Melrose- 
 
 Mid. Don’t mention her. (aside) How dare he speak of that 
 regler lady and true woman in the very teeth of such— bah ! 
 
 Char. I am sorry to see you still bear a resentment in that 
 quarter. 
 
 Tal. And as I should never care for any woman but Mary- 
 
 Sir G. (indignantly) You insult me by mentioning her name at 
 such a time. 
 
 Tal. And as all is over between us- 
 
 Sir G. Ha ! ha! I should think so. Eh, Middlewick? 
 
 Mid. Depend upon it, the cousins know all. 
 
 Sir G. Ay, ay, trust a woman for finding out.all she wants, and 
 sometimes a deuced deal more. This accounts for their suddenly 
 departing for the Continent last week. 
 
 Mid. Of course; where no doubt they’re endeavoring to dispel 
 their sorrow. 
 
 Sir G. Just so. In the vortex of Parisian society. 
 
 Mid. Strolling up and down the bully-vards and the bord de 
 boolong. Showing them sailer-faced foreigners what good, ’ole- 
 some looking English gals are. 
 
 Sir G. Yes, yes. (warming) I can see them. 
 
 Mid. (working it up) So can I. 
 
 Sir G. The dear creatures! That puss, Mary, has quite wound 
 herself round my heart. An artful, winning little beauty. 
 
 Mid. And as for the ’aughty one, we’ve got that friends I 
 wouldn’t see her wronged or insulted for—Ugh ! 
 
 Sir G. Ah ! (with exclamations of disgust , they go up) 
 
 Charley and Talbot gaze blankly at each other t both stupefied. 
 
 Tal. Charley, does your father drink ? 
 
 Char. No. Is lunacy hereditary in your family? 
 
 Tal. Never heard of it. I say, football’s a capital game, for the 
 
48 
 
 “ OUR BOYS?’ 
 
 feet. But the ball has a somewhat invidious and one-sided sort of 
 place of it, hasn’t he ? I don’t care for any more abuse. 
 
 Char. Nor I. [to the fathers] As we appear by some unfortunate 
 means of which we know nothing to have grievously offended 
 everybody, explanations are, of course, impossible, [with solem¬ 
 nity and decision) But as—before such an undertaking as- 
 
 Tal. Hear! hear! Such an undertaking as we are about to—in 
 short, to undertake. 
 
 Char. Quiet and uninterrupted companionship is desirable in 
 order to finally settle our plans regarding emigration, [both the 
 fathers start) 
 
 Tal. Just so. And you, having once turned us out, must not 
 
 feel surprised if we- [shrugs his shoulders, and hands Sir Geof- 
 
 fry his hat) 
 
 Mid. Em—emigration ! 
 
 Sir G. Are you mad, sir? Do you know the time of the year— 
 winter? 
 
 Mid. Why, confound it, Charley—I mean, Charles —you’re not 
 going to leave me—to leave England, I mean ? What are you 
 both dreaming of? 
 
 Tal. Nothing now; we’ve waked up. 
 
 Sir G. And where would you- 
 
 Char. Queensland, or else, perhaps- 
 
 Mid. Charley, I can’t bear this ; you’re a driving me desprit. If 
 —if you go you’ll—you’ll break my heart! Darnmy, I can’t play 
 the Roman father no longer ! [sinks into a chair, up, l.) 
 
 Sir G. [aside) He’s given in—I knew he would. If he hadn't, I 
 must have done so, and it’s best as it is. He-hem ! We have been— 
 a— hasty —perhaps, when we were concealed in those rooms—a— 
 [breaks down) Talbot—Talbot—(T albot looks at him—he immedi¬ 
 ately becojnes frigid) In my case much is at stake. You are my 
 son —my heir —[with severity) I—I command you to give up this 
 mad notion, [he is standing in a proud and authoritative attitude — 
 a contrast to Middlewick, who is sitting crushed and tearful) 
 
 Mid. Charley—I—I —implore YOU ! [slight pause on picture, the 
 young men C.) 
 
 Tal. [coldly) I regret my inability to obey you. 
 
 Char, [same tone) Talbot has replied for both. 
 
 Sir G. [almost overcome) And this —this is the result of our 
 much vaunted systems. Even a rod of iron will- 
 
 Violet and Mary have entered, D. F. 
 
 Vio. ( doivn , R.) Will rust, Sir Geoffry. 
 
 Mary, [down, L ) And the truest steel may fail you when most 
 you may rely on it. 
 
 Vio. Oh, Charley, forgive me—we know all now. 
 
“OUR BOYS.” 49 
 
 Mary. And we’re so ashamed of ourselves! [the young couples 
 talk eagerly) 
 
 Sir G. ( looks amazed; to girls) Why—why aren’t you on the 
 Continent ? 
 
 Mary. Why aren’t you at the Cattle Show ? 
 
 Vio. (to Charley) I never imagined you saw me in the street. 
 
 Mid. Here, what’s this? Why ain’t you abroad? Yes, abroad? 
 ( to Sir Geoffry) I’ll be hanged if we ain’t. 
 
 Vio. Fancy the two old gentlemen hiding themselves so absurdly, 
 and our having such horrible- 
 
 Mary. But highly natural - 
 
 Tal. No, no, ^-natural- 
 
 Mary. Suspicions. 
 
 Mid. We can’t have been, and yet they seem to be. Ha ! ha! 
 (gives a violent start on seeing Clarissa’s bonnet) 
 
 Tal. Upon my life, Charley, that jolly old firework, your father, 
 ought to be put out . 
 
 Mid. What’s that, eh? 
 
 Sir. G. (seizing it) Yes ! No lady was ever seen in such a 
 monstrosity as that. Combining as it does the concentrated incon¬ 
 gruity of Covent Garden Market with the accumulated imbecility 
 of the Burlington Arcade. 
 
 The girls look surprised at the young men, who can t explain. 
 
 Vio. It is a bonnet. 
 
 Mary. And a hideous one. 
 
 Mid. The question is, whose is it ? 
 
 Enter Clarissa, d. f. 
 
 Clar. Mine, if you please—don’t crush it. (comes down , takes it) 
 
 Girls. Miss Champneys ! 
 
 Tal. Aunt! 
 
 Sir G. (severe again) So, Clarissa—madam, you not only come 
 up to town against my express commands—but—but in an article 
 of attire which is simply- 
 
 Mid. Loud —oh, yes, you’re a highly sensible woman, but it is 
 loud. 
 
 Clar. That’s your opinion. / paid Mr. Warrington to discover 
 my nephew, and notwithstanding your threats, Geoffry, I preferred 
 to brave your anger rather than share your regret, when you had 
 perhaps found your son—the victim of a severe father’s system— 
 either in the streets or gone Heaven knows where. My dear 
 nephew—Mr. Middlewick, ( shakes hands) I’ve heard how you 
 behaved to him. But you’re two scarecrows. I’ve got a fowl at 
 the kitchen fire, and as it’s only enough for two, we’ll all go round 
 to luncheon at Sir Geoffry’s hotel, whilst you - 
 
50 
 
 “ OUR BOVS.” 
 
 Mid. Polish off the poultry. Brayvo ! 
 
 Sir G. ( severely) What, sir ? 
 
 Mid. It’s no good, don’t look severe, Sir Geoffry. ( goes to him ) 
 It don’t suit you. 
 
 Sir G. ( chafing) But my own sister—a Champneys, cooking a 
 fowl in a lodging-house kitchen, and I’m positively certain spoiling 
 it—defying my authority and- 
 
 Vio. ( has slipped her arm through his) Sir Geoffry, dear Sir 
 Geoffry, don’t you think we’ve all been a little wrong ? 
 
 Sir G. [pleased) Eh? 
 
 Vio. You, especially ? 
 
 Sir G. [huffed) He-hem ! 
 
 Vio. And that we all ought to beg each other’s pardons? 
 
 Mary, [other side) Yes, dear Sir Geoffry, and promise to forget 
 the past, and never do so any more ? 
 
 Vio. Eh, Sir Geoffry ? [squeezinghis arm) 
 
 Mary. Eh, dear Sir Geff. ? [same business) 
 
 Sir G. [pleased, and unable to deny it) Ha ! ha! Sir Geff. 
 indeed ! [looks at each admiringly) You’re a couple of syrens. I 
 feel you would make me forgive anything ■—except that bonnet. 
 
 Char. I must own it staggered me. I knew it couldn’t be 
 Belinda’s. 
 
 Both Girls, [drop Sir Geoffry’s arm) Who’s Belinda? 
 
 Tal. Ha ! ha ! A slave. 
 
 Sir G. What? 
 
 Tal. Slave of the ring —comes when you pull the bell, you know, 
 (enter Belinda) One of the best girls in England, and the best 
 nurse in the universe, as / well know. 
 
 Bel. That fowl’s a frizzling itself to regler fiddle-strings. Why, 
 everybody seems to know everybody else. 
 
 Mid. [beckons her to him) Here. Have you—have you got a 
 young man ? A sweetheart, you know ? 
 
 Bel. A young man ! He ! he ! And me two-and-twenty ! 
 
 Mid. Just so. What is he ? I mean, what’s his business ? How 
 does he get his living ? 
 
 Bel. He’s a butterman. 
 
 Mid. Is he though? Tell him to call round to-morrow at that 
 address, and I’ll buy him the best business in the Boro’. 
 (Belinda goes up, dazed) Sir Geoffry, they’re our own again—our 
 boys. 
 
 Sir G. No, no, somebody else’s. [points to the young couples 
 spooning) 
 
 Clarissa is explaining to Belinda. 
 
 Mid. All in good time, [laughing) You and your rod of iron, 
 bless your ’art, it wasn’t a bar of soap. 
 
“ OUR BOYS.” 51 
 
 Sir G. [shaking hands) Ha! ha! I’m afraid so, and you—you a 
 father of ancient Rome ! Ha ! ha ! Greece is more in your line. 
 
 Vio. [to Charley) Yes, yes, Charley, I know I was blind to my 
 own shortcomings, and was haughty, headstrong, and capricious, 
 whilst you, Mary- 
 
 Mary. I don’t think I’ve been anything in particular, and if I 
 have I’m not going to admit it. 
 
 Tal. Quite right, Mary, nothing like being thoroughly satisfied 
 with yourself y unless it’s being more than satisfied with me. 
 
 Sir G. Clarissa, I was foolish just now. I beg your pardon. 
 Talbot, dear boy— [shakes hands ) Charles— [shakes hands ) I—I see 
 my error. 
 
 Mid. Ha ! ha ! 
 
 Sir G. [stiffly and abruptly at him) And other people’s, [aside) 
 I’m so happy I—but I mustn't admit it —a— yet. [to them) We 
 haven’t understood each other, borne with each other, we haven’t 
 shown sufficient of the glorious old principle of “ Give and take.” 
 Sister, boys and girls, old friend, [to Middlewick) hot tempers, 
 hasty judgments, extreme crotchets, thick-skinned prejudice, 
 theory and rule run rampant, ignoring the imperfections of poor 
 human nature—these, henceforth, we throw overboard and rise to 
 brighter realms, even as the aspiring aeronaut flings away his heavy 
 ballast and floats serenely through the cloudless sky. 
 
 Melody in Orchestra swells as 
 
 CURTAIN FALLS ON PICTURE. 
 
. THE DEACON. 
 
 COMEDY-DRAMA IN 5 ACTS, BY HORACE C. DALE. 
 
 Price, 25 cents. 
 
 A play of the Alvin Joslyn type, easily staged, and can be presented in any hall 
 Abounds in humorous incidents and ludicrous situations, with a great deal of taking 
 farcical “business." The characters are all life-like and good. Capital parts for old 
 man, old maid, negro, country boy and soubrette. This play has met with phenomenal 
 success under its author’s direction, and is confidently recommended by him to give 
 general satisfaction where a mirthful comedy-drama is wanted. 
 
 CAST OF CHARACTERS. 
 
 Deacon Thornton, with a passion for lemonade with a stick in it. j 
 
 ,General utility , played by one person. 
 
 Eccentric com¬ 
 old tnan . 
 
 George Graef, Mrs. Thornton’s nephew, falsely accused. .....Juvenile lead. 
 
 George Darrah, alias Matt Wheeler, a Gambler. Genteel villain. 
 
 James Read, Darrah’s Friend. 
 
 Pedro, an organ grinder. 
 
 Policeman, useful and ornamental. 
 
 Parson Brownlow, who ties the knot. 
 
 Pete, always in mischief..;. Negro comedian. 
 
 Billy, the Deacon’s attendant. Country boy. 
 
 Mrs. Thornton, the Deacon’s sister-in-law. First walking lady. 
 
 Helen, her daughter, who has a narrow escape. Second “ “ 
 
 Miss Amelia Fawcett, attached to the Deacon. Comic old maid. 
 
 Mrs. Darrah, the gambler’s wife.. Character heavy. 
 
 Nellie, Darrah’s child. Juveviile character. 
 
 Daisy Dean, pert and good-looking. Soubrette. 
 
 Violinist, Villagers, etc. 
 
 Period, the Present. Locality, Eastville, Va. Time of Playing, 2 x / 2 hours. 
 
 SYNOPSIS OP INCIDENTS. 
 
 Act I.—Scene Eastville Hotel garden. The Robbery. Pete delivers an invitation. 
 “ By golly he’s mad already." Meeting of Graef and Wheeler. “ Pm no coward; 
 I'll either live down the stigma attached to it or die in the attempt." A promised re¬ 
 ward. The Deacon’s Arrival. “Pm a gentleman, sir!" “Be sure to put a little 
 stick in it." The Deacon gets hilarious. Pete imposes upon Billy. The Deacon is 
 sick. “ Oh, my head, my head ! ” Triumph No. 1. Curtain. 
 
 Act II. Scene.—Mrs. Thornton’s sitting-room. Pete promotes himself. “ I spruced 
 up to do de honors ob de ’casion." Miss Amelia is anxious about her “ dear little pet." 
 “ Ze dog or ze money." “ Horrid men, but dear doggy woggy." The Deacon’s recep¬ 
 tion. The Deacon makes a mistake. “Everything lovely admires me." “Were you 
 and Bill married by candle light ? ” “ Deacon, you are drunk." Miss Amelia pre¬ 
 
 scribes for the Deacon. Triumph No. 2. Curtain. 
 
 Act III.—Scene 1.—A street. Mother and child. “Mamma will we never reach 
 papa’s house?" The meeting of husband and wife. “ What, you here ? " Accused 
 of many bitter things. Left in the streets. 
 
 Scene 2.—Geo. Graef’s lodgings. Graef meditates. The finding of the diamonds. 
 Meeting of Graef and Mrs. Darrah. “Minnie is this you?" “ Welcome little coz." 
 The photo. “ Yes, alas, too well ! ” 
 
 Scene 3.—A street. Pete has a dream and persuades Billy to accompany him on an 
 expedition. 
 
 Scene 4.—A wood. Treasure hunters. “ Oh, Lor’ ! Pm dead." “ Let’s go home and 
 git the mules " The Treasure is found. Caught by the spirits. Tableau. Curtain. 
 
 Act IV.—Scene.—Mrs. Thornton’s sitting-room. Daisy shows Pete what she would 
 do. Miss Amelia’s heart is in a flutter. “ I know I’ll refuse him." Pete at his tricks, 
 “Then kiss me." Consternation. Pete continues his tricks. 'Tis he, by Jerusalem. 
 The Deacon taken by surprise. Again there is consternation. “ I was insulted by a 
 colored woman." Billy creates excitement. “ Thank Heaven! At last I enfold 
 thee." Curtain. 
 
 Act V.—Scene.—Mrs. Thornton’s sitting-room. The Deacon in Clover. An inter¬ 
 ruption. “ Hang the parson !" The interrupted marriage ceremony. “That man has 
 a wife living." “’Tis false!" An attack. Pete to the rescue. “ No, it is a forgery." 
 The villain foiled. Arrest of Geo. Darrah. Reinstatement of Graef. Refusal of a 
 hand. The Deacon is obstinate. “I can’t help it Minnie, I mean it.” Mrs. Darrah 
 and Nellie forgiven. “ Oh, Deacon, don’t be so silly." The Deacon made happy. 
 Curtain. >►. 
 
 Copies mailed, post-paid, to any address, on receipt of'the price. < %Q 
 
 HAROLD ROORBACK, Publisher, 132 Nassau St., 
 
 N.>