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PRICE TWENTY-FIVE CENTS 
 
 FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 ARTHUR LEWIS TUBBS 
 
 
 THE PENN PUBi 
 
 !NG COMPANY 
 
 PHILADELPHIA 
 
Successful Rural Plays 
 
 A Strong 'List From Which to Select Your 
 Next Play 
 
 FARM FOLKS. A Rural Play in Four Acts, by Arthur 
 Lewis Tubbs. For five male and six female characters. Time 
 of plajdng, two hours and a half. One simple exterior, two 
 easy interior scenes. Costumes, modern. Flora Goodwin, a 
 farmer’s daughter, is engaged to Philip Burleigh, a young New 
 Yorker. Philip’s mother wants him to mairy a society woman, 
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 Dave Weston, who tvants Flora himself, helps the deception by 
 intercepting a letter from Philip to Flora. She agrees to mar^ 
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 learns the truth, and he and Flora are reunited. It is a simple 
 plot, but full of speeches and situations that sway an audience 
 alternately t® tears and to laughter. Price, 25 cents. 
 
 HOME TIES. A Rural Play in Four Acts, by Arthtw 
 Lewis Tubbs. Characters, four male, five female. Plays two 
 hours and a half. Scene, a simple interior — same for all four 
 acts. Costumes, modern. One of the strongest plays Mr. Tubbs 
 has written. Martin Winn’s wife left him w'hen his daughter 
 Ruth was a baby. Harold Vincent, the nephew and adopted son 
 of the man who has wronged Martin, makes love to Ruth Winn. 
 She is also loved by Len Everett, a prosperous -young farmer. 
 When Martin discovers who Harold is, he orders him to leave 
 Ruth. Harold, who does not love sincerely, yields. Ruth dis- 
 covers she loves Len, but thinks she has lost him also. Then 
 he comes back, and Ruth fmds her happiness. Price 25 cents. 
 
 THE OLD NEW HAMPSHIRE HOME. A New 
 
 England Drama in Three Acts, by Frank Dumont. For seven 
 males and four females. Time, two hours and a half. Costumes, 
 modern. A play with a strong, heart interest and pathos, yet rich 
 in humor. Easy to act and very effective. A rural drama of 
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 everybody understands and likes. Price, 25 cents. 
 
 THE OLD DAIRY HOMESTEAD. A Rural Comedy 
 in Three Acts, by Frank Dumont. For five males and four 
 females. Time, two hours. Rural costumes. Scenes rural ex- 
 terior and interior. An adventurer obtains a large sum of money 
 from a farm house through the intimidation of the farmer’s 
 niece, whose husband he 'ulaims to be. Her escapes from the 
 wiles of the villain and his female accomplice are both starting 
 and novel. Price, 15 cents. 
 
 A WHITE MOUNTAIN BOY. A Strong Melodrama in 
 Five Acts, by Charles Tow'NSEnd. For seven males and four 
 females, and three supers. Time, two hours and twenty minutes. 
 One exterior, three interiors. Costumes easy. The hero, a 
 country lad, twice saves the life of a banker’s daughter, which 
 results in their betrothal. A scoundrelly clerk has the banker 
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 IS cents. 
 
 THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
 PHILADELPHIA 
 
For the Old Flag 
 
 A Patriotic Play in Thre& Acts 
 
 By 
 
 ARTHUR LEWIS TUBBS 
 
 Author of **Farm Folks f **Home Tiesf ^*The Village 
 Lawyer f **The Finger of Scorn f etc. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA 
 
 THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
 1919 
 
Copyright 1918 by The Penn Publishing Company 
 
 For the Old Flag 
 
'5 
 
 
 
 • o 
 
 For the Old Flag 
 
 CAST OF CHARACTERS 
 
 Philip Randall - - - - of the U. S. Army 
 
 Tom Randall - - - - - -his brother 
 
 Rodney Hunt from New York 
 
 Hezekiah Wilkins - - - ‘an ‘^Old Vet '* 
 
 Oliver Moon . . - . - a yotmg patriot 
 
 Lucy Garrett tried and true 
 
 Jessie Randall - - - sister of Philip a7td Tom 
 
 Mrs. Randall ----- their mother 
 Sophia Ash . - . . ivho is mediu7}iistic** 
 
 Ivy the help" 
 
 Time of Playing. — About two hours and a half. 
 
 The action of the play takes place in a small village in 
 New York State, near which is located a United States Army 
 training camp. The first act occurs on an afternoon in 
 August, 1917; the second act, about the same time the 
 next day, and the third act in the evening, the following 
 February. 
 
THE STORY OF THE PLAY 
 
 Philip Randall, a United States soldier, is in love with 
 Lucy Garrett. She refuses him, her love and faith 
 having been pledged to his brother, Tom Randall, 
 who is in prison, accused of a theft Lucy believes 
 he did not commit. Tom returns, and confronts 
 Philip. “ You took that money.” Philip begs 
 mercy for the sake of their mother and “ for the 
 old flag,” and Tom agrees to keep silent for a time. 
 Philip sails for France, and when wounded makes 
 a confession that clears his brother’s name. Then 
 Tom in turn, with Lucy’s promise to wait for him, 
 enlists under the old flag. 
 
 NOTICE TO PROFESSIONALS 
 
 This play is published for the free use of strictly 
 amateur companies only. Professional actors or 
 organizations wishing to produce it, in any form 
 or under any title, are forbidden to do so without 
 the consent of the author, who may be addressed 
 in care of the publishers. 
 
 COSTUMES AND CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 Philip Randall. About twenty-five years of age. A 
 sturdy young country fellow, of good appearance, 
 considerable polish and attractive manner. He 
 should by no means be indicated as a coward, but 
 rather as one “ not wholly convinced.” A vein of 
 possible villainy should be hinted, not offensively 
 depicted. He wears the khaki uniform of a pri- 
 vate in the U. S. Anny. 
 
 4 
 
COSTUMES AND CHABACTEEISTICS 
 
 Tom Randall. About three years younger than 
 Philip. Upon his first appearance he is pale, 
 emaciated, of dejected and somewhat desperate 
 mien. Cheap suit, considerably the worse for 
 wear. Second act, same suit, but much more tidy 
 in appearance, also improved in spirits and man- 
 ner. Third act, well dressed, in plain dark suit. 
 He has fully recovered his health and looks robust 
 and athletic. 
 
 Rodney Hunt. Young “city fellow”; not dudish, 
 but well dressed in summer flannel or outing suit, 
 with straw hat; same for first two acts. Third 
 act, uniform, same as worn by Philip in first act, 
 with heavy overcoat, etc. 
 
 Hezekiah Wilkins. Little, wizened old man, about 
 seventy. Thin, wrinkled face, with sparse gray 
 hair and beard. May have slight limp. First act, 
 baggy old trousers, with colored shirt, wide- 
 brimmed straw hat, etc. Wears G. A. R. badge. 
 Last act, neat but cheap winter suit ; overcoat, cap, 
 tippet, etc. Still wears badge. 
 
 Oliver Moon. Boy of fifteen or sixteen. Regular 
 mischievous “ Md,” full of pranks. First act, 
 short trousers, waist, cap or straw hat. Last act, 
 heavier suit. 
 
 Lucy Garrett. Pretty, winsome girl of eighteen or 
 thereabouts, of cultured manners. First act, light, 
 dainty summer costume, with hat. Second act, 
 same or similar. Third act, becoming winter 
 dress, with furs, etc. 
 
 Jessie Randall. About same age as Lucy. Equally 
 attractive, though not so richly dressed. First act, 
 neat summer dress, with hat. Second act, similar 
 attire. Third act, neat winter dress. 
 
 Mrs. Randall. Motherly woman of about fifty-five 
 or sixty; white hair; very gentle and loveable. 
 First act, neat dress, with bonnet and light shawl 
 or wrap. Second act, house dress of calico or 
 some such material. Third act, dark house dress. 
 
 Sophia Ash. A quick, “ fussy ” and self-important 
 “ old maid,” distinctly a comedy part, but by no 
 
 5 
 
PROPERTI^:S 
 
 means a caricature. She is about forty-five or 
 fifty years old. In first two acts she is attired in 
 somewhat fancy summer dresses, with ribbons, a 
 gay hat, parasol, fan, etc. Third act, equally 
 “ dressy,” but appropriate to season, with shawl, 
 etc. 
 
 Ivy. Typical country “help,” fourteen or fifteen years 
 of age. First two acts, short dress, with large 
 gingham apron; not too neat, but should not be 
 noticeably untidy. Hair combed straight back, 
 with braids, or hanging in ringlets. Third act, 
 neater attire, with ribbon on hair. 
 
 PROPERTIES 
 
 For Mrs. Randall: Fan; partly knitted sweater, 
 needles, wool, etc. 
 
 For Ivy : Pan of apples ; paring knife ; glass of water ; 
 several cucumbers or substitutes ; tray with dishes, 
 covered with napkin; broom; checker-board and 
 checkers. 
 
 For Lucy: Knitting-bag and two partly knitted 
 sweaters (these should be alike except that one is 
 a little more advanced than the other) ; hand-bag. 
 
 For Jessie: Partly knitted sock, needles, etc. 
 
 For Sophia: Knitting bag, partly knitted sock, 
 needles, etc. ; newspaper in a wrapper. 
 
 For Oliver: Basket with packages, supposed to be 
 groceries. 
 
 For Hezekiah : Large American flag on a pole ; 
 G. A. R. badge. 
 
 For Rodney: Letter in an envelope, addressed, but 
 not stamped. 
 
 Other Properties: A phonograph to be heard off 
 stage, with military march record. A cabinet 
 organ, to be heard oft' stage playing “ Keep the 
 Home Fires Burning,” or some sympathetic war 
 music. Later, heard playing “ America.” Salt, to 
 represent snow. 
 
 6 
 
SCENE PLOT 
 
 ^XTER/O R UFiOP 
 
 Scene. — Sitting-room of the Randall home. Door in 
 flat, c., and window in flat l. c. (window may be 
 omitted). Back drop shows village scene, fields, 
 or yard. Doors r. and l. also. Up R. small table 
 or stand, and two chairs or stools. Down R., two 
 large chairs. Down l., table with table spread, 
 papers, books. One chair r. and two l. of table. 
 Bookcase or some other article of furniture up L. 
 Other furnishings to make a plain but comfort- 
 able room. 
 
 7 
 
For the Old Flag 
 
 ACT I 
 
 SCENE. — Sitting-room of the Randall homestead, 
 plainly but neatly furnished. There is a door up 
 c. in flat and window up l. in flat, also doors r. 
 and L. ; table, with spread, papers, a book or two, 
 etc., L. c. ; several chairs. It is an afternoon in 
 August and the window and door up c. are open, 
 showing yard, the fields or village street in back- 
 ground. At rise, a band is heard off r., playing a 
 military march. After a pause, during which the 
 band is supposed to pass in the distance, the music 
 gradually dying away, Oliver Moon enters, march 
 step, door c. to l., carrying basket containing sev- 
 eral packages; down c., just as Ivy enters r. She 
 carries pan containing apples. He sets down 
 basket, stands at attention ” c. Ivy crosses down 
 L., turns and sees Oliver. 
 
 Ivy. Oh! that you, Oliver? ’Bout time you brung 
 them groceries. 
 
 Oliver {standing erect, arms at side; salutes). Here I 
 
 Ivy. Oh, come on, you ain’t no soldier. Can’t fool me. 
 
 {Sits, down l., and commences to pare and cut up 
 apples. ) 
 
 Oliver {assuming natural manner). Oh, that you. 
 Ivy? 
 
 Ivy. Who’s it look like — Mis’ President Wilson ’r 
 anybuddy ? Brung our things, did y’ ? 
 
 Oliver. Yep. Where’ll I put ’em? 
 
 9 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 Ivy. Well, mebbe you’d better take ’em in and put ’em 
 on the pi-anner. That’s gen’ rally where we keep 
 our groceries. 
 
 Oliver. Pi-anner? You ain’t got none. 
 
 Ivy. Well, then s’pose you go ’n’ put ’em on the 
 kitchen table. I’d take ’em, only I got t’ peel these 
 apples. Phil’s got leave ’n’ is cornin’ home t’ 
 supper ’n’ I got t’ make a lot o’ apple sauce. 
 
 Oliver. Give me a piece? (Crosses l.) 
 
 Ivy. How c’n I give you a piece o’ apple sauce, you 
 silly ? ’Sides, it ain’t made yet. 
 
 Oliver. Aw, I mean a piece o’ apple. 
 
 (About to help himself from pan.) 
 
 Ivy. Go ’way; th’ ain’t none t’ spare — ’cept a little 
 piece, mebbe. Here! 
 
 (Hands him small piece of apple.) 
 
 Oliver. Thanks. Regular Eve, ain’t y’ ? 
 
 (Sits near her, l.) 
 
 Ivy. Eve who ? 
 
 Oliver. ’N’ Adam. Don’t you go t’ Sunday-school? 
 
 Ivy. Oh, ain’t you knowin’? Sure I do. ’N’ you’d 
 better go ’n’ put them groceries in the kitchen and 
 get back t’ that store, ’r Mr. Bates’ll give you more 
 ’n ^apples. 
 
 Oli\TlR. Huh ! no danger. He never gives a feller 
 nothin’. Y’ see the soldiers ? 
 
 Ivy. No. Heard the band, but Mis’ Randall ’n’ Jessie 
 wanted t’ go ’n’ see ’em ’cause Phil was with ’em, 
 so I had t’ stay home and watch the house. She’s 
 all broke up over his ’nlistin’. 
 
 (He keeps helping himself to pieces of apple, unnoticed 
 by her; eats them almost as fast as she pares 
 them . ) 
 
 Oliver. I s’pose she is. Jest like a mother. But it’s 
 the best thing ever happened t’ Phil Randall. 
 Mebbe it’ll make a man of him. 
 
 10 
 
FOB THE OLD FLAG 
 
 Ivy. You hadn't better let her hear you say that. 
 She thinks he’s the hull thing, almost, ’n’ of coupe 
 
 he’s all she’s got, sense {Notices him eating 
 
 apples, jumps up, slapping him.) Here, you! 
 Ain’t you got th’ cheek? Well, of all things, if 
 you haven’t et all I’ve peeled ! 
 
 Oliver. The woman tempted me and I did eat 
 
 Ivy. Well, I should say you did ! Now you take them 
 things in the kitchen, ’n’ then you clear out o’ here. 
 You’re the limit. 
 
 Oliver {going r., with basket). Oh, all right! Rut 
 mebbe you’ll be sorry you spoke t’ me like that 
 some day — when I’m over ’n France, ’n’ you hear 
 I’m shot ’r somethin’. 
 
 Ivy. You ! Huh, I guess they ain’t much danger. A 
 pretty soldier you’d make 
 
 Oerter. Who wants t’ be a “pretty” soldier? But 
 you jest bet I’d ’nlist t’day if they’d take me. 
 Ain’t it a shame I ain’t old enough? You jest bet 
 I’d ’nlist if I was. 
 
 Ivy. I guess you wouldn’t be s’ anxious ’f you was. 
 It’s easy enough to talk, but I guess when it come 
 
 to the pinch You goin’ t’ take them things 
 
 in there? 
 
 Oliver. Sure — sure! Y’ see. Ivy dear, you’re such 
 a dingin’ little vine, I can’t tear m’self away from 
 
 y’ — 
 
 Ivy. You git out 
 
 {Runs at him, giving him a cuff; he exits R., with 
 basket. She looks at pan, disgusted; goes up, 
 looks off door c. to r., then, carrying pan, comes 
 down R., as she sees Mrs. Randall and Jessie, 
 who enter from r. They wear hats; Mrs. R. has 
 a plain fan. They come down l.) 
 
 Mrs. Randall {sitting l., fanning self). I’m so tired. 
 It’s very warm. 
 
 Jessie {by her). Yes, Mother, and I’m afraid the 
 walk was too much for you. Do you feel faint ? 
 
 Mrs. R. Oh, no; just a little exhausted, that’s all 
 I’ll be all right in a minute. 
 
 II 
 
FOB THE OLD FLAG 
 
 Ivy. Shall I get you a glass o’ water, Mis’ Randall? 
 
 Mrs. R. Why, yes. Ivy, if you will, please. 
 
 Ivy. Yes, ma’am. Oliver Moon’s in there. He jest 
 brung them things you ordered from the store 
 b’fore you went to th’ p’rade. They’re the slowest 
 things down t’ that store. I’ll bring the water. 
 
 {Exit, R., with pmi.) 
 
 Jessie. It was very hard, wasn’t it — seeing Phil in his 
 uniform and knowing he has to leave us? But we 
 must be brave, you know. 
 
 Mrs. R. Yes, dear, of course we must; and I mean to 
 be. But it is hard, especially when I think of — 
 of 
 
 (Covers eyes with hand or fan, weeping gently. Jessie 
 puts arm about her.) 
 
 Jessie. Don’t, Mother, please don’t. We mustn’t 
 think about him — about that — you know. It 
 doesn’t do any good. We must only think of Phil, 
 and that he is a soldier now and is going to be a 
 hero — and fight for his country — and — oh. Mother, 
 didn’t he look fine in his new uniform? I was so 
 proud of him. Weren’t you? 
 
 Mrs. R. (recovering) . Yes, yes, of course I was. 
 I’m so glad he has leave and can come to supper 
 and spend a whole day with us. 
 
 (Enter Ivy, r., with glass of water; gives it to Mrs. R., 
 who drinks nearly all of it. Oli\?er enters R. and 
 stands r. c. with empty basket.) 
 
 Ivy. Feel better now. Mis’ Randall? 
 
 Mrs. R. Yes, thank you. Ivy. How do you do, 
 Oliver ? 
 
 Oliver. How d’ do, Mis’ Randall ? 
 
 (He and Jessie also exchange greetings. Ivy goes out 
 R., with glass.) 
 
 Jessie. Wouldn’t you like to be a soldier, Oliver? 
 
 13 
 
FOE THE OLD FLAG 
 
 Oliver. You jest bet I would, Miss Randall. *T’s 
 only ’cause I ain’t old enough ’t I ain’t one. 
 
 Mrs. R. Some would be glad to escape, Oliver. 
 
 Oliver. Them kind ain’t real Americans. They’re 
 slackers. I ain’t built that way — no more ’n your 
 Phil is. Mis’ Randall. I see he’s ’nlisted. 
 
 Mrs. R. Yes. We have just been to see him in his 
 uniform, for the first time. It was a very fine 
 parade. Did you see it? 
 
 (Jessie goes up to door, c.) 
 
 Oliver. No. Couldn’t git away. Well, I must be 
 gilt’ll’ back, ’r old Bates’ll dock my week’s wages. 
 
 Jessie {who is looking off to r.). Oh, look! Here 
 comes Mr. Wilkins, having a parade all to himself. 
 (Waves hand.) Hello, Mr. Wilkins! 
 
 (Oliver goes up, looks off; Mrs. R. rises, goes up C. 
 part way, also looks off; they stand aside, as Heze- 
 KiAH Wilkins marches in, with good-sized Amer- 
 ican flag. Jessie joins him on one side, Oliver 
 on the other; they march about; Ivy looks in r., 
 sees them, joins them and they parade around, all 
 singing or whistling ‘‘ The Girl I Left Behind Me.” 
 Mrs. R. stands up l., watching them, smiling, then 
 applauding. Philip Randall appears in door c., 
 in uniform, stands and watches them, at first %m- 
 noticed. They finally pause and he claps his 
 hands . ) 
 
 Philip. Hurray! Hurray! Three cheers for the 
 U. S. A.! 
 
 {They all turn and see him. He comes down l. Mrs. 
 R. comes down l. to him; he kisses her, then kisses 
 Jessie. Oliver, Hezekiah, Ivy at r.) 
 
 Mrs. R. Why, Phil, dear, how did you get here so 
 soon ? We didn’t expect you for some time yet. 
 
 Philip. They broke ranks soon after you left, and I 
 came straight here. 
 
 *3 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 Jessie. My, but you look fine, Phil! Aren’t you 
 proud ? 
 
 Philip. M’m — yes, I suppose I am. It’s all very fine, 
 and Pm patriotic and all that, but — vrell, somehow 
 I don’t feel so very enthusiastic just yet. I sup- 
 pose I shall, though, in time. How about it, Mr. 
 Wilkins? You ought to know. 
 
 PIezekiah. Me ? Guess I do. Be’n through th’ mill ! 
 ’Thusiasm? ’M full of it. Gosh, wish I was a 
 young ’un agin, y’ jest bet I’d fall in line. It’s me 
 f ’r Old Glory, every time ! 
 
 (Waves flag; they all smile and applaud lightly.) 
 
 Jessie. Good for you, Mr. Wilkins. I guess you 
 know what war is, too ? 
 
 Hezekiah. Guess I do. Fit f’r the Union. Was at 
 Antietam ’n’ Bull Run. Makes me fire up all over 
 agin, all this marchin’ ’n’ music, ’n’ all. I tell y’ 
 what, young man (to Philip), you ought t’ be 
 proud t’ go ’n’ fight for Uncle Sam. 
 
 Oliver. Sure he ought to. Wish I could go. 
 
 Philip. I am. But there’s another side to it, you 
 know — going away, and leaving this dear little 
 mother and sister, and — they have no one else 
 
 now, and Oh, but we mustn’t think of these 
 
 things, I suppose. By the way. Mother, I asked 
 Rodney Hunt to come and have supper with us. 
 I thought you wouldn’t mind. 
 
 Mrs. R. Why, no, of course not, Phil, if you want 
 him. But we are not very stylish, you know, and 
 he — well, being from the city and living at the 
 hotel and all 
 
 Hezekiah. He’s that city dude ’t I’ve seen around 
 with you s’ much, ain’t he? 
 
 Philip. I suppose you have seen him with me. He 
 has been my friend for some time, and he lives 
 in New York. But I don’t know as I would call 
 him a “ dude.” Wearing good clothes and having 
 an education and polished manners doesn’t nec- 
 essarily mean that a man is what vou call a 
 “ dude,” Hezekiah. 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 {He goes up L., slightly annoyed. Mrs. R. is dozvn l. ; 
 Jessie l. c. ; Hezekiah up r. ; Oliver and Ivy r.) 
 
 Hezekiah. Didn’t mean no offense, Phil, m’ boy. 
 But I’ve kind o’ wondered why he ain’t wearin’ a 
 uniform, too. Not that he’d make much of a 
 soldier. He’s th’ kind that c’n carry a cane ’r a 
 cigarette better ’n a gun, I take it. 
 
 Mrs. R. Well, Phil, if your friend is coming. Ivy and 
 I will go and see about getting a little something 
 extra for supper. I guess there is time. Come, 
 Ivy. 
 
 Ivy. All right. Mis’ Randall. 
 
 Philip. Now, Mother, you needn’t go and fuss. 
 Rodney isn’t so particular, and he’ll understand. 
 
 Mrs. R. I know, dear ; but we want to fix up a little, 
 you know. I wouldn’t want you to be ashamed 
 of us. 
 
 {Exit R., followed by Ivy. Jessie goes to r.) 
 
 Jessie. I’ll go and see if there’s anything I can do. 
 Mother’s all upset, I can see that. I shouldn’t 
 think you would have invited Mr. Hunt here to 
 supper, Phil, without telling us in advance. Pie’s 
 used to style and all, you know he is. 
 
 Philip {going to her, r.). Pshaw! It won’t hurt 
 him, if he is. Besides, things are plenty good 
 enough here for him. He was glad enough to 
 accept, and you’re glad enough to have him, you 
 know you are 
 
 Jessie {in confusion). Phil! 
 
 Philip. Now, now, little sly puss! You know you 
 think he’s the grandest thing ever was. And as 
 for him — well, what he didn’t say nice about 
 you 
 
 Jessie. Phil! — be still! How can you? They’ll 
 hear 
 
 {Glances at Hezekiah and Oliver, who are up c., in 
 door, talking together, apparently not noticing 
 others, who are up r.) 
 
 '5 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 Philip. That’s all right. They didn’t notice. What 
 do you care if they did? {Turning up c.) Going, 
 Hezekiah ? 
 
 Hezekiah. Wal, I wa’n’t, jest yit. {Comes down c.) 
 Reckoned I’d run in ’n’ talk soldier’n’ a few min- 
 utes, seein’ you’ve got y’r uniform. Thought 
 mebbe I c’d give y’ a little advice. Glad t’. 
 
 Philip. That’s very kind, Hezekiah, but I guess I’ll 
 get all the advice and instructions that are neces- 
 sary, all in good time. What do you think about 
 it, Oliver ? They going to get you ? 
 
 Oliver {up c). Would, if I had my way. Won’t 
 take me. Ain’t old ’nough. 
 
 Philip. I guess that could be fixed. They might 
 take you, one way or another. 
 
 Olr^r. Oh! think they would? {About to go.) 
 Well, y’ see, even so, I — I ain’t sure I could go. 
 
 Got some fambly ties, y’ know, ’n’ Say, it’s 
 
 gitt’n’ late. Guess I’ll have t’ be gitt’n’ back t’ 
 the store, ’r Mr. Bates’ll give it t’ me. Good-bye. 
 See y’ later. 
 
 {Exit Oliver through c. door to l. Jessie goes to 
 door c. and looks after him. Philip comes 
 down l.) 
 
 Hezekiah. Cold feet. Was jes’ blowin’ about 
 want’n’ t’ go. 
 
 Philip {leaning on table, l.). Well, I tell you, it’s no 
 pleasant thing to think of, after all, Mr. Wilkins. 
 I can’t say I’d go, if I had my way. I don’t think 
 I’m a coward. I want to be patriotic and do my 
 duty, and I hope I will do it when the time comes. 
 But a fellow might as well be honest with himself 
 and own up that he doesn’t hanker after war. 
 It’s a beastly thing to think of. 
 
 Hezekiah. You’re right, m’ boy, it is. I was there. 
 It’s a good while ago now, but sometimes it seems 
 like it was yist’d’y. I c’n still hear the cannons 
 roarin’, ’n’ see the boys runnin’ int’ the midst of 
 the fight — ’n’ there I be, pitchin’ in, day after day, 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 fightin’ — sometimes fairly dioppin’, but still 
 keepin’ at it — ’cause y’ can’t stop, s’ long ’s y’r 
 legs ’ll hold y’ up and there’s a breath left t’ fight 
 with. Then one day I got a shot — here, in this 
 leg — the bullet went in there — right here — and I 
 was done f’r. {He feels of right knee.) I’m an 
 old Vet. now, and hev been f’r years ’n’ years, ’n’ 
 I’ll soon lay down m’ arms f’r good. But I would 
 like t’ live till you boys come marchin’ home ’n’ 
 y’ tell us you licked them pesky Huns. That’d 
 be somethin’ t’ live f’r — ’n’ t’ die f’r, if needs be, 
 m’ boy — t’ die f’r ! 
 
 Philip {going and clasping his hand). Thanks, Mr. 
 Wilkins. You give me courage. I’ll try to be as 
 good a soldier as you were — as you are ! I never 
 can be — but I’ll try! 
 
 Hezekiah {patting him on shoulder) . That’s the way 
 t’ talk, m’ boy — ’n’ I’ll go with y’ — in spirit — ’n’ 
 keep Old Glory wavin’ here till y’ come marchin’ 
 home. 
 
 {They are down l. c. ; Jessie in door c., looking off to 
 R. Hezekiah again waves flag , ) 
 
 Philip. Oh, the flag will come flying home all right, 
 Hezekiah, you can be sure of that, and when it 
 does, the victory it has won will be worth all we 
 have done to win it. That’s the way to feel, isn’t 
 it? 
 
 Hezekiah. You bet it is. No man has ever died in 
 vain if he’s give his life f’r Old Glory. 
 
 Jessie {turning to them). That’s a fine sentiment, Mr. 
 Wilkins. It’s easier to say than it is to feel, how- 
 ever. 
 
 Hezekiah. Mebbe ’tis; mebbe ’tis. But we got t’ 
 feel it too, you know. 
 
 Jessie {coming part way down c.). Oh, yes, I know, 
 I know. But we’ve got to learn, — to learn how to 
 smile when our hearts are breaking, and cheer 
 when, if we did what we feel like doing, we would 
 just sit down and cry. Oh, I’m not complaining. 
 
 17 
 
FOR TEE OLD FLAG 
 
 I love my country and I am patriotic and I shall 
 bear up and act like a good soldier’s true sister. 
 But you needn’t think it will be easy, for it’s going 
 to be hard — terribly, terribly hard! 
 
 Philip {going io her and putting an arm about her). 
 Of course it is, little sister. That’s why you will 
 be doing something for your country — as much, in 
 staying here at home, you and Mother, as I am in 
 going. Why, it will be the mothers and sisters 
 at home, loving us and thinking of us, that will 
 help us, more than anything else, to win. 
 
 Hezekiah. My, but that sounds fine ! You’re a 
 reg’lar orationer, Phil. But y’ ought t’ said 
 “ sweethearts ” too, f’r here comes yourn. 
 
 (Jessie wipes her eyes, smiling bravely. Hezekiah 
 has gone up c. ; looks off.) 
 
 Philip. Well, of course, I meant sweethearts, too. 
 But as for mine — I guess you’re mistaken there, 
 Hezekiah. I have none. 
 
 Hezekiah. So? Wal, wal, do tell ! Thought y’ had. 
 ’T any rate, here comes Lucy Garrett, lookin’ like 
 she must be somebuddy’s sweetheart. Who’s that 
 with her? 
 
 Jessie {looking out c. to r.). Why, it’s Mr. Hunt, 
 Phil, with — Lucy Garrett. 
 
 Philip. Oh, is it? 
 
 (Jessie comes down, to r. c. ; Hezekiah up l. Philip 
 goes up, meets Rodney Hunt and Lucy Garrett, 
 as they come in door c. to r.) 
 
 Rodney. Good-afternoon, Miss Randall. 
 
 {He comes dow^ r. and shakes hands with Jessie, who 
 seems a hit embarrassed. Jessie welcomes Lucy, 
 zvho has spoken to Philip cordially.) 
 
 Lucy {down r. c.). I was on the way here, Jessie, to 
 see you, when Mr. Hunt overtook me, so we came 
 along together. 
 
 iS 
 
FOE THE OLD FLAG 
 
 Rodney {down r.). Yes. I was in luck for once. 
 Eh, Phil? 
 
 Philip {up c.)* You surely were. You know Mr. 
 Wilkins, Mr. Hunt? He’s our star “ G. A. R.” 
 A real representative of the U. S. A. 
 
 Hezekiah (l.). Glad t’ know you, Mr. Hunt. What 
 y’ hunt’ll’ f’r— Huns? 
 
 Rodney. M’m — well, not exactly. 
 
 (Philip comes down c. As they all laugh, he seems 
 somewhat annoyed. All well down stage, Lucv 
 and Jessie r. ; Rodney c. ; Philip l. c. ; Hezekiah 
 
 L.) 
 
 Lucy. Well, I guess he wouldn’t find any here, if he 
 were. It was a fine parade, Phil. I felt quite 
 proud of you as you went marching by 
 
 Philip {pleased). Of me, Lucy? 
 
 Lucy. M’m — I meant of you all — the boys. But, of 
 course, you too. 
 
 Philip. Oh ! 
 
 Jessie. Yes, I thought they looked splendid. {Notic- 
 ing bag on Lucy’s arm.) That your knitting, 
 Lucy? 
 
 Lucy {holding up hag). Yes. Isn’t it a beauty? I 
 bought it in New York. Oh, you’ll have to have 
 one. They’re all knitting. It’s quite the thing. 
 They knit in the street cars, and at the opera, the 
 theatres — everywhere. 
 
 Hezekiah. Anywheres s’ long ’s it’s in public, I 
 s’pose. Do they keep it up t’ home, when they 
 ain’t nobuddy lookin’ ? 
 
 Rodney {laughing). Indeed, no! That would be 
 quite superfluous, you know. 
 
 Hezekiah. Oh, would it? I thought it was some- 
 thin’ like that. 
 
 Jessie. Come on, let’s all go out in the yard. No 
 use staying in here. I want you to show me your 
 bag, Lucy, and what you are knitting. 
 
 Lucy. All right. 
 
 {They go Jessie first, followed by Rodney, to 
 
 19 
 
FOE THE OLD FLAG 
 
 door c. They go off to R. Hezekiah m 'door c., 
 Lucy up r. ; Philip crosses to her . ) 
 
 Hezekiah. Be out here, Phil. Want t’ see y\ when 
 you git a minute. We’re gitt’n’ up a sort o’ cele- 
 bration ’n’ I thought mebbe you’d help it along — 
 you ’ll’ some of the boys. Drill ’r somethin’. 
 Think you could? 
 
 Philip. Oh, I guess so, Hezekiah. Talk it over, 
 anyway. 
 
 Hezekiah. All right. I’ll be out by the barn, lookin’ 
 at the pigs. 
 
 {Exit Hezekiah, to l. Lucy is about to go out, Hut 
 pauses as Philip speaks.) 
 
 Philip. Lucy — wait ! 
 
 Lucy. What, Phil, — what is it? 
 
 Ppiilip. I — I wanted to speak to you. 
 
 Lucy. But not now. Jessie is waiting for me, 
 and 
 
 Philip {up c.). No, don’t go, Lucy. Wait. I may 
 not have another chance. You must know what 
 I mean — how I feel. Oh, Lucy, I’ve got to tell 
 you, now, — if I don’t it may be too late. {She is 
 about to go; he stops her.) No, you must listen. 
 Lucy — I love you — I’m going away. I can’t go 
 without telling you — without knowing that you are 
 waiting for me here. It’s going to be hard to go, 
 but — but if I could have that to think about — to 
 know that you 
 
 {She comes down c. ; he follows her; she draws away 
 from him, as he tries to take her hand.) 
 
 Lucy. Phil — don’t. You mustn’t. It isn’t right. 
 
 Philip. Why isn’t it right? Hasn’t a man a right 
 to tell a girl he loves her — that she is the only one 
 in the world for him, and that he has nothing to 
 live for if she doesn’t tell him she loves him? 
 
 Lucy. Stop, Phil. You know you shouldn’t say such 
 
 20 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 things to me, and that I shouldn’t listen to them. 
 It isn’t fair to — to him. 
 
 (Lays knitting hag on table.) 
 
 Philip. But why should we think of him? 
 
 Lucy. You ask me that — you ? — and he your brother ? 
 Do you mean to say that you could respect me if 
 I should turn to you now, while he is shut up over 
 there? Don’t you know I promised him I would 
 wait for him? Oh, you know I did — you know 
 I did! 
 
 Philip. But you can’t, Lucy. You don’t love him 
 now. How can you ? He is a convict, a 
 
 Lucy. Don’t say it, Phil. He may be a convict, but 
 that isn’t saying he is guilty of the crime of which 
 he was accused. There’s many an innocent man 
 behind prison walls, and many a guilty one outside 
 of them. You ought to know that. 
 
 Philip. I ? Why, Lucy, what do you mean 
 
 Lucy. Oh, perhaps I don’t mean anything, except 
 that I never believed Tom Randall took that 
 money. 
 
 Philip. We needn’t discuss that. It was proved 
 against him. 
 
 Lucy. Yes, and it was your testimony that did it. 
 Yours — his brother’s. Oh, I know you pretended 
 you were reluctant to tell what you did — that you 
 saw him coming out of the bank that night, an 
 hour after it was closed, proving that he had gone 
 back. And when the money was missing, and 
 those bills were found on him, you “ let slip ” 
 something that made them ask what you knew 
 about it, and you had to tell. I know all that, but 
 I know, too, that, in spite of it all, I never believed 
 Tom guilty, never did and never shall. 
 
 Philip. Well, you have a right to feel that way, and 
 of course I hope you are right. I should like to 
 see Tom vindicated, and I would do all I could to 
 bring it about 
 
 Lucy (close to him, looking straight into his eyes). 
 Do you mean that, Philip Randall ? 
 
 21 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 Philip {trying not to flinch, but unable to meet her 
 gaze). Why, yes, of course I do. 
 
 Lucy. Then why don't you tell ? 
 
 Philip. Tell? Tell what 
 
 Lucy. What you know. What you ought to tell — 
 the truth ! 
 
 Philip. I — I don't know what you mean. I can’t 
 imagine what you have got into your head. 
 
 Lucy. Well, it's something you can’t get out of it. 
 It's something that makes that uniform you have 
 on mean nothing to me, so long as I think what 
 I do. 
 
 Philip. Lucy ! 
 
 Lucy. Oh, you needn't be afraid. I have never said 
 this to anybody else, and I'm not going to do so. 
 It’s only my opinion, and it wouldn’t do any good 
 to express it. I may think things, but I can prove 
 nothing, unless it is my faith in Tom Randall and 
 my determination to stick to him and wait for him. 
 
 Philip. What ! Do you mean to say you would 
 marry him — marry him, after he comes out of 
 prison, and face it out with him? I guess you 
 don’t realize what that would mean. 
 
 Lucy. It would mean I believe him innocent, no mat- 
 ter what all the rest of the world believe, and that 
 there was one woman who didn’t go back on a 
 man just because things were against him. 
 
 Philip. Yes, but 
 
 {He walks up c., as Mrs. R. enters r.) 
 
 Mrs. R. How do you do, Lucy? Why, Lucy — Phil — 
 what is the matter ? 
 
 Philip. Nothing, Mother, Lucy and I were just 
 discussing something, and we — we couldn’t quite 
 agree, that’s all. I’ll be out here with Jessie and 
 Rodney. Will you come, Lucy? 
 
 Lucy. Pretty soon. You needn't wait. 
 
 {Exit Philip through door at c. and off l. Lucy is c. 
 
 Mrs. R. goes to^ her.) 
 
 22 
 
FOB TUE OLD FLAG 
 
 Mrs. R. Why, Lucy, what is it ? I am sure you and 
 Philip have been having some words. I can’t 
 imagine — I thought you were such good friends. 
 
 Lucy. Why, we are, Mrs. Randall. We weren’t 
 quarreling. I don’t want to tell you what it was 
 about, because — well, I know it is a subject that 
 it hurts you to discuss. 
 
 Mrs. R. Lucy, do you mean — Tom? Was it Tom 
 you were talking about? 
 
 Lucy. Yes, Mrs. Randall. Oh, you know how I feel ! 
 You know I never believed him guilty, even when 
 everything was against him. I couldn’t believe 
 Tom a — a thief. 
 
 Mrs. R. I know, dear. That was because you loved 
 him, and your heart, like mine, told you that it 
 could not be so. 
 
 Lucy. And it still tells me so. I still believe in him, 
 I still love him, Mrs. Randall, and I’ll wait for 
 him. And when he comes out you and I will 
 stick by him and comfort him — even if all the 
 rest of the world turns against him. 
 
 Mrs. R. You are a noble, true girl, Lucy, and Tom is 
 blessed indeed in having such a heart as yours to 
 beat for him. But, my dear, you forget — it can’t 
 be — there’s your father 
 
 Lucy. Oh, I know. Sometimes I almost wish he 
 were not my father, he seems so hard, so cruel. 
 He has forbidden me even to mention Tom’s name. 
 He calls him — those awful words that Mr. Stone, 
 the District Attorney, spoke of him — oh, I shall 
 never forget — and he, my own father, says he will 
 have no more to do with me, that I shall no longer 
 be his daughter, if I even speak to Tom again 
 when he comes out. But do you think that will 
 make any difference? Do you think even he can 
 turn me against Tom? 
 
 Mrs. R. No, no, my dear, of course not. But we 
 must face the truth. Tom is my boy and, no 
 matter what others think, I believe him innocent — 
 I know he is. And it’s oh, such a comfort to me 
 to feel that you think so too. But we must face 
 
 23 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 the truth, dear. Your father is a rich" man, he 
 has power and influence, and it was in his bank 
 that — that that theft took place, and he believes 
 Tom is the one that did it. Everything was against 
 him, you know, and your father had reason to 
 believe him guilty. 
 
 Lucy. Oh, I know he had reasons. He was anxious 
 to find them, it seemed to me, and so was that 
 terrible, hard-hearted District Attorney Stone, 
 whose name just suits him. Why, they wouldn’t 
 even give Tom the benefit of the doubt. 
 
 Mrs. R. I’m afraid, Lucy dear, that they thought 
 there wasn’t any doubt. Poor Tom had to admit 
 that he went back to the bank that night, and it 
 was Phil, you know, who saw him coming out. 
 Then all that money was found in Tom’s room, 
 more than he could ever have had of his own, 
 
 and Oh, Lucy, everything was against him. 
 
 Everything ! 
 
 Lucy. Yes — even his own brother. His own flesh 
 and blood convicted him. 
 
 Mrs. R. Lucy! You mustn’t blame Philip. You 
 mustn’t do that. That would be unjust. He had 
 to tell. He tried not to, you know, but they ques- 
 tioned him, and got it out of him. Oh, I wouldn’t 
 want you to feel that w^ay, Lucy. It would be 
 terrible, now that Phil is a soldier, to have him 
 go away with any such a feeling as that on your 
 part. Is — is that what you and he were talking 
 about? (Lucy is silent; turns away.) Lucy, 
 was it ? Did you make Philip feel that you blame 
 him? 
 
 Lucy {facing her, sadly). I’m sorry, Mrs. Randall. 
 I was excited, thinking of Tom. It hurts me so, 
 — and I said more than I should. I am sorry. 
 
 Mrs. R. Well, it was because you feel so about Tom, 
 dear, and Philip will understand. He won’t lay 
 it up against you. There, there, we won’t think 
 any more about it. I want you to stay and have 
 supper with us, Luc\u Mr. Hunt is here, you 
 know, and it will be quite a little party. 
 
 24 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 Lucy. Thank you, Mrs. Randall, but I don’t believe 
 I can 
 
 Mrs. R. Oh, but I won’t take “ no ” for an answer. 
 We don’t know how soon Philip may have to go 
 away, you know, and we may not all be here to- 
 gether again. 
 
 Lucy. But if Mr. Hunt is here, I — really, I don’t 
 think I can stay. 
 
 Mrs. R. You don’t like him, I know. But never 
 mind. Stay for my sake, and Phil’s. 
 
 Lucy. Oh, it isn’t so much that I don’t like Mr. Hunt. 
 I distrust him. I can’t understand what Phil sees 
 in him to make such a friend of. 
 
 Mrs. R. Why, they were chums when Philip was 
 away at school, you know, and Philip visited him 
 in New York for several weeks, a few years ago, 
 and 
 
 Lucy. Yes. Just before Tom’s trouble, Avasn’t it? 
 Phil had just come back from New York, and 
 Mr. Plunt had been here, and — I remember. 
 
 Mrs. R. Why, Lucy, what do you mean? You 
 mustn’t keep dwelling on that. It doesn’t do any 
 good now, and we agreed not to talk about it any 
 more, you know. We must think of other things — 
 of the soldiers — of our country 
 
 Lucy {trying to smile). Yes, I know. And I must 
 knit. Goodness, think of all the time I’ve wasted. 
 I might have done a dozen rows or more. {Gets 
 hag from table, opens it, takes out knitting.) I 
 promised to show it to Jessie. I think I’ll go out. 
 She’s waiting for me. 
 
 Mrs. R. {looking at knitting). Oh, you’re getting 
 along nicely, aren’t you ? What is it ? 
 
 Lucy. M’m — well, it isn’t anything yet. 
 
 Mrs. R. I see. Of course, I meant going to be. 
 
 Lucy. I hope it is going to be a sweater. That’s what 
 I want it to be. But seeing it’s my first, and I’m 
 just sort of feeling my way, it may turn out to be 
 a tippet, or maybe only a pair of wristlets. 
 
 Mrs. R. Lucy! I’m sure it will be a beautiful 
 sweater^ 
 
 25 
 
FOR TEE OLD FLAG 
 
 Lucy. Thanks for those kind words. May your 
 faith be fully rewarded — and my good intentions. 
 
 {They are up to door c., about to go out, hut draw hack 
 as Jessie runs in from r.) 
 
 Jessie. Well, I must say it takes you long enough. 
 I thought you were coming out wuth us. 
 
 Lucy. So I am. I was just showing your mother my 
 knitting. 
 
 Mrs. R. Yes, dear; she says she is knitting a 
 sweater — for some soldier, I suppose. Maybe 
 it is for Phil. 
 
 Jessie. Oh! is it, Lucy? 
 
 Lucy. Mercy me, I don’t even know it’s going to be 
 that. If it’s only wristlets, he might not want 
 them. {She has gone up to c. ; looks off to l.) 
 Here comes Sophia Ash. 
 
 Jessie. Is it? Oh, dear! I wonder if we’ve got to 
 have her wished on to us. 
 
 Mrs. R. Jessie, I am surprised. 
 
 Jessie. Well, you needn’t be. You don’t want to see 
 her yourself. You dread her coming here, you 
 know you do. 
 
 Mrs. R. What I dread is having her go into one of 
 those spells — “ trance,” she calls it. She just 
 makes me creep when she goes into one of them, 
 and it seems to me she is always and forever get- 
 ting under the influence of her “ control,” as she 
 calls it. It’s an Indian girl, her “ control ” is, 
 named — what is her name, Jessie? 
 
 Jessie. “ Prairie Flower.” Some flower, I call her, 
 if she can “ control ” Sophia Ash, especially her 
 tongue. Did you ever see her when she was in 
 one, Lucy? 
 
 Lucy. No, but I should love to. Do you think she 
 could go into one this afternoon? 
 
 Jessie. Could she? Just you wait. That’s what 
 she’s coming here for. 
 
 Lucy. I have heard about her and her trances, but 
 never happened to see her when she was in one. 
 What does she do? 
 
 26 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 Jessie. Acts like she had a fit, and tells you a lot of 
 things you know already. But here she is. Now 
 for it. 
 
 {Enter Sophia Ash, through door c, from l., clasping 
 her hands, rolling her eyes, with a far-away ” 
 expression and distracted manner. She does not 
 notice the others, as she conies down c. Mrs. R. 
 places chair r. c. and Sophia sinks into it, moan- 
 ing, with clasped hands, and swaying gently from 
 side to side . ) 
 
 Mrs. R. Oh, dear, she’s in one of ’em. 
 
 Jessie. I should say she is. I guess we’re in for it, 
 this time. 
 
 Mrs. R. Jessie, dear, don’t make fun of her. 
 
 Jessie. Oh, I can’t help it. 
 
 {Enter Hezekiah through door c. from L. Sophia 
 seated c. ; Mrs. R. is r. c. ; Jessie and Lucy l. c. ; 
 Hezekiah comes down l.) 
 
 Hezekiapi. Oh, here’s the mee-jum, is she? Thought 
 I seen her cornin’ in. Phew ! she’s havin’ ’em. 
 
 {Enter Philip and Rodney through door c., from L. ; 
 they stand hack, looking on, amusedly. ) 
 
 Lucy. S-sh ! She is going to speak. 
 
 Jessie. H’m! that’s nothing strange. Easiest thing 
 she does. 
 
 Mrs. R. Jessie ! 
 
 (Sophia sways back and forth, moaning, then slops, 
 with closed eyes. The others all keep very still. 
 Sophia mumbles indistinctly for a moment, then 
 begins speaking, mysteriously.) 
 
 Sophia. Prairie Flower say — Prairie Flower see — 
 
 {stretching out arm, points) she see Oh, it 
 
 is terrible — terrible She say — she see — she 
 
 see troops, marching men, cannons, swords — hark ! 
 it’s the guns, booming, booming ! It’s men — fight- 
 ing — war, war— war! 
 
 27 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 {Moans again, rocking hack and forth, wailing.) 
 
 Hezekiaii. What d' y’ think o’ that ? Prairie Flower, 
 she see war. Kind o’ b’hind the times, ain’t she? 
 
 Sophia. I see beyond — there — far off — in the dis- 
 tance — 
 
 Hezekiah. ’S fur’s the middle o’ next week, I reckon. 
 
 {She waves her hands about.) 
 
 Philip {looking on from hack). She seems to be 
 groping for something 
 
 Rodney. Visions, maybe. 
 
 Hezekiah. Acts more like she gropin’ f’r flies ’r 
 m’skeeters. 
 
 Ppiilip. Or a husband. You’d better look out, 
 Hezekiah. 
 
 Hezekiah. Gosh ! Guess I had. 
 
 Lucy. I think it’s perfectly ridiculous. 
 
 {She goes up, joining Philip and Rodney. They are 
 hy door c., paying little attention to the others, 
 talking, though occasionally glancing at Sophia, 
 smiling . ) 
 
 SoppiiA. All is dark again. Now I see — yes, there is 
 a gleam of light. Hark ! I hear Prairie Flower’s 
 voice again. She is calling to me. She has a 
 message for some one. Who? Who is it you 
 want, Prairie Flower? I am listening. Yes, I 
 hear you. But it is so faint. Speak louder. 
 Prairie Flower. 
 
 Hezekiah. Guess y’ got a poor c’nection. Better call 
 up central 
 
 {Those at hack laugh. Sophia straightens up, begins 
 to come out of trance,” shuddering, moaning, 
 etc.) 
 
 Mrs. R. There, she’s coming to. 
 
 Hezekiah. Two ’r three, looks like. 
 
 Jessie {shaking Sophia gently). Miss Ash! Miss 
 Ash I 
 
 28 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 Hezektah. Makes me tired, all that pretend’n* 'n' 
 puttV on. War? Coin’ f have war? Guess 
 I'd better go V send word t' th' President. Mebbe 
 he’d like t’ know th’ news. 
 
 Sophia {looking about, in a dazed manner). Where — 
 where am I? Oh, it’s — why, it’s you, Mis’ Ran- 
 dall ! And Jessie. 
 
 Mrs. R. Yes, Sophia, you’re here with us. Do you 
 feel better now ? 
 
 Sophia. Yes, I am all right now. But I have been 
 far away — far away 
 
 Hezekiah. Can y’ tell us when th’ Kaiser’s goin’ t’ 
 git it in the neck. Miss Ash ? 
 
 Sophia. Oh, you can make fun of me all you want 
 to, Hezekiah Wilkins. But I guess if you had my 
 powers, you’d have more respect for the mystic 
 world. Sometimes I think it’s almost an affliction 
 to be so mediumistic, one gets so misunderstood 
 and made fun of. But it’s a gift — it comes with- 
 out seekin’. 
 
 Hezekiah. Like the mumps ’r the lumbago. 
 
 (Lucy, Philip and Rodney laugh, about to go out.) 
 
 Lucy. Come on, Jessie; we’re going to take a little 
 walk. Will you go? 
 
 Jessie. Thanks, but I can’t. I have to see about 
 supper. Don’t be long. It is nearly ready. 
 
 Mrs. R. Yes, and you stay, Lucy. 
 
 Jessie. Why, certainly she will. I’ll put a plate on 
 for her. 
 
 Lucy. All right, then. Thank you, I will. (Philip 
 and Rodney go off through c. door and to l., call- 
 ing her. As she follows them.) Sorry you can’t 
 come, Jessie. But we won’t be long. 
 
 {Exeunt Philip, Rodney and Lucy through door c. 
 to L. Jessie goes r.) 
 
 Jessie. I’ll go and help Ivy, Mother. 
 
 Mrs. R. Yes, dear, do. And have her call us as soon 
 as it is ready. 
 
 29 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 Jessii:. All right. It will be only a few minutes. 
 
 {Exit, R.) 
 
 1\Irs. R. I hope you are all right now, Sophia. 
 
 Sophia {siUl seated, Mrs. R. ai lie?' l.). Yes, I’m all 
 right. It does kind o’ take my strength, though, 
 when I have to go. Oh, i\Iis’ Randall, it’s terrible 
 to be so misunderstood and made fun of. But I 
 suppose it’s my mission in life and I must accept 
 it. ]\Iy strange powers come to me and I must 
 lake v.'hat they bring. I try to use ’em for good. 
 You believe that, don’t you. Mis’ Randall? 
 
 Mrs. R. Why — a — yes, Sophia, I guess so. At any 
 rate, I believe you mean to be sincere and think 
 you get “ messages,” as you call them. 
 
 Sophia. Oh, you must believe me, Alis’ Randall, you 
 must. {Rises, goes and looks np c., then r. ajid l. ) 
 You must believe, for I — I have a message for 
 you. 
 
 Mrs. R. For me, Sophia ? Why, what do you mean — 
 from — not from your Indian girl ? 
 
 Sophia {mysteriously, in subdued tones). Yes, from 
 my “ control.” When she was speaking to me 
 then, just now, I got your name — it was a message 
 for you — but I didn’t want them to know. They 
 don’t believe — they interfere with the influence — 
 so I had to wait till I could see you alone. 
 
 {She glances about.) 
 
 Mrs. R. Dear me, Sophia, you make me absolutely un- 
 comfortable sometimes. I’d rather you wouldn’t — 
 I — really, I don’t want your message,” as you 
 call it. I don’t mean to be ungrateful, but 
 
 Sophia {grasping chair). I feel as if I was going 
 again — she is calling me. Yes, Prairie Flower — 
 I hear {Sinks into chair.) 
 
 !Mrs. R. Oh, Sophia, don’t — try not to — really, I 
 don’t want to know, and you make me nervous. 
 I’ll call Jessie. 
 
 30 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 (Starts K, ; Sophia grasps her hand, or dress, detains 
 her.) 
 
 Sophia. No, no — stay! You must listen. It is 
 a])out — about your boy 
 
 Mrs. R. Philip? About Philip? 
 
 Sophia. No — the other one. 
 
 Mrs. R. Tom! It is something about Tom? 
 
 (Sophia is now again in a " trance,** though less deeply 
 than before. Her eyes are closed. She speaks 
 softly, but distinctly.) 
 
 Sophia. I see high walls — stone walls. Iron bars — 
 gates — men in — uniforms? No, not uniforms. 
 They are not soldiers. But they are dressed 
 alike — they are marching. There, now they break 
 ranks. They — ah ! — I see one — he goes — he is 
 
 called. He says, “ Tell my mother '' Yes, I 
 
 hear. I see. The gates open — he comes out — 
 he — a-ah ! 
 
 (She sinks for a moment, as if exhausted. < Mrs. R. 
 has become very much interested, as the import of 
 what Sophia says gradually dawns upon her.) 
 
 Mrs. R. Sophia ! Sophia Ash ! What do you mean ? 
 What were you talking about ? You were making 
 it all up. It isn’t right. It is wicked — wicked ! 
 
 Sophia (coming to). What! What have I said? 
 Have I told you anything. Mis’ Randall ? 
 
 Mrs. R. Told me anything? As if you didn’t know. 
 I am sui*prised at you, Sophia Ash, a good church 
 member, that you should give yourself up to such 
 practices. How can you ? 
 
 Sophia. Oh, Mis’ Randall, don’t you go back on me 
 too. Even the minister says it is my own imagina- 
 tion. He said if it wasn’t it must be — yes, he 
 actually said “ the power of the — the Evil One.” 
 What do you think of that? 
 
 Mrs. R. Well, of course, I wouldn’t want to contra- 
 
 31 
 
FOB THE OLD FLAG 
 
 diet anything the minister said. I have great con- 
 fidence in his opinion. 
 
 Sophia. Oh, yes, I suppose you agree with him. 
 Well, I can’t help it. I give my messages as they 
 come to me, and if folks won’t accept ’em, that 
 ain’t my fault. But when Prairie Flower calls, I 
 have to answer. 
 
 Jessie ( off r. ) . Mother ! 
 
 Mrs. R. And when Jessie calls, I must answer. It 
 means supper’s ready. You’ll stay and eat with 
 us, Sophia? 
 
 Sophia. Thanks, but you got so many, I guess I’d 
 better be getting along. 
 
 Mrs. R. (m door r.). Oh, there’s always room for 
 one more. You might as well stay. 
 
 I\^ {suddenly appearing r.). Say, Mis’ Randall, 
 Jessie wants t’ know ’f we shall cut that raisin 
 cake? 
 
 Mrs. R. Certainly, Ivy. That will go nicely with 
 your apple sauce. 
 
 Ivy. Yes’m. I’ll tell ’er. 
 
 {Exit, r.) 
 
 Mrs. R. Come, Sophia. 
 
 Sophia. Well, mebbe I will. If I could help a little, 
 or anything. I’d be glad to. 
 
 Mrs. R. Oh, I guess we won’t need any help. But 
 you come. 
 
 Sophia. Well, seeing you insist 
 
 Mrs. R. Why, of course I do. You go right in and 
 I’ll call the others. {Exit Sophia, r. Mrs. R. 
 goes up to door c., calls off to l.) Philip ! Lucy ! 
 Come — supper is ready ! You all come in now. 
 
 {She stands, waiting; there is a brief pause, then enter 
 Philip from l., through door at c., with Lucy, 
 followed by Rodney, then by Hezekiah.) 
 
 Philip. Here we are. Mother. Lucy didn’t want to 
 come, but I made her. 
 
 32 
 
FOB THE OLD FLAG 
 
 Mrs. R. Why, certainly. I'd feel it terribly, Lucy, 
 if you didn't stay. 
 
 Lucy {smiling). Then I’ll stay, of course.' Besides, 
 Tin just dying to, to tell the truth. 
 
 {Enter Jessie, r.) 
 
 Jessie. Come on, you folks. Supper's all ready. 
 
 {Exeunt Jessie and Lucy, r., looking hack. Pittlip 
 and Rodney are l. c. ; Hezekiah still has flag, 
 zvhich he now goes and lays on table. Philip 
 places his soldier cap or hat on flag.) 
 
 Philip {crossing to r.). Come, Rodney, now for some 
 home cooking. 
 
 Rodney. Delighted. I'm hungry enough to appre- 
 ciate it, too. 
 
 Philip. Oh, you don't have to be hungry to appre- 
 ciate Mother’s things. 
 
 Mrs. R. Phil ! Don’t mind him, Mr. Hunt. But I 
 hope you do enjoy your supper. 
 
 Rodney. Indeed I shall, Mrs. Randall. I can hardly 
 wait. 
 
 (Philip goes off to r. Rodney follows him off. 
 
 Hezekiai-i goes to door r.) 
 
 Hezekiah. Nice of you t' ask me too. Mis' Randall. 
 D' know when I’ve et one o' your meals. 
 
 Mrs. R. Why, the party wouldn’t be complete with- 
 out you, Hezekiah — the “ Old Veteran ” and the 
 “ New Volunteer,” you know. 
 
 Hezekiah. That’s right — 'n' the Stars 'n' Stripes 
 f 'rever ! 
 
 Mrs. R. Yes, Hezekiah — forever and forever! {He 
 exits R., chuckling happily. She stands a moment, 
 in silent thought, then crosses to table, takes up' 
 Philip's hat, looks at it fondly, proudly.) My 
 boy — my handsome soldier boy! And oh, how 
 gladly I would send him, too — my other boy — if 
 he could be here to go — free from the shadow that 
 hangs over him. c3li, Philip — Tom — my boys I 
 
 33 
 
FOB THE OLD FLAG 
 
 (Off R., ihe others have been heard laughing and talk- 
 ing; they have now started singing, not too loudly, 
 '‘The Star Spangled Banner.” Mrs. R. caresses 
 hat, takes up corner of flag and kisses it reverently, 
 weeping, hut smiling through her tears. She re- 
 mains thus a moment, then sinks into chair, hiiries 
 her face in flag on table, weeping, with the hat still 
 clasped in her hand. There is a pause, then Tom 
 Randall, poorly clad, pale and ill-looking, appears 
 at window, looks in, sees Mrs. R. His face 
 quivers, as he stands there, then he disappears and 
 shortly appears in door c., pauses again, then 
 slowly conies down to c., near Mrs. R., stands 
 looking down at her. He seems about to speak, 
 falters, then murmurs, “Mother! ” She looks 
 up, bewildered, at first does not seem to recognize 
 him, then, with a broken cry of joy, holds up her 
 arms; he sinks to his knees at her side, burying- 
 his face in her lap, sobbing. She thoughtlessly 
 hangs on to flag, pulls it over his head, bending 
 over him and murmuring “My boy! My boy!” 
 The singing of the anthem, off r., continues as the 
 curtain falls.) 
 
 CURTAIN 
 
ACT II 
 
 SCENE. — Same as Act I, the next afternoon. The 
 flag previously used is still on table, or standing 
 against wall, near door at c. Curtain rises on 
 empty stage, but Mrs. R. at once looks in from R., 
 cautiously, then enters, goes to l., then to door c, 
 looking careftdly about. Goes to R. and motions. 
 Enter Ivy, with tray, on which are several dishes 
 covered with cloth. Ivy shows wonderment, look- 
 ing about curiously. 
 
 Mrs. R. All right, Ivy ; bring it in. There’s no one 
 here. 
 
 Ivy. I see they ain’t, Mis’ Randall, but I’m jest dyin’ 
 t’ know what ’s all about ’n’ who this lunch is f’r. 
 You’ve had yours. 
 
 Mrs. R. Yes, Ivy, but there’s some one who hasn’t 
 had any — up-stairs, in the spare room. 
 
 Ivy (.yc> surprised she almost drops tray). For the 
 land’s sake — in the spare room! Who is it, Mis’ 
 Randall — a tramp ? 
 
 Mrs. R. Why, no, of course not. It’s — ^but I can’t 
 tell you yet ; and you know you promised to help 
 me and not say a word. 
 
 Ivy. Sure I did, ’n’ I won’t. But I can’t help won- 
 derin’. Ain’t you afeared, ’r anything? When 
 did he come ? 
 
 Mrs. R. Last night, while they were all eating supper. 
 I took him up-stairs, before they got through, and 
 none of them knew. I had to tell you, so you can 
 help me get his meals to him and other things, and 
 I’ll tell the others soon. But not just yet. I’ll 
 take the tray now and go up with it. And you 
 keep watch, and mind you don’t tell anybody. 
 
 {She takes tray, goes l.) 
 
 35 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 Ivy {dumbfounded) . Xo’ni, I won’t tell. But — sf 
 man iip-stairs in the spare room — be’n there all 
 night. Mercy me ! Is — is it anybuddy y’ know, 
 ]\Iis’ Randall, so ’t you’re sure he’s safe ? 
 
 Mrs. R. {in door l.). Oh, yes — somebody I know — 
 well. Some one I have known a long time and 
 longed to see — some one 
 
 {Exit Mrs. R., at l., with tray. Ivy stands a moment 
 looking after her, in dumb amazement, then starts 
 R., but pauses as Sophia Ash appears in door c. 
 and knocks.) 
 
 Ivy. Oh, ’s that you, ]\Iiss Ash? 
 
 {Enter Sophia, door c.) 
 
 Sophia. Ain’t there anybuddy here. Ivy? I want t’ 
 see Mis’ Randall. I hurried all the way over in 
 the hot sun, b’cause I’ve got somethin’ important 
 to tell her. I’m jest about melted, but I couldn’t 
 get here soon enough, with what’s on my mind. 
 
 {Sits, L. c., takes paper or fan from table, or uses fan 
 which she carries, fanning herself.) 
 
 I\w. I s’pose it’s another one o’ them visions, ’r what- 
 ever you call ’em. Y’ goin’ t’ have another fit 
 here ’n our sett’n’-room ? If y’ be, I’ll be goin’. 
 
 Sophia. Oh, you don’t know what you’re talkin’ 
 about. {Sits l.) What d’ you know about the 
 other world ’n’ communications, ’n’ spirit-mes- 
 sages, and such? It’s beyond your grasp. But 
 you ain’t the only one. What I endure ’s enough 
 t’ try the patience of a Mrs. Job. There’s that 
 Hezekiah Wilkins. He never gives me a minute’s 
 peace. Taggin’ me around, askin’ ’f I’ve had any 
 more spirits tell me I ought t’ b’come Mrs. Wilkins 
 number three. The idee! That old fossil! If 
 I wanted a man, I’d get a hull one, not a mere 
 remnant. 
 
 (Ivy, lip c., looks off to l.) 
 36 
 
FOR TEE OLD FLAG 
 
 Ivy. Here he comes now. Guess he’s still on the 
 trail. 
 
 Sophia {rising, going up and looking off). I declare, 
 so ’tis. Foliered me. I thought Fd dodged him. 
 If that man’s p’rposed t’ me once he has fifty 
 times, ’n’ it don’t seem t’ do no good t’ refuse him. 
 He jest won’t take “ No ” for an answer. 
 
 Ivy. Well, ’tain’t every girl ’t has fifty pr’posals. 
 
 Sophia {simpering a hit) . N-no, of course not. But, 
 then, I d’ know’s it’s s’ much, after all, bein’ they’re 
 all from the same man. Here he comes. Guess 
 I’ll go ’ll the other room, ’n’ mebbe he’ll go away. 
 Don’t you tell him I’m here. 
 
 {She pretends to go, hut lingers l., so that Hezekiah 
 sees her, as he enters door c. from l. She pauses 
 as he calls to her. ) 
 
 Hezekiah. Oh, you here, Sophi’? Afternoon. 
 
 Sophia. Jes’ ’s if you didn’t know. You can’t fool 
 me, Hezekiah Wilkins. You saw me the hull time. 
 
 Hezekiah. Nothin’ strange, is it, Sophi’? Don’t see 
 nothin’ ’r nobuddy else, when you’re ’round. Be’n 
 tellin’ y’ that for the last eight ’r ten year, ain’t I? 
 
 Sophia. Yes, ’n’ I should think you’d ’a’ made up 
 your mind by this time that it ain’t no use. I 
 should think at your age, ’n’ had two wives al- 
 ready, you’d have some sense. 
 
 Hezekiah. That’s so. Mebbe ’f I had, I wouldn’t 
 want y’. 
 
 Sophia. Oh, indeed ! Well, thank goodness I’ve got 
 sense enough not t’ take y’, anyway. 
 
 Hezekiah. Now, Sophi’, I didn’t mean nothin’. You 
 know you’re the only woman in the world f’r 
 me 
 
 {He goes to her, tries to pacify her, ahout to put arm 
 about her; she gets away from him, though, with 
 all her contrariness, still seeming to encourage 
 him. Ivy has gone to l. and keeps cautiously 
 looking off.) 
 
 37 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 Sophia. Behave yourself, Hezekiah Wilkins! Tm 
 astonished at your actions, after all the times Tve 
 told you {Noiicing Ivy.) Who you look- 
 
 ing for, Ivy? What is it? 
 
 Ivy. Nothin’. I was jest — I was thinkin’ I’d go ’n’ 
 pick some cucumbers for supper, ’n’ 
 
 Sophia. Land, they ain’t no cucumbers in there, is 
 they ? 
 
 Ivy. No, of course not. I — I was goin’ in the garden. 
 {Up in door c.) I’ll go ’n’ pick some. 
 
 {Exit through door c. to r. Sophia is c, Hezekiah 
 R. c.) 
 
 Sophia. Don’t she act funny? They’s somethin’ 
 strange goin’ on here. Did you notice anything 
 last night, Hezekiah ? 
 
 Hezekiah. I d’ know’s I did — ’nless y* mean that 
 “ trance ” o’ yours. Wish you’d give ’em up, 
 Sophi’. They make you ridic’lous. 
 
 Sophia. Oh, they do, do they ? Well, I couldn’t give 
 ’em up if I tried. They come to me. As I was 
 sayin’, didn’t you notice how queer Mis’ Randall 
 acted? She didn’t come in to supper for ten or 
 fifteen minutes after we’d started eatin’, ’n’ then 
 she acted so strange-like. But I laid it to the 
 message I’d give her. I sort o’ didn’t wonder it 
 upset her. 
 
 Hezekiah. Oh ! had a “ message ” for her, did y’ ? 
 From the spirits? 
 
 Sophia. From the spirit- world. Quite direct. It 
 was all perfectly clear. 
 
 Hezekiah. From that Injun gal? 
 
 Sophia. Yes — from my control. Prairie Flower. 
 
 Hezekiah. Pretty thing t’ be controlled by — a Injun 
 spook! What you need t’ control y’ is a hus- 
 band, Sophi’. 
 
 Sophia. Oh, indeed! I’d like t’ see the one that 
 could do it ! 
 
 Hezekiah {straightening up, pompously) . Behold! 
 
 Sophia. Good land, an old broken-down, wizened-up 
 
 38 
 
JFOB THE OLD FLAG 
 
 left-over like you ! Looks more like Fd have you 
 F take care of. 
 
 Hezekiah. Wal, that’d suit me, Sophi’ ! 
 
 Sophia. I don’t doubt il. But it wouldn’t suit me, 
 not a little bit. For the land’s sake, think of some- 
 thing else. Fill wonderin’ about Mis’ Randall. 
 Jessie noticed it, too, and spoke to me afterward. 
 She said her mother acted as if she’d seen a ghost, 
 ’n’ I’ve b’en worryin’ for fear Fd upset her. Then 
 I got another message last night, in the middle of 
 the night — direct from Prairie Flower — to come 
 over here to-day and await developments. I think 
 something’s going t’ happen. 
 
 Hezekiah. Mebbe they is, Sophi’, mebbe they is. 
 Mebbe you’re goin’ t’ say Yes.” 
 
 Sophia. Huh 1 Mebbe I ain’t, any such thing. {Go- 
 ing up.) I’m goin’ on to the post-office, ’n’ stop 
 on my way back. I’ve got t’ see Mis’ Randall, but 
 they’s no use wastin’ time. 
 
 Hezekiah. Want comp’ny, Sophi’? I’ve got t’ go 
 to the post-office, too. 
 
 Sophia {in door c. ; he c.). No, I don’t. {About to 
 go, then turning hack.) But, of course, if you 
 want t’ go to the post-office, it ain’t none o’ my 
 business. I couldn’t stop y’. 
 
 Hezekiah {going up, with alacrity) . Guess that’s so. 
 Thanks f’r the hint. 
 
 Sophia. Hint ! The idee ! I guess when I hint t’ 
 you, Hezekiah Wilkins 
 
 {Exit through door c. to r. He follows her off, chuck- 
 ling to himself. There is a slight pause, then 
 Jessie and Rodney enter door from l. c. They 
 look off to R., after Hezekiah and Sophia.) 
 
 Jessie. There go Hezekiah Wilkins and Sophia Ash. 
 He’s been courting her for the last ten years or 
 more, and she is still holding him off. 
 
 {They enter, come down r.) 
 
 Rodney. Well, there’s nothing like persistency. 
 
 39 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 Faint heart never won/' you know. Perhaps he 
 may still win her. 
 
 Jessie. Perhaps. He would, I think, if he would only 
 let her do part of the courting. She feels too sure 
 of him. Once she thought she was going to lose 
 him 
 
 Rodney. Oh, that’s the idea! But it doesn’t always 
 work, does it? Circumstances alter cases, you 
 know, and I’m quite sure I wouldn’t want to try 
 such tactics with — well, with the girl I am anxious 
 to win. She isn’t that kind. 
 
 Jessie. But I wasn’t thinking of you. 
 
 Rodney. No. That’s just it. And I want you to. 
 The way I think of you. Won’t you — Jessie? 
 
 {He is close to her; attempts to take her hand. She 
 draws away.) 
 
 Jessie. No — don’t. I — I can’t let you do that. 
 
 Rodney. But why? Why shouldn’t you let me tell 
 you I — I love you ? Surely, it’s every man’s privi- 
 lege to tell his love and every girl’s privilege to 
 listen. 
 
 Jessie. No, no — I 
 
 Rodney. You know how I feel toward you. You 
 must know. I have been here two summers now, 
 and you cannot have failed to see that I love you — 
 that I want you — and 
 
 Jessie. Wait, Mr. Hunt 
 
 Rodney. “ Mister ” 
 
 Jessie. Well — Rodney. I — no, of course I can’t say 
 that I haven’t noticed — that I have never thought 
 of all this. But I have tried not to take it too 
 seriously, because — because I felt — I know — that 
 you mustn’t tell me, and I must not listen. 
 
 Rodney. But why — why ? 
 
 Jessie. You know — you must know. My world is 
 not the same as yours. I am only a country girl — 
 oh, yes, I am — nothing more. Of course, I don’t 
 pretend to think I am not just as good, perhaps, as 
 some of those who have had more advantages and 
 40 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 seen more of the world than I have. And 1 don’t 
 say you don’t think I am as good as they. But 
 you lead a different life. Your folks are — well, 
 what would they think of me ? 
 
 Rodney. Think? Why, that you are the sweetest 
 little girl in the world — and that I was the luckiest 
 man there is in all that world, if I could win you. 
 Oh, I know what you mean. You are afraid of 
 me — afraid to trust me. You think I wouldn’t 
 ■ keep on loving you — that I would change, and 
 
 Jessie. No, no, it isn’t that — not altogether. It is 
 partly that, I’ll admit, but — there is something 
 else — more — oh, much more. Shall I tell you? 
 
 Rodney. To be sure. I want to hear it. 
 
 Jessie. Very well. You ought to be told. I guess 
 you have been. But now I will tell you. You are 
 nothing but a rich man’s son — an idler — of no 
 use — no good to — to any one — to your country ! 
 
 Rodney. Oh, you mean — {turning azvay) I — see. 
 
 Jessie. I hope you do. I want you to see. I have 
 no use for a young man now, one that is strong 
 and able, who wears any suit but his country’s 
 uniform. 
 
 Rodney. I — I thought that had something to do 
 with it. 
 
 Jessie. Something to do with it? It has everything. 
 Now you are to me nothing but a young man who 
 is needed by his country, but who shuns that need 
 and hangs back. A “ slacker.” Yes, that’s what 
 you are. Do you think I could listen to you — let 
 you tell me you “ love ” me — and not tell you how 
 I feel? Why, I should think I was a traitor too, 
 if I did. 
 
 Rodney. ‘^Traitor. ” I must say, you are putting it 
 pretty strong. I guess if that’s the way you feel, 
 I might as well be going. 
 
 Jessie. Yes, I guess so. Oh, Mr. Hunt — Rodney — 
 you’re not going to be a “ slacker ” ! Tell me you 
 are not. 
 
 {He has gone part way up c. She is down r. c. 
 
 41 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 There is a pause. He goes up, stands in door c., 
 looking off. Turns, conies down.) 
 
 Rodney. I will tell you that there is not another per- 
 son in this world I would let talk to me as you 
 have done. You have called me a coward — a 
 “ traitor.” Well, I suppose that’s what you think 
 I am. But you don’t understand. The truth is, 
 
 I don’t want to go to war. I don’t believe in it. 
 Oh, I suppose you will despise me worse than ever. ‘ 
 I don’t call it cowardice or treason, or anything 
 like that. I just don’t feel, yet, that we ought to 
 be in this war — nor that, even if we are, I ought 
 to go into it. There ! Now tell me you hate me — 
 that I must go and never see you again. Just be- 
 cause I have confessed to you — told you the truth. 
 
 Jessie. The truth. That makes it all the worse, be- 
 cause you expect me to believe that it is the truth. 
 But I hope you will come to your senses yet — 
 that you will change your mind. But until you 
 do — yes, you might as well go. I don’t think I 
 care to see you again until I can respect you, at 
 least. 
 
 Rodney {closer to her). Don’t you think you are 
 putting it pretty strong? Even you may go a 
 little too far, you know. 
 
 Jessie (facing him boldly). No, I can’t. I can’t go 
 too far when it comes to telling a slacker and a 
 coward what I think of him — and I begin to think 
 that’s what I’m talking to now. 
 
 Rodney. And I begin to think you are just talking 
 for effect 
 
 Jessie. Then let me tell you that I hope it has the 
 effect I mean it to have. My brother is a soldier, 
 and 
 
 Rodney. Yes, but not from choice. He wouldn’t be 
 wearing that uniform if he had his way about it. 
 
 Jessie. You dare ! — 3'OU dare call my brother a cow- 
 ard? Oh, now I do despise you — I do, I do ! Go ! 
 Go away from here — from me — I don’t want to 
 see you again, ever ! I wish I never had seen you | 
 42 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 {She is in a fury of grief and anger. He is showing 
 amazement and some anger, but is beginning to be 
 sorry for what he has said. Would appease her, 
 but she flares at him, and he goes up, just as 
 Philip enters at door c. from r., putting out his 
 arms and stopping Rodney, who looks at him sur- 
 prised, somewhat sheepishly.) 
 
 Philip. Why, why, what’s all this ? What’s the 
 matter? Are you two quarreling? 
 
 Rodney. I have nothing to say except that I — Pm 
 sorry, and Pm going. 
 
 {He tries to go, but Philip detains him.) 
 
 Philip. Wait. I want to get at this. What’s it all 
 about ? 
 
 Rodney. Nothing. Only we — we can’t agree, that’s 
 all, and your sister told me to leave her, that she 
 doesn’t want to have anything more to do with 
 me, and that — well, Pll let her explain. Pm sorry. 
 Miss Randall, if I have offended you. Perhaps 
 some day you will think better of me. 
 
 {He bows to her, with cold politeness and exits at door 
 c. to L. Philip looks after him, in amazement, 
 then comes dozvn to Jessie, who is r. c., standing 
 with her back to him, between anger and tears. ) 
 
 Philip. Well, well, I guess something is up, and no 
 mistake. Come, now — ’fess up. What’s it all 
 about ? 
 
 Jessie. Oh, it’s enough. He said he doesn’t feel that 
 it’s his duty to fight, and — I called him a coward, 
 and — and told him I never want to see him again 
 and 
 
 Philip. And — and — a lot of stuff like that. You 
 shouldn’t have taken him quite so seriously, Jessie. 
 Rod is no coward; it’s the way he’s been raised, 
 that’s all. Lived in luxury all his life, with a dot- 
 ing mother and everything he wanted. You can’t 
 expect a fellow like that to be very keen about 
 
 43 
 
FOR TEE OLD FLAG 
 
 wearing a uniform and putting up wlih what 
 he’d have to. 
 
 Jessie. Indeed! How much better is he than you, 
 I should like to know? I agree with IMr. Wilkins 
 about him. He’s the kind that could be spared, 
 instead of the real men that don’t wait till they 
 are compelled to go. I guess you wouldn’t stick 
 up for him quite so fast if you knew what he 
 said about you. 
 
 Philip. Said I wasn’t crazy about going myself, I 
 suppose? Oh, he’s said the same to me, and I 
 guess maybe it’s the truth — in a v.'ay. {She shows 
 signs of disapproval.) There, there, now, little 
 one, don’t explode. I’m going, all i\ght. Isn’t 
 that enough for you? 
 
 Jessie. No, it isn’t — not if you don’t want to go, and 
 feel it’s a privilege. But I know you do, Phil. 
 You’re only trying to tease me. I couldn’t bear 
 to think you are not a real, true soldier at heart. 
 
 Philip {putting an arm about her). Well, then you 
 just think I’m eveiy’thing you want me to be, little 
 sister, and I’ll try to live up to it. And don’t feel 
 so put out about Rodney, either. He’ll come out 
 all right. He hasn’t waked up yet, that’s all. 
 There, now do you feel better? 
 
 Jessie. Y-yes, I guess so. 
 
 (Mrs. R. enters l., with tray, unnoticed by them. She 
 quickly exits again, unseen, and at the same 
 moment Lucy Garrett appears at door c. froniL.) 
 
 Lucy. Oh, there you are — here, rather. Excuse me 
 for not knocking 
 
 Philip. Sure. “ Don’t knock.” Had enough of that 
 around here already. 
 
 Lucy. Why, what 
 
 Jessie. Don’t m^ind him, Lucy. He’s only teasing. 
 Come in. 
 
 Philip. Yes. Take off your hat and stay a while. 
 Stay forever. 
 
 Lucy. Thanks, but I have a home of my own. WTll, 
 and how’s the handsome soldier boy to-day ? 
 
 44 
 
[FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 {Comes down c.) 
 
 Philip. Meaning — this one? 
 
 Lucy. Why, certainly. You’re the only one around 
 here, aren’t you? 
 
 Philip. M’m — yes, the only soldier boy, I guess. 
 But Pm not (Juite sure I answer your descrip- 
 tion — 
 
 Jessie. Oh, stop fishing. Don’t you humor him, 
 Lucy. He’s too stuck up for anything already. 
 You might think he was a general. 
 
 Philip. General what? Not nuisance, I hope? 
 
 Jessie. Sometimes you try hard enough to be. But 
 the uniform saves you. 
 
 Philip. ’Neath the folds of the Stars and Stripes ! ” 
 
 Lucy. I hope they protect you from worse things 
 than being a nuisance, Phil. How long are you 
 staying here ? 
 
 Philip. I have to get back to the camp soon — in half 
 an hour or so. Can’t even stay to supper. But 
 you’re going to stay, aren’t you, Lucy ? 
 
 Lucy. What — again? After last night? You must 
 think your mother wants me for a boarder. No, 
 thank you. I only ran over to see Jessie a minute. 
 
 Philip. Cruel one. Where do I come in ? 
 
 Lucy. Why, you may come in for this sweater, if I 
 ever get it done. 
 
 '{She has knitting-hag, which she now opens, taking 
 out knitting, which has grown several rows since 
 first act.) 
 
 Jessie. Oh, is that what it is, Lucy? 
 
 Lucy.^ Not is — going to be, I hope. At least. I’ve de- 
 cided that’s what I’ve started out to make. Let’s 
 see, Phil. Stand still. {She measures length of 
 knitting on his hack.) My, what shoulders you 
 have ! There’s a lot to do yet ! 
 
 Jessie. Why, I think you’re getting along real well. 
 
 Philip. Let’s see. {Examines knitting.) Why don’t 
 you make a pair of socks of it? ’Twouldn’t take 
 so long. Save yarn, too. 
 
 45 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 Jessie. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, Phil Randall, 
 after her saying it’s for you? Come on, Lucy. 
 Don’t pay any attention to him. 
 
 {They have been well down c. Jessie now goes up, 
 moiionmg Lucy to folloiv her.) 
 
 Philip. Where you going? 
 
 Jessie. Ch, just out in the yard. Come on, Lucy. 
 
 Philip. Can’t I come too? 
 
 Jessie. No, you can’t. We have something to talk 
 over. 
 
 Philip. Not over an hour or two, I hope. I can’t 
 wait. 
 
 (Jessie and Lucy go up; he follows. Exit Jessie at 
 door c. to L. Lucy lingers in door c.) 
 
 Lucy. We won’t be long. Mr. Wilkins has had us 
 put in the committee for the parade and all, and 
 we have to make plans. 
 
 Philip. But you might let me help. (Lucy is about 
 to go out, but he goes up and detains her.) Lucy — 
 aren’t you going to change your mind ? You didn’t 
 mean what you said? 
 
 Lucy. Yes, I did. I meant it — every word of it. 
 {He has hold of her hand or arm. She releases 
 herself from him.) Don’t, Phil. 
 
 Philip. But, Lucy 
 
 Lucy. No. It’s no use. 
 
 {Exit Lucy hurriedly, at door c. to l. He stands look- 
 ing after her, with a disappointed, then an angry 
 expression. After a pause clinches his fist, with 
 set teeth, showing rage. Walks a few steps down 
 c., then turns and goes up rapidly, and at door c. 
 collides with Oli\TiR, who enters from L ., carrying 
 two or three packages.) 
 
 Oliver {stepping quickly to one side, saluting). Hi! 
 Make way for the U. S. Army. What’d y’ take 
 me for — Germans? 
 
 46 
 
' FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 Philip. Oh, go to—thunder ! 
 
 {Exit Philip, door c. io r., glancing off to L., angrily. 
 Oliver goes up, looks after him, then to l.) 
 
 Oliver.' Phew ! Hope he keeps up that gait when he 
 gets t’ the real war. Looks like he could kill the 
 Kaiser V a hundred Germans 's easy’s nothin’. 
 {Goes to door R. Calls.) Hey! Anybuddy 
 there ? Mis’ Randall — Ivy — here’s y’ groc’ries 1 
 
 {Enter Ivy, door c. from r., with several cucumbers, 
 or something to resemble them, in her apron. ) 
 
 Ivy. What’s all y’r ’xcitement? 
 
 Oliver. Oh, there you be! Here’s the things you 
 sent f’r. 
 
 Ivy. Well, y’ needn’t tear the house down a-deliverin’ 
 ’em. Take ’em in the kitchen. 
 
 {She has come down l. ; he crosses to her.) 
 
 Oliver. Yes, little Ivy-vine. Come along ’n’ cling. 
 Ivy {slapping him). Oh, hush up, with that old 
 chestnut ! Can’t you think of a new one ? 
 
 Oliver. Sure. “ You be my poison Ivy ’n’ I’ll be 
 your antidote ! ” 
 
 Ivy. Nanny-goat? I guess you’d make a good one. 
 Go on. Take them things in there ! 
 
 Oliver. Oh, I’m a-goin’. 
 
 {She runs after him-; he exits quickly r., looking bach. 
 She is about to follow him, but pauses up c. as 
 Mrs. R. enters l., with tray.) 
 
 Mrs. R. Ivy. 
 
 Ivy. Yes, Mis’ Randall. 
 
 Mrs. R. Take this tray, please. 
 
 Ivy {takes tray, looks under napkin, sees empty dishes). 
 
 Oh, Mis’ Randall, who is it? 
 
 Mrs. R. Never mind, now. You will know soon. 
 But for the present, remember what I told you, 
 
 47 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 R’y (r.). Yes, Mis’ Randall, but I — I’m jest dyin' 
 know. 1 can’t imagine 
 
 I'Jrs. R. Well, don’t try. You’ll know before long. 
 
 Ivy. In the spare room ! My ! — I wonder who ’tis. 
 
 {Exit R., looking at dishes under napkin. Mrs. R. 
 stands a moment, looks to l., with a tender, but 
 sad, expression. Clasps hands, crosses to l., look- 
 ing off, shaking head slowly, then bowing it, with 
 an expression denoting a mingling of smiles and 
 tears. Murmurs softly.) 
 
 Mrs. R. My boy ! My poor, poor boy ! My little 
 Tom 
 
 (Sophia Aspi appears in door c., from r. Stands for 
 a moment regarding Mrs. R. in silence, then speaks 
 softly. ) 
 
 Sophia. Mis’ Randall. 
 
 Mrs. R. (l. c., turning — startled). Oh! — that you, 
 Sophia? I — I didn’t hear you. 
 
 Sophia {up c). No, I noticed you didn’t. You 
 seemed lost. You was talkin’ to y’rself. 
 
 {Comes down r.) 
 
 Mrs. R. Was I ? Oh, I guess I often do that. It’s a 
 sort of a habit. I can’t seem to break myself of it. 
 Won’t you sit down, Sophia? {Comes dozvn r.) 
 
 Sophia. Well, mebbe I will, jest for a few minutes. 
 I’m pretty well het up, and some excited. 
 
 Mrs. R. Excited, Sophia? What about? 
 
 Sophia. Oh, several things. Hezekiah Wilkins, for 
 one. 
 
 Mrs. R. Hezekiah? Oh, I should think you’d be 
 used to him by this time. 
 
 Sophia. Used to him? Yes, I s’pose a person can 
 get used t’ anything in time — like a bunion, for 
 instance — but I declare if I can get used t’ Heze- 
 kiah Wilkins enough not t’ notice him. 
 
 4 ? 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 (She sits 'down R., fanning herself wiih nezvspaper in 
 a wrapper which she has just procured from the 
 post-office.) 
 
 Mrs. R. That’s just it, Sophia. (Sits r. c.) 
 
 Sophia. Just what? 
 
 Mrs. R. Why, there’s a reason for it. If it meant 
 nothing to you, you wouldn’t notice him. 
 
 Sophia. That’s jest what it does mean — nothin’. 
 The idee — Hezekiah Wilkins, that old fossil with 
 one leg ’s good ’s in the grave. 
 
 Mrs. R. Yes, but a soldier’s leg and a soldier’s grave, 
 Sophia. Think of that. Hezekiah is a good man 
 and a soldier. You know how long he’s been 
 courting you ; and he never gives up hope. 
 
 Sophia. Mis’ Randall ! Do you think I’d ever take 
 Hezekiah Wilkins? 
 
 Mrs. R. Why, yes, Sophia. Why not ? 
 
 Sophia. Land! You must think I want to start a 
 soldiers’ home. 
 
 Mrs. R. Well, why not? You’ve got a good home to 
 take him to, and he has a nice pension to do his 
 share with. Hasn’t “ Prairie Flower ” ever re- 
 vealed him to you, Sophia? 
 
 Sophia. Huh ! I guess Prairie Flower’s got bigger 
 things to reveal ’n Hezekiah Wilkins. That’s what 
 I wanted to see you about. Mis’ Randall. I’ve got 
 something to communicate. (Mysteriously.) 
 
 Mrs. R. Oh, Sophia ! Another message ? 
 
 Sophia. Yes. Real definite this time. (Looking 
 about.) They ain’t nobuddy listenin’, is they? 
 
 Mrs. R. (she is still standing, now goes up, looks about, 
 then comes back to c.). No. Jessie and Lucy 
 Garrett are out there, but they can’t hear. 
 
 Sophia. And Phil ? 
 
 Mrs. R. He isn’t around anywhere just ndw. If you 
 really must tell me something, you are quite safe. 
 Nobody will hear. 
 
 Sophia. All right. Set down. Mis’ Randall. Pull 
 your chair up close. (Mrs. R. puts chair near 
 SopPiiA, sits.) You know what I told you yes- 
 
 49 
 
FOB THE OLD FLAG 
 
 terday when I was here — about what Prairie 
 Flower revealed to me ? 
 
 Mrs. R. Yes. You said she showed you — iron 
 bars — gates opening — and — and some one coming 
 out 
 
 Sophia. And do you know who that somebuddy was ? 
 Oh, Mis’ Randall, don’t you know ? 
 
 Mrs. R. Do you know, Sophia ? 
 
 Sophia. Yes, I — know. I saw him. 
 
 Mrs. R. {rising, excitedly). Saw him? In one of 
 your — trances, do you mean ? 
 
 Sophia {also standing). Partly. That way first. 
 That is — it came to me, in a way — so that I sort o’ 
 knew what it meant, and then — I saw — with my 
 own eyes. I saw him — and knew him. 
 
 Mrs. R. YTien? 
 
 Sophia. Why, it was yesterday — jest before I come 
 over here. On the way over. I was cornin’ 
 along, and he dodged back, sort of, b’hind some 
 bushes, up there on the corner, by Garretts’ place. 
 I jest caught a glimpse of his face, but I knew 
 him — leastwise I thought I did. But I didn’t jest 
 sense it, then. I seemed t’ kind o’ think it was a 
 vision-like — ’t mebbe I was half in a trance, and — 
 I thought I hadn’t better tell you, too plain. Jest 
 give you a warnin’ — as if it had come to me, from 
 Prairie Flower, y’ know. Jest enough so ’t you’d 
 be kind of prepared, in case it was him, really, ’n’ 
 he should come in on y’. I was afeared mebbe, 
 if it was loo sudd’n, it might be too much for y’. 
 I meant well, Mis’ Randall. 
 
 Mrs. R. I know you did, Sophia. I suppose it was 
 kind of you, too. I’m sure you meant it to be. 
 But it wa.sn’t necessary. I have been watching, 
 waiting, never giving up hope that he would come. 
 I have prayed — prayed and believed — that I 
 wouldn’t have to wait three years more. And oh, 
 Sophia — Sophia, my prayer has been answered. 
 
 Sophia {grasping her arm). Mis’ Randall! It was 
 him? He’s here? 
 
 Mrs. R. Ye.s, Sophia. He came last night, while you 
 
 50 
 
li'OR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 were all eating supper. I put him up in the spare 
 room. He is there now — sick ; so sick and weak, 
 but free — free, Sophia! My boy, my Tom, is 
 free and home again, here with me. Just in time 
 to take Phil’s place, now that he’s going away. 
 Oh, Sophia, isn’t it wonderful? 
 
 Sophia. Wonderful? Yes, it is. Plow’d he get 
 away so soon? I thought it was three hull years 
 yet 
 
 Mrs. R. He was pardoned, as I had believed he would 
 be. But nobody knows that he is here, nobody but 
 you and me, Sophia, and you mustn’t tell just yet. 
 Please wait. Just till to-night. Then I don’t 
 care who knows. I want everybody to know. 
 After I have told Phil and Jessie, and he has seen 
 them — then let the whole world know. He is 
 free — innocent, even if the shadow of that awful 
 prison, those terrible three years still clings to 
 him. But he is innocent — I know it — I always 
 knew it — and no matter what anybody else thinks, 
 I shall always believe and feel sure that he has 
 had to suffer for what somebody else did. 
 
 Sophia. Somebody else. But who? Do you sus- 
 pect — do you think — — 
 
 Mrs. R. No. That may never be known. But even 
 if it isn’t, I shall believe and know that it wasn’t 
 my Tom. {Looks out door c. ) Somebody’s 
 coming. Remember what I said, Sophia. Not a 
 word. 
 
 Sophia. All right. Mis’ Randall. You can depend 
 on me. {Looks tozvard door c.) Oh, it’s Heze- 
 kiah come back. I might ’a’ known he wouldn’t 
 be fur b’hind. 
 
 {Enter Hezekiah, door c. from r. Mrs. R. is up c., 
 Sophia down r. c.) 
 
 Hezekiah. Afternoon, Mis’ Randall. Oh, that you, 
 Sophi’? 
 
 Sophia. Of course it’s me. Who’d y’ think it was? 
 
 Hezekiah. Wal, I didn’t know but it might be little 
 “Prairie Flower.” {Chuckles.) 
 
 U. Op'LL L!B. 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 Sophia. You think that’s cute, don’t y’? Wal, it 
 ain’t. It’s irreverent, that’s what it is — makin’ 
 fun o’ sacred things. 
 
 He ZEK iAH. “ Sacred ! ” Huh ! Fail t’ see what’s 
 sacred about ’n Injun gal, ’n’ a dead one ’t that. 
 
 Sophia. “ Dead one.” ’N’ you didn’t know but I 
 was her ! Thanks f ’r the compliment — but I 
 guess I ain’t a dead one yet. Not quite. 
 
 {Going up c., pretending to he greatly injured.) 
 
 Hezekiah. Now, Sophi’, you know I didn’t mean 
 nothin’. {Following her.) Can’t you take a 
 little joke? 
 
 Sophia. Joke! Wal, I don’t call it a joke, ’f you 
 do — makin’ fun o’ Prairie Flower, ’n’ me too. 
 Don’t you follow me, Hezekiah Wilkins ! I won’t 
 speak to y’ ’f y’ do. {In door c.) Good-after- 
 noon, Mis’ Randall. I’ll remember what you said. 
 You c’n trust me. {About to go out.) 
 
 Hezekiah {up hy her, pleadingly) . Now, Sophi’ — 
 don’t git mad. I didn’t mean it, hope t’ die I 
 didn’t. Can’t you take the word of an old soldier? 
 
 Sophia. No, I can’t — not when he’s an old reprobate, 
 too ! {Just going out, she turns, sees him close be- 
 hind her; motions him back with a commanding 
 gesture. ) Stay ! I’m done with you — forever ! 
 Do y’ hear ? — forever ! 
 
 {Exit Sophia, haughtily, door c. to l. Hezekiah 
 looks after her, dejectedly. Mrs. R. is at l. c.) 
 
 Hezekiah, Oh, Mis’ Randall, do y’ think she means 
 it? 
 
 Mrs. R. No, of course I don’t. She’s just pretend- 
 ing, to make you all the more anxious. She’ll 
 come around all right. 
 
 Hezekiah {coming dozvn to c.). Do y’ think so. Mis’ 
 Randall — honest ? 
 
 Mrs. R. Why, of course I do. I know women and 
 I know — her. You are taking the wrong tactics, 
 Hezekiah. If you were a little more hang-offish, 
 
 52 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 SO to Speak, you’d vsoon see that Fm right. You’re 
 too anxious, and she likes to keep you dangling. 
 
 Hezekiah. Mebbe that’s so. 
 
 Mrs. R. I’m sure it’s so. Just you try leavin’ her 
 alone for a while — pretend there’s somebody 
 else 
 
 Hezekiah. But they ain’t. {Goes up c.) 
 
 Mrs. R. Well, you can pretend there is, can’t you? 
 ** All’s fair in love and war,” you know, and hav- 
 ing been through a war, and had two wives al- 
 ready, you ought to know a little bit about love 
 too, it seems to me. 
 
 Hezekiah. That’s right. Guess I had. I vtim, I 
 b’lieve you’re right, Mis’ Randall. ’Ll be gum- 
 swizzled ’f I don’t try it, too. Much obleeged for 
 th’ hint. 
 
 (Oliver runs in r., follozved by Ivy, zvho is chasing 
 him, striking at him zjuith broom. He runs rapidly 
 up and into Hezekiah, zvho turns upon him.) 
 
 Oliver. Oh, ’xcuse me, Mr. Wilkins. Didn’t see y’. 
 
 Hezekiah. Wal, you’d better look where y’re goin’. 
 (Ivy aboiit to hit Oliver again zjulth broom, hits 
 Hezekiah instead.) Hey, there, what’s all this? 
 
 Mrs. R. Ivy ! What do you mean by such actions ? 
 Stop it this minute. 
 
 Ivy. I don’t care. He’s the boldest thing! Tried t’ 
 kiss me. 
 
 Oliver. Tried t’? Did! 
 
 Ivy. Yes, ’n’ I’ll pay you back for it, too. 
 
 Oliver. All right. I’m ready. Put it right there. 
 (Offering his pursed-up lips. She slaps him.) 
 Ouch ! 
 
 Hezekiah (beizveen them). Here, here, that’ll do. 
 (Taking Oliver by ear.) Now you ’pologize, 
 young man. 
 
 Oliver. What f’r? Ain’t done nothin’ I’m sorry f’r. 
 
 Hezekiah. Stole a kiss fr’m her, didn’t y’? 
 
 Oliver. Stole it nothin’. Jest borrowed it. Willin’ 
 t’ put it back right where I got it from. 
 
 Ivy. Well, I guess you won’t. 
 
 53 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 {Strikes at him. Hezekiah shields him.) 
 
 Hezekiah. Talk about the Germans ’n’ th’ Alleys. 
 Guess we got war right here. Eh, Mis’ Randall? 
 
 Mrs. R. I’m astonished. Ivy, you go straight back 
 to that kitchen. And you’d better go back to the 
 store, Oliver Moon. And the next time I order 
 groceries you needn’t bother to take them in where 
 she i^ You can leave them right here. 
 
 Ivy. Huh ! Needn’t think I’m goin’ t’ lug ’em the 
 rest of the way. 
 
 Mrs. R. That will do. Do as I told you. 
 
 Ivy. Yes, ma’am. {Going to door r.) But I don’t 
 care. I know a secret, ’n’ if you ain’t careful I’ll 
 tell. So there ! 
 
 {Exits R., impudently.) 
 
 Hezekiah. Guess you’ve kind o’ sp’iled her. Mis’ 
 Randall. 
 
 Oliver. Naw ! She ain’t sp’iled. Fresh as ever — ’n’ 
 sweet, too. Yum-yum ! 
 
 {Drawing finger across lips. Ivy looks in r. He sees 
 her; she makes face at him. He laughs, throws 
 her a kiss.) 
 
 Hezekiah. Hey, there, what’s all this? 
 
 Mrs. R. Ivy ! What did I tell you ? 
 
 (Ivy disappears; exit Oliver, laughing mischievously, 
 as Hezekiah good-naturedly cuffs him. Heze- 
 kiah pauses at door c.) 
 
 Hezekiah. See? ’T’s jest the same, young, middle- 
 aged ’r old. Takes two t’ be lovers ’n’ two t’ fight. 
 Jest th’ same story, right down sence Adam ’n’ 
 Eve. Guess you’re right about me ’n’ Sophi’, too. 
 Mis’ Randall. Much obleeged agin. Goin’ t’ try 
 your p’rscription. ’F it works ’ll let y’ know. 
 Hope it does. Hope it does. 
 
 Mrs. R. And I think it will, Hezekiah. I’m quite 
 sure it will. You try it. 
 
 54 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 Hezekiah. All right, Mis’ Randall, I will. ’N’ if at 
 fust I don’t succeed, I’ll try it agin ’n’ agin. I’ll 
 win ’er yet, ’f I have t’ call out th’ hull United 
 States iii’iitia ’n’ the G. A. R. t’ do it. 
 
 xil, door c. and io l. Mrs. R., in door c., pauses, 
 looks after him a momeni, then comes part way 
 down c., looks about, and exit l. She has just 
 disappeared when Jessie and Lucy enter door c. 
 from L. They come down.) 
 
 Jessie. I wish you didn’t feel that way about Phil, 
 Lucy. I’m sure you wrong him. 
 
 Lucy. Perhaps I do. But I can’t help it. I have 
 told him and told him, times enough, that I — that — 
 oh, you know what I mean, Jessie. Surely you 
 don’t think I ought to go back on — on Tom, just 
 because of — of what happened? 
 
 Jessie. No, of course I don’t. How could you think 
 such a thing ? 
 
 Lucy. Oh, I didn’t, but — well, you take Phil’s part, 
 and— and sometimes I think everybody has gone 
 back on Tom except his mother and me. I never 
 believed him a — a thief, and I never would. No, 
 not if all the world told me so. 
 
 Jessie. Lucy! You know I don’t either. No, no, it 
 isn’t that. I wouldn’t have you go back on Tom. 
 I admire you for being so true to him. But I’m 
 afraid it’s no use. There’s your father, you know, 
 Tom’s employer, who had him sent to prison, and 
 who believes him guilty, and who has forbidden 
 you even to speak of Tom, and — oh, Lucy, dear, 
 you see how hopeless it all is. 
 
 Lucy. No, it is not hopeless. When Tom comes 
 back, if he still wants me, I want him too — in 
 spite of my father — in spite of everything. 
 
 Jessie. Lucy, do you mean it ? Could you do that ? 
 
 Lucy. Of course I could — and will. I should hate 
 and despise myself, as mucli as I should expect 
 him to despise me — or think he ought to — if I did 
 otherwise. But we won’t talk any more about it 
 
 55 
 
FOB THE OLD FLAG 
 
 now. I’m going before Phil comes back. I don’t 
 want to see him again. 
 
 Jessie. Please don’t feel that way, Lucy. He is go- 
 ing away — across the ocean — to fight for his coun- 
 try. You can’t let him go feeling that you are 
 mad at him — that you are not his friend. Just 
 think what that would mean to him. 
 
 Lucy. I am his friend. Of course I am. But — I 
 want him to know — to understand 
 
 {She has gone up, is in door c., about to go out; looks 
 off R., draws back.) 
 
 Jessie. What is it? 
 
 Lucy. It’s Phil. He’s coming back. I’ll have to 
 speak to him. Perhaps it is just as well. I’ll tell 
 him once more and make him understand. 
 
 Jessie. But kindly, Lucy. Be careful. Remem- 
 ber — 
 
 Lucy. Oh, yes. I’ll remember that he is a soldier — 
 that he is going to war, and — I’ll remember some 
 one else too — some one and — some — thing. 
 
 Jessie. Why, Lucy — what do you mean? 
 
 Lucy. Never mind. Please go, Jessie. I want to 
 see Phil alone. Please do. 
 
 Jessie. Why, yes, of course I will, if you want me 
 to. Only — please — please be kind to him. 
 
 (Lucy nods head, smiling faintly. Exit Jessie, r. 
 Lucy comes part way down r. Enter Philip, 
 door c. from r. Sees her, comes down c.) 
 
 Philip. Oh, you’re still here? I thought you had 
 gone. 
 
 Lucy. I was just going. I’ll go now. 
 
 (Starts np c. He detains her.) 
 
 Philip. Wait. Just a minute. We might as well 
 have it out, Lucy. You know how I feel, but you 
 have chosen to misunderstand me, to say things 
 that I am sure you can’t mean. Don’t you think 
 you can reconsider ? 
 
 56 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 Lucy, There’s nothing to reconsider. I meant all 
 that I said. Not unkindly, Phil, please believe 
 that. I don’t want you to go away feeling that I 
 am not your friend 
 
 Philip. Friend! That isn’t enough. You cannot be 
 my friend, Lucy, without being more than that to 
 me. I want your word — your promise — that when 
 I come back you will be my wife — that I may have 
 that joy to look forward to, to sustain me, in all 
 that I may have to face over there. Think what 
 it would mean to me, Lucy, if I could know that 
 you were waiting here for me — how much better 
 I could fight, if it was for you as well as for — my 
 country. Lucy — say you will ! Oh, if you knew 
 all it means to me — if you could only know 
 
 {They are down c., she at his r. They do not see Tom, 
 zvho, having bathed, combed his hair, etc., though 
 zvearing the same clothes, looks much better than 
 at his first appearance, enters l. and stands there, 
 looking at them. He is still very pale, agitated, 
 and seems scarcely able to control himself, but 
 does not as yet reveal his presence.) 
 
 Lucy. And what do you think it means to me ? And 
 to him — to that one, your own brother, whose 
 rights you seem to forget? 
 
 Philip. Rights ! The rights of a — convict ! 
 
 Lucy. Stop! Don’t you dare say a word against 
 him in my presence. He may be a “ convict,” so 
 far as wearing prison clothes and being confined 
 behind iron bars is concerned. But that doesn’t 
 make him a thief. You ought to know that, Philip 
 Randall. You ought to know that — and you do 
 know it ! 
 
 Philip. What do you mean? It isn’t the first time 
 you’ve made that insinuation, and now you’ve got 
 to explain. Tell me. You’ve got to tell me. 
 
 Lucy. There’s nothing for me to tell. It is you who 
 
 should tell, who ought to have told — long ago 
 
 Philip^ Tell what? 
 
 57 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 Lucy. The — truth ! 
 
 Philip. Do you mean to say that I — lied? Do you? 
 Do you dare say that? {He seems almost to 
 threaten her, advancing toward her, and as she 
 draws away from him, facing l., she sees Tom, 
 who has advanced, with livid face, his eyes star- 
 ing, looking faint and leaning on table l. c. 
 Philip has his hack turned toward l. and does 
 not see Tom. Lucy gives a suppressed scream, 
 almost overcome as she sees Tom and stares at 
 him, at first seeming not to believe her senses. 
 Philip pauses, amazed at her expression.) Why, 
 Lucy, what is it? What 
 
 {He turns; sees Tom, becomes speechless with sur- 
 prise, in zvhich there is something of fear, or dis- 
 may. Tom does not speak, but looks fixedly at 
 Philip for a moment, then turns to Lucy, motion- 
 ing her to leave them.) 
 
 Lucy. Tom — I — I can’t believe it, Tom. Why, 
 where — how 
 
 Tom. Please go, Lucy. I want to speak to Phil 
 
 Lucy. But, Tom, aren’t you glad to see me ? Won’t 
 you speak to me ? 
 
 Tom. Glad? Oh, Lucy, if you only knew how glad! 
 Why, it’s like seeing the sunshine after years of 
 darkness. And after what I just heard you say, 
 it’s worth all the world to see you again and to 
 feel that you still believe in me. But I want you 
 to go now, for a little while. W^ill you, Lucy ? 
 
 Lucy. Yes, of course, Tom, if you want me to. But 
 not till 3'ou have shaken hands with me. I can’t 
 wait for that. 
 
 {They ore c., part way up; Philip, looking almost 
 overcome, has withdrawn slightly to R. Lucy 
 holds out her hand to Tom, looking straight into 
 his eyes, zvith a tender, pleading expression. He 
 falters an instant, still shozving his zveakness, then, 
 almost in tears, grasps her hand.) 
 
 Tom. Lucy I 
 
 58 
 
FOB TEE OLD FLAG 
 
 {He holds her hand a moment, then releases it. She 
 smiles at him encouragingly and exits by door c. 
 to L. He stands looking after her, then turns and, 
 with a change of expression, showing mingled 
 anger, bitterness and determination, looks straight 
 at Philip, who tries boldly to meet his gaze but 
 is not able wholly to do so.) 
 
 Philip {down r.). Well, Tom, so you are home? 
 You don’t wonder Pm a bit — a — surprised, do 
 you? Isn’t it rather sudden, or — unexpected? 
 
 Tom {coming down c.). I suppose it is, and none 
 too welcome to you, either, if the truth were 
 known. I don’t flatter myself you are quite so 
 glad to see me as Lucy Garrett appeared to be. 
 
 Philip. Why, of — of course I am. Only, you see, 
 I had no idea — we weren’t expecting you just yet, 
 and — naturally it upsets me a little. You see, I 
 thought 
 
 Tom. I know. You thought I was safe behind those 
 stone walls and those iron bars, where you were 
 the means of placing me, and where you’d like to 
 have me stay. But you thought wrong, for I’m 
 not there now. I was there three years, though. 
 Wasn’t that long enough for an innocent man — 
 one who was there instead of another, who ought 
 to have been in his place? 
 
 (Philip seems to avoid his brother, though showing 
 that he is trying to disguise his real feelings and 
 to appear at ease. Tom, hozvever, is relentless in 
 his gaze and his manner, so that Philip cannot 
 altogether conceal his perturbation.) 
 
 Philip. I don’t know what you mean. 
 
 Tom. I think you do. If not, I can soon tell you. 
 It was your testimony that sent me to that prison, 
 wasn’t it? 
 
 Philip. Well, if it was, it was because it was forced 
 out of me. I was summoned as a witness. I had 
 to tell what I knew. 
 
 59 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 Tom. Yes — what you ‘‘knew” — and a good deal 
 more that you didn’t know. 
 
 Philip. What do you mean by that? Do you mean 
 to insinuate 
 
 Tom. I don’t mean to “ insinuate ” at all. I mean to 
 speak my mind and to say what I think — yes, what 
 1 know now, though I didn’t then. (Philip 
 makes a gesture of impatience, walks up, os if to 
 go. Tom steps in his way, makes him remain.) 
 No, you can’t go. You’ve got to listen to what I 
 have to say — what I’ve been weeks and months 
 waiting and longing to have an opportunity to say 
 to you. There’s no use going over it all, except 
 for a few things that may refresh your memory. 
 
 Philip. Oh, it isn’t necessary. I haven’t forgotten. 
 
 Tom. So much the better. But perhaps I can tell 
 you a thing or two you don’t know. You don’t 
 know, for one thing, that during the three years I 
 have been shut up there, suffering for something 
 that I never did, I have thought and thought and 
 thought, till things have become clear. You know 
 I went back to the bank that night, about nine 
 o’clock, because I found that I had in my pocket a 
 letter containing a check for a large sum from a 
 depositor, which I meant to put in the safe. So 
 I went back to the bank. I had a perfect right 
 to go in there, after hours. I had a key, and often 
 went in, to work at the books, when I was behind, 
 or to look after something. But that night I 
 found the safe open and a lot of money gone — 
 more than a thousand dollars. Naturally I was 
 excited. I hardly knew what to do, but I suppose 
 I did the worst thing possible — closed the safe and 
 went out, thinking I’d wait till morning before I 
 said anything about it. I knew afterward that I 
 did a foolish thing, something that I couldn’t ex- 
 plain — especially when they found those bills, 
 amounting to two hundred dollars, hidden in my 
 room. And then when you — so reluctantly ! — 
 “ let it out ” that you were passing the bank and 
 saw me come out, and I had no real explanation 
 6o 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 a^s Wj- vhy I didn’t report the rob])ery at once, that 
 night except that I was so frightened and excited 
 that I couldn’t think and didn’t know what I was 
 doing, why — it all went against me and I was pro- 
 nounced a — thief ! 
 
 Philip. X/ell, I don’t see as you have offered any- 
 thing, as yet, even to suggest that the verdict 
 wasn’t a just one. 
 
 Tom. But I’m not through. Listen. Look — look 
 here — look me straight in the face 
 
 (Philip has tried to ignore him, but now is compelled 
 to face him, which he does, at first boldly.) 
 
 Philip. Well, — what? 
 
 Tom. Can you look me in the face and tell me — 
 swear to me — that you know of no reason why that 
 verdict was a wrong one? — that you honestly be- 
 lieve I took that money? 
 
 Philip. Oh, well, even if I didn't, I couldn’t help 
 what happened. I simply answered questions — 
 told what I saw — and it went against you. It 
 wasn’t my fault. I tried to spare you — to keep 
 from telling, but — they made me. 
 
 Tom. Oh, yes, I remember. You managed to act 
 very much as if you were testifying unwillingly, 
 and I was too crushed, too dazed, then, to see 
 through you, to see what you were up to and to 
 understand what I understand now. You were 
 sacrificing me to save yourself. 
 
 Philip. What! You dare! You dare accuse me 
 
 Tom. Yes, to accuse you to your face and to tell 
 others. It has all come to me, I am as sure as I 
 am that I was three years in prison, that I was 
 there innocent of any crime, and that I am now 
 here talking to you, that you were the one who 
 had been in the bank — that it was you who opened 
 the safe and took that money — you, Philip Ran- 
 dall, you ! 
 
 Philip. You’re crazy. You must be, to imagine such 
 a yarn and to think that anybody would believe it. 
 
 6i 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 'J'oM. They shall believe it ! I’ll make them ! And 
 ril have help in proving that what I say is true. 
 
 rniLip (doubly alarmed). Help? Why, what do 
 you mean? Who — who will — help you? 
 
 Tom. You will — you! You, yourself. 
 
 Philip (relieved). PIo! Now I know you’re crazy. 
 How could I help you? My story would be the 
 same. 
 
 Tom. No, it would be an entirely different story this 
 time. You wouldn’t have it quite so much your 
 way, for I would be a different man and I would 
 have a few things to say — a few questions to sug- 
 gest. Why were you near the bank that night? 
 Where did you get all the money you had after 
 that — to go to New York and to go with the set 
 you went with? Hal You see I have found out 
 a few things, even shut up there behind prison 
 walls. I have been out of there two months, and 
 I haven’t been idle. 
 
 Philip. Out — two months! Did you — escape? 
 
 Tom. No. It isn’t easy to escape from Dannemora, 
 and I wasn’t fool enough even to attempt such a 
 thing. No, I didn’t escape, I was pardoned. Par- 
 doned two months ago, and I have spent the time 
 to good advantage, even if at last I have come 
 home sick and penniless. But I have come home 
 with a purpose, and nothing shall turn me from it. 
 Do you know Avhat that purpose is? 
 
 Philip. Why, no, Tom, unless — I suppose it is to 
 live down the past and make a new start 
 
 Tom. You’re nowhere near guessing it. My purpose 
 is different from that. It’s to expose the guilty 
 man, the one who sent me to prison, and to make 
 him suffer as I have. Yes — no matter who that 
 man is — even if he is my — own — brother! 
 
 Philip. Pooh ! You’re just talking. You have no 
 proofs — you can’t have. 
 
 Tom (fixing Philip with his accusing gaze). I have 
 my will and you have your conscience — even if 
 there was nothing more. ( Philip cowers, in spite 
 of himself.) Why, you show it — you show it 
 62 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 now ! It’s written in your face — all the proof 
 that is necessary. You couldn’t deny it — you 
 couldn’t ! 
 
 Philip {irying to recover himself). Pshaw! No- 
 body would pay any attention to you. 
 
 Tom. Oh, yes, they will. I’ll make them. I’ll make 
 them pay attention, and I’ll make you tell the 
 truth, in spite of yourself. 
 
 {There is a pause. Philip has walked part way tip c., 
 zvhere he stands as if in deep thought, his head 
 bowed. Tom looks at him, waiting for him to 
 speak. Finally Philip lifts his head, comes 
 down, facing Tom.) 
 
 Philip. Very well. Do it. Tell it all — your sus- 
 picions, what you think and what you know. But 
 think, first, what it would mean. Think of our 
 mother — of our country — of this uniform. 
 
 Tom. Yes, the uniform which you disgrace by wear- 
 ing. Oh, I noticed it, but it means nothing to me 
 when it is worn by a man like you. 
 
 Philip. Can you say that? Can you say that it 
 means nothing, if I am willing to go to France, to 
 try and prove that I am a man, not a coward, and 
 that I will die, if need be, to do it? I mean it, 
 Tom. Won’t you give me a chance — for the sake 
 of Mother — of Uncle Sam — for the flag? I want 
 to make good, and you can help me. Won’t you 
 do it ? It’s up to you. 
 
 Tom. Pretty late, seems to me, after all I’ve been 
 through because of you. What about that? Do 
 you mean you own up to it — that you will con- 
 fess? 
 
 Philip. I mean that I want to keep my uniform, to 
 go to France — to fight and do my bit. Thinlc 
 what it would mean if I had to give up now. It 
 would kill Mother — I guess it would kill me too, 
 Tom. I should never live to bear it. After all, 
 Fm your brother, even if I have done wrong 
 
 Tom. “ Brother ! ” There was a time when you for- 
 
 63 
 
FOB THE OLD FLAG 
 
 got that, I guess. It’s a nice kind of brother 
 }'ou’ve been to me. And now — now, after I’ve 
 spent three years in prison, for what you did; 
 given up my good name and got it all to live down, 
 if I ever can, you ask me to keep silent about it, 
 to let them still think I am a thief. Don’t you 
 think it’s a good deal to ask ? 
 
 Philip. Yes, Tom, I do. But can you go? Can 
 you wear this uniform in my place and go and fight 
 for Uncle Sam — for France — for Liberty? 
 
 Tom {cogitating, sadly). No. N-no — I can’t go. 
 
 I’m not strong enough. I’m a wreck. But it was 
 you made me so — don’t forget that. 
 
 Philip. I don’t forget, Tom — I never will forget. I 
 promise you that. I swear that I will prove it to 
 you, and that I will do the right thing. Only let 
 me go now, and some day you will not be sorry. 
 Will you do it, Tom — will you? 
 
 (Philip is near him, speaking with eager entreaty. 
 Tom falters, seeming to ponder. The sacrifice is 
 almost too much for him, but after a pause he 
 looks at Philip, then turns his gaze to the flag. 
 Finally raises his head bravely, with one hand on 
 flag, looks straight at Philip.) 
 
 Tom. Yes. I’ll do it. Go. Prove your manhood — 
 fight for yourself and for me. I’ll try to do my 
 bit too, here at home. I will keep still and send 
 you in my place. But see that you wear that uni- 
 form like a soldier and a man — or — I’ll have my 
 revenge yet. 
 
 (Philip seems scarcely able to believe what he hears. 
 Is overcome; almost breaks down. Holds out his 
 hand . ) 
 
 Ppiilip. Tom — my brother — you are more of a hero 
 than I can ever be, even on the battle-field. And 
 I promise you what you are doing shall not be in 
 vain. {As Tom refuses to take his hand.) Wonk 
 you wish me luck, Tom? 
 
 64 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAO 
 
 Tom. I wish you luck, yes--luck and success. But— - 
 don’t say any more. I can’t stand it. Just go- 
 go ! 
 
 Philip. But I can trust you— you promise? 
 
 Tom. Yes. I promise. Now go. {He turns away 
 from Philip. Tom is down l. Philip looks 
 at him a moment, as if about to speak again, but 
 instead goes r. c., takes his hat from table, goes up 
 and exits at door c. to R., without looking back. 
 Tom stands a moment in silence, his head bowed; 
 then straightens up, with a brave look, his face 
 brightened by lofty courage and determination. 
 Shakes head slowly, as he glances l., as if thinking 
 “Mother! ” then takes up corner of flag, clasps it 
 in both hands, looks down at it reverently.) Yes, 
 I can do it. I will. For you, Old Flag — for 
 you ! 
 
 CURTAIN 
 
ACT III 
 
 SCENE. — Same as before, an evening in the next 
 February. The doors are closed, window cur- 
 tains drawn, etc. Mrs. R. sits by table,!.., knitting 
 on soldier's sweater. Up 'R. c. are seated Ivy and 
 Oliver, busily engaged playing checkers. There 
 is a pause after rise of curtain, Ivy and Oliver 
 intently studying the board and Mrs. R. earnestly 
 working. Then Ivy exclaims joyfully, as she 
 finally makes a move. 
 
 Ivy. There! Now I got y’. Move! Go on, slow- 
 poke ! Don’t y’ see it’s your move ? 
 
 Oliver {calmly, with assurance). Why, so ’tis — sure 
 enough. All right. There — and there — and there 1 
 {Jumps one of his kings ” several times, taking 
 Ivy’s men and zvinning game.) Now y’ satisfied? 
 
 Ivy. Wha — what y’ doin’? I didn’t see that. 
 
 Oliver. No, o’ course y’ didn’t; but I did. Beat y’ 
 agin. See ? 
 
 Ivy. Yes, I see ’t you cheated. 
 
 Oliver. Huh ! Leave it to a girl t’ squeal when she’s 
 beat. ’D ruther play with a feller, any time. 
 
 Ivy. Oh, y’ would? Well, then, play with ’em, Mr. 
 Smarty. I don’t care. 
 
 {Jumps up, upsetting board and spilling checkers on 
 floor.) 
 
 Mrs, R. {looking up). Dear me, children, if you 
 can’t play a game of checkers without ending up 
 in a quarrel every time, I guess you’d better not 
 play any more. I’m surprised at you. 
 
 Ivy. Well, I don’t care. Mis’ Randall, he cheated. I 
 didn’t have t’ move that way, ’n’ he made me do it. 
 
FOB THE OLD FLAG 
 
 Oliver. Made y’ ! ’F you Vv^as silly enough T move 
 jest where I wanted y’ to, that was your fault. 
 Tain’t my fault ’f you don’t know enough to look 
 out for y’r own interest. That’s where the game 
 comes in. 
 
 Ivy. Oh, ’tis, is it? I want t’ know 
 
 Oliver. Sure ’tis. That’s “ st-st-rattlegem ” — like 
 they do in the war. 
 
 Ivy. My ! Ain’t you smart ? ’T’s a wonder you 
 don’t go ’n’ tell ’em how t’ lick the Kaiser. 
 
 Oliver. Goin’ t’, pretty soon. Soon’s I git old 
 enough. 
 
 Ivy. Yes. You ’n’ your “ goin’ t’s.” Huh ! ’T’s 
 easy enough t’ talk. 
 
 Mrs. R. There now, that will do, you two. Ivy, did 
 you light the fire in the front room, as I told 
 you to? 
 
 Ivy. Yes’m. Quite a while ago. ’T must be gett’n’ 
 real warm in there by this time. 
 
 Mrs. R. Well, you pick up those checkers ’n’ things, 
 and then go and see. 
 
 Oliver {picking up checkers). I’ll pick ’em up. Mis’ 
 Randall. 
 
 Mrs. R. Thank you, Oliver. That’s the way I like 
 to see you — acting the gentleman. 
 
 Ivy {zvho has gone to door l., snickering). Who — 
 him? 
 
 Mrs. R. Yes — him. I wish you’d take pattern after 
 him a little 
 
 Ivy. ’N’ try t’ be a gentleman ” ? 
 
 Mrs. R. No, of course not. A “ lady,” which I’m 
 afraid you never will be, if you don’t start in 
 pretty soon. Now you go and see to that fire, and 
 have it a good one, ’cause Lucy Garrett is coming 
 to spend the night with Jessie, and they may want 
 to have some music. Probably Tom will play on 
 his violin and Lucy will sing. I hope so, ’t any 
 rate. 
 
 Ivy. Yes, ’n’ I might favor with a song too, ’f you 
 urged me enough. 
 
 Oliver. Ho ! that would be a treat, that would, 
 
 W 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAQ 
 
 {She makes a face at him and exits L. He has placed 
 checker-hoard, etc., on table or stand, up R. Nozv 
 is c. ) 
 
 Mrs. R. You can stay and hear them, if you wish, 
 Oliver. You like music, I know. 
 
 Oliver. You jest bet I do. Mis’ Randall. Your Tom 
 certainly can play that fiddle, and as for Lucy 
 Garrett, she sings like a reg’lar op’ry. 
 
 Mrs. R. Well, she ought to sing well. She took 
 lessons in New York at two dollars a lesson, when 
 she stayed there all that time with her mother’s 
 folks. She plays on the piano well, too, but of 
 course, we only having an organ, she can’t do so 
 much when she’s here. Her father bought her a 
 beautiful upright. She always says she could 
 make her own living giving music lessons, if it was 
 necessary. But I guess it never will be, and her 
 father with all his money. 
 
 Oliver. No, I don’t s’pose it will, unless he should 
 turn her out, ’r somethin’. 
 
 Mrs. R. Wh)^, Oliver, what do you mean? 
 
 Oliver. Nothin’. Only I hear the men talking, down 
 ’t the store sometimes, ’n’ they say ’f she don’t 
 give up your Tom, her father’s goin’ t’ throw her 
 out. He don’t know she ever sees him. I guess 
 she wouldn’t be over here t’ stay with Jessie all 
 night t’-night ’f her father wa’n’t in New York 
 f’r a week. If he finds it out when he comes 
 home there’ll be — the dickens t’ pay. 
 
 Mrs. R. Oliver ! I believe you’re a regular gossip. 
 Goodness, I didn’t know men, and boys too, like 
 you, talked that way about folks. 
 
 Oliver. Oh, y’ didn’t? Well, y’ ought t’ work in our 
 store a few nights, ’n’ I guess you’d change y’r 
 mind. Gossip ? Huh ! MTy, some o’ them men > 
 could give Sophia Ash and all her spirits ’n’ things 
 lessons. {Going l.) Guess I’ll go in and sec ’f 
 I can help Ivy, Mis’ Randall. 
 
 Mrs. R. Yes, I guess you’d better. And see that you 
 don’t repeat any of that talk. It’s terrible. I 
 68 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 wouldn’t want Tom to hear it for anything. It’s 
 hard enough for him as it is, with all he has to 
 bear. 
 
 Oliver. Oh, I won’t say anything. But I guess it 
 wouldn’t be much news t’ him, ’f I did. 
 
 {Exit Oliver, l. Mrs. R., who has kept on knitting, 
 now wipes eyes with end of sweater, almost weep- 
 ing. There is a slight pause, then Tom enters, 
 door c. He is well zvrapped up in heavy over- 
 coat, with cap pidled down, etc., and there is snow 
 on his head and shoulders. He takes off cap, 
 shaking it, then brushes snow from coat. Mrs. R. 
 does not notice him until he speaks.) 
 
 Tom. Why, Mother, what’s the matter? Not crying 
 again? Now, you know what you promised me. 
 
 Mrs. R. Oh, Tom, is that you? I didn’t hear you 
 come in. Is it snowing? 
 
 Tom. Yes. It started just as I left the post-office. 
 It’s already getting quite deep. Looks like we’re 
 in for a real snow-storm. 
 
 {Takes off hat and coat, throwing them on chair.) 
 
 Mrs. R. {hesitating, as if fearfid to ask). Wasn’t 
 there any — letter — Tom? 
 
 Tom {going to her, standing by her, putting hand on 
 her shoulder tenderly). No, dear. But don’t 
 worry. It takes a long time for a letter to come 
 from France, you know 
 
 Mrs. R. I should say it did. We haven’t heard a 
 word from Phil for over two months. 
 
 Tom. I know, but that’s no proof he hasn’t written. 
 Just think how uncertain the mails must be now, 
 and — there, there, don’t you fret. “ No news is 
 good news,” you know. 
 
 Mrs. R. Perhaps — sometimes. But not these times. 
 With this terrible war going on, and my boy — my 
 handsome, brave boy over there fighting — oh. I’m 
 
 afraid he is sick, or — or Oh, Tom, I can’t 
 
 bear it, I can’t! 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 Tom (his arm about her). Mother! Is that the way 
 to be brave? You know we promised each other. 
 You said if I would be brave and make the best 
 of — of things — you would, too. 
 
 (He goes up r., os if unable to control himself. She 
 rises, goes toward him, laying her knitting on 
 table.) 
 
 Mrs. R. Tom! Forgive me. I forgot. It was very 
 selfish of me. You are fighting a harder battle 
 than any soldier over there in that awful war. 
 You are a hero too 
 
 Tom. Mother — don’t! We weren’t to speak of it, 
 you know. {Draws her down c.) 
 
 Mrs. R. But I must speak of it. I must tell you that 
 I don’t mean to be selfish, to think only of him 
 and his danger and heroism, when you are here 
 facing what you have to face. Oh, if we could 
 only find out the truth — if we could prove your 
 innocence 
 
 Tom. Mother! 
 
 Mrs. R. For you are innocent, Tom, I always knew 
 it. Nothing could ever make me believe you took 
 that money. 
 
 Tom {now close to her, c). But somebody took it. 
 Mother, and somebody had to be blamed for it. 
 Appearances were against me and I have had to 
 pay the penalty. It is all over now, so let u? 
 not take it up again. 
 
 Mrs. R. Over I Over — and you still thought a thief 
 and shunned by people who should know better, 
 who do know better, only they are too uncharitable 
 to say so. Tom, you never told me what you 
 did — what you found out — those weeks after you 
 left the — after you were freed — before you came 
 home. Did you never find out anything — who 
 •else had been to the bank, or near it, that night, 
 so that you had something to work on, to prove 
 your own innocence? That first night when you 
 came home you let it out that you had suspicions, 
 70 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 that you had found evidence — had proofs — then 
 all of a sudden you kept still, you wouldn’t tell 
 me any more, and you never tried to find out. 
 What was the reason, Tom? Why was it? 
 
 Tom. Mother, dear, there is nothing to tell. At first 
 1 was dazed — excited — I didn’t know what I 
 thought or said, and I imagined many things. 
 Afterward I saw that it was no use, that every- 
 thing was against me, and I gave it up. If it 
 hadn’t been for you, and Jessie, and — and her, 
 Heaven bless her, I — I guess I would have given 
 up. 
 
 Mrs. R. Tom! She is coming here to-night — to stay 
 all night with Jessie. I expect her any minute. 
 
 Tom. Who? You mean — Lucy is? 
 
 Mrs. R. Yes. Her father’s gone to New York for a 
 week, and she’s coming over to spend the night 
 with Jessie. I suppose she hadn’t ought to — 
 probably it isn’t right, and him telling her she 
 mustn’t — well, anyhow, she’s coming. Jessie said 
 she said she just would, anyway, and if her 
 father didn’t like it she didn’t know as she cared 
 much. I guess she’s about made up her mind to 
 take things into her own hands. 
 
 Tom. Lucy’s a brick. Mother. There isn’t another 
 girl in the world like her. But I wouldn’t let her 
 do that — go against her father and — and take up 
 with me, so long as things are as they are now. 
 It wouldn’t be right. I should be a coward to let 
 her, and I won’t. 
 
 Mrs. R. I know, Tom. You’re too good and noble. 
 But it’s hard. On, if you could prove your inno- 
 cence. Isn’t there any hope, Tom — none? 
 
 Tom. No, Mother, I’m afraid not. I’ve got to bear 
 it. I promised, and 
 
 Mrs. R. Promised? Why, what do you mean? — 
 “ promised ” who ? 
 
 Tom. Why, nobody, I — I meant I promised myself 
 I’d never let Lucy Garrett sacrifice herself for me, 
 even if she was willing to. I hope I should never 
 stoop to that. 
 
FOE THE OLD FLAG 
 
 Mks. R. Oh ! Well, Lucy’d do it, I’m sure she would. 
 She’s that kind of girl, and she believes in you 
 too, Tom — the same as I do. 
 
 Tom {they are at c. ; he puts an arm about her, ten- 
 derly). Yes, and that’s everything to me. Mother 
 — you and Lucy. I can stand it, so long as I have 
 that much. But, oh, it’s hard not to be able to 
 enlist, to go with the boys “ Over There.” They 
 need me. Mother — they need every man who’s able 
 to go. 
 
 Mrs. R. But Phil’s there. We need you here. I 
 can’t give you both up — yet. I will, gladly — I 
 mean willingly — when it comes to it. Even 
 that — for my country. But I hope it won’t be 
 yet — not just yet. 
 
 (Ivy thrusts head in l., calling out suddenly.) 
 
 Ivy. Say, Mis’ Randall, c’n Oliver ’n’ me have some 
 apples ? 
 
 Mrs. R. Yes, of course. But land, can’t you wait? 
 We’re going to have apples and cider and cake, 
 by and by. 
 
 Ivy. We’d ruther have some apples now. Oliver 
 would. 
 
 Mrs. R. Oh, well, then — of course. 
 
 Ivy {who has entered — hurryinq to r.). All right. 
 I’ll git some. 
 
 {Exit R., as Jessie enters same door. She comes to 
 R. c. ; Mrs. R. goes to table l. ; Tom is c.) 
 
 Jessie. Oh, here you are. I didn’t know you were 
 back from the post-office, Tom. Wasn’t there any 
 letter? 
 
 Tom. No. 
 
 Mrs. R. No, Jessie, not a word. Isn’t it strange? 
 I’m so afraid something has happened to Phil. 
 We ought to have had a letter before this. 
 
 Jessie. Well, it won’t do any good to worry, that’s 
 certain. {Goes up, lifts curtain, looks out.) 
 
 72 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 Seems to me it's about time Lucy came. My, it’s 
 snowng real hard. 
 
 Mrs. R. Yes, so Tom says. Do you think she can 
 come over all right, alone ? 
 
 Jessie. Why, of course. It isn’t far, and she’s not 
 afraid. But why don’t you go after her, Tom? 
 
 Tom. Do you think I’d — better? 
 
 {He shows eagerness, hut some hesitation.) 
 
 Jessie. Sure. Don’t you. Mother ? 
 
 Mrs. R. Why, yes, of course. I don’t see why not. 
 You might meet her. 
 
 Tom {taking hat and overcoat, putting them on). All 
 right, I will. I guess there won’t be any crime 
 in that. {Up at door c.) Besides, it’s dark. 
 Nobody will see us. But I don’t care if they do — 
 the whole world! 
 
 {Exit hurriedly, door c. Mrs. R. is again seated L. 
 of table, with knitting; Jessie up by door c.) 
 
 Mrs. R. Oh, Jessie, isn’t it terrible? He loves Lucy 
 and she loves him. But v/ith this terrible thing 
 hanging over him — and he vows and declares he’d 
 never let Lucy go against her father for him. He 
 says he couldn’t be such a coward. He’s a brave 
 boy, Tom is — a hero. 
 
 Jessie {coming down to l. c.). Yes, I suppose he is. 
 But I guess there’s such a thing as overdoing it. 
 Maybe he’s a little too set on being a hero. 
 
 Mrs. R. Why, Jessie, what do you mean? 
 
 Jessie. Oh, I mean that sometimes I wish Tom had 
 more spunk, and was a little more determined to 
 stick up for himself and not mind so much what 
 people say. Maybe if he’d act more like he didn’t 
 care so much, and face people as if he had some 
 pride, they’d begin to think more of him. 
 
 Mrs. R. Why, Jessie, how you talk ! I’m sur- 
 prised — 
 
 IJessie. Well, I can’t help it. Sometimes I think Tom 
 has a reason — that he knows much more than he 
 
 73 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 lets on, and is shielding somebody. I must say, it 
 doesn’t look natural to me, the way he changed all 
 of a sudden, and the way he acts 
 
 Mrs. R. {rising, laying knitting on table). Jessie — 
 what do you mean — “shielding” somebody? 
 How' could he ? — who — wdio could it be ? 
 
 Jessie. Have you never wondered — thought that per- 
 haps there was something — more than w^e 
 know ? 
 
 Mrs. R. Of course I have. He hinted as much, and 
 
 then — all of a sudden Oh, I don’t know 
 
 what to think. There’s some mystery. Alto- 
 gether, with thinking of Phil — ’w-ay over there — 
 perhaps w'ounded, or dead — and then my other 
 boy, here, despised and suffering — it seems as if 
 it is more than I can bear. 
 
 {Stamping of feet heard outside door c.) 
 
 Jessie. There, there. Mother, dear, don't. Some- 
 body’s coming. Perhaps it’s 
 
 {Goes lip, opens door, admits Lucy Garrett and Tom, 
 both with snow on shoulders. Lucy wears cloak, 
 furs, etc. They enter, Lucy coming down, cor- 
 dially greeted by Mrs. R. and Jessie. Tom has 
 her small hand-bag, which he sets down, staying 
 somewhat back.) 
 
 Lucy. Well, here I am. 
 
 Mrs. R. Yes, in a regular snow-storm. 
 
 Lucy. Oh, I don’t mind. I just love it. Tom met 
 me. It was real kind of him to come after me. 
 
 Jessie. Yes, considerably after — you had started. 
 {They laugh.) But he had to be sent, you know. 
 
 Lucy. Now^, you’re spoiling it 
 
 Tom {coming down, somezvhat embarrassed). You 
 know better than that, don’t you, Lucy? You 
 believe, anyhow^ that I wanted to come, only 
 
 Lucy. Yes, Tom, of course I do. Don’t you let this 
 little sister of yours tease you. 
 
 74 
 
FOB THE OLD FLAG 
 
 Mrs. R. ril take your things, Lucy, and put them 
 up in your room. 
 
 JiiSSiE. No, I’ll lake them. You’re to sleep in the 
 room next to mine, Lucy — you know, with the 
 door between. {Taking Lucy’s cloak, etc.) 
 
 Lucy. Fine. But, here, 1 must have my knitting. 
 Can’t lose any time on that sweater, you know. 
 It’s in that bag, Tom. 
 
 (Tom presents hag; she takes out partly finished 
 szveater, with needles, wool, etc.) 
 
 Jessie. Yes, and I must get mine. We’re all doing 
 it, you know. 
 
 Mrs. R. How many does this make, Lucy ? 
 
 Lucy. Seven. I w’sh it were twenty-seven. 
 
 Mrs. R. My! I think you’ve done wonders. And 
 me, with only the second. 
 
 Jessie (l.). And look at poor little me, still working 
 on my first pair of socks. Oh, I’m some knit- 
 ter — nit ! 
 
 {Exit, L. Tom is down c. ; Lucy l. c. ; Mrs. R., l. 
 of table.) 
 
 Tom. I’ll go and put up my hat and overcoat 
 They’re kind of wet. {Goings.) Excuse me? 
 
 Lucy. Certainly. Only come back — soon. 
 
 Tom. Sure ! Don’t have this treat every day, and I 
 don’t want to miss any of it. 
 
 {He smiles and exits r. Mrs. R. looks surprised, 
 Lucy pleased.) 
 
 Mrs. R. Well, that’s about the first he’s chirked up 
 that way since — I don’t know when. He seems 
 quite like himself. Oh, Lucy, it’s you—all you — 
 
 with him. I mean, if only Oh, do you 
 
 think there’s any hope — that it will ever be cleared 
 up, and — all? 
 
 Lucy. Yes, Mrs. Randall, I believe it will. I mean 
 it shall be. I’ve made up my mind to stick by 
 Tom — well, I guess you knew I had done that 
 
 75 
 
FOR TEE OLD FLAG 
 
 long ago — but I mean I’m going to help clear it 
 up. I don’t intend to let anybody — even my own 
 father — hold me back any longer. If Tom won’t 
 tell what he knows, and do what he can do — why, 
 somebody will have to make him. There is some 
 reason for his silence. I know it. More than 
 once he has let it out, and it’s time we found out 
 what that reason is. 
 
 Mrs. R. Why, Lucy, you talk just like Jessie. That’s 
 about what she was saying just before you came. 
 Have you and she been putting your heads to- 
 gether ? 
 
 Lucy. Yes, Mrs. Randall, we have — our heads and 
 our hearts. And our whole souls are in it, too. 
 And we want your help — your faith — your 
 prayers. 
 
 (Mrs. R. does not speak, hut takes one of Lucy’s 
 hands in both of hers, holding it tenderly, with 
 a smile of assent and encouragement. Enter 
 Oliver, l.) 
 
 Oliver. ’Xcuse me. I was (5^^j>Lucy.) Oh, 
 
 good-even’n’. Miss Garrett. 
 
 Lucy. Good-evening, Oliver. How are you? 
 
 Oliver. Fair t’ middling, thank y’. I was lookin’ for 
 Ivy. She said she’d get some apples. Strikes 
 me mebbe she’s eat’n’ ’em, too. Takes her long 
 enough. 
 
 Mrs. R. I guess you’d better go and see about it, 
 Oliver. I think you’ll find her in the kitchen. 
 
 Oliver {going r.). All right — thanks — guess I will. 
 D’ know’s she’ll give me any, after all, she’s s’ 
 mad ’cause I beat her playin’ checkers. Guess 
 mebbe I c’n coax her up, though. ’S all right, ’f 
 y’ know how t’ handle girls. 
 
 Lucy. So you’ve found that out, have you, Mr. 
 Moon? 
 
 Oliver. Sure. Long ago. {Indoors.) Say, Miss 
 Garrett, you goin’ t’ sing? 
 
 Lucy. I don’t know. Perhaps. Why ? 
 
 76 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 Oliver. ’Cause Td like t’ hang around ’n’ hear it. 
 Hope it’s one o’ them op’ry pieces — all wobbly. 
 
 Lucy. Wobbly? 
 
 Oliver. Yes, — trilly-like {Makes atlempi at 
 
 trill, running np to a high note in a falsetto tone.) 
 So ! — see ? 
 
 Lucy {convulsed). Yes, I see — and hear, too. But 
 I’m afraid — really. I’m afraid I couldn’t do it 
 like that. 
 
 Mrs. R. Well, I should hope not. You’d better go 
 and find out about those apples, Oliver. I’m 
 afraid Ivy ’ll have them all eaten up. 
 
 Oliver. Yes, I reckon I had. But I’ll be back when 
 y’ begin y’r wobblin’. Miss Garrett. Ho-o — oh — 
 o-o-oh ! 
 
 {Putting hand on chest and flinging out a high note, 
 as he exits r.) 
 
 Mrs. R. He is irrepressible, that boy. Between him 
 and Ivy — well, I guess you can imagine. 
 
 {Enter Jessie, l., with partly knitted sock.) 
 
 Jessie. What’s all this I hear? Mercy, I thought a 
 wild Injun was let loose. 
 
 Mrs. R. Why, it was Oliver Moon, trying to sing. 
 
 Lucy. Or trying to show me how to do it. Is that 
 your knitting, Jessie? 
 
 Jessie. Well, it’s my — whatever-y’-call-it. I don’t 
 know as I’d call it “ knitting.” I pity the poor 
 soldier that ever tries to wear this pair of socks. 
 If he hasn’t corns already, I guess he soon will 
 have. I hope it’s one of those old Germans. 
 
 Mrs. R. Oh, Jessie, I don’t believe it’s so bad as all 
 that. 
 
 Lucy. No, of course it isn’t. {Examining Jessie’s 
 work.) Why, you’re getting along all right. Just 
 keep at it. 
 
 Jessie. Oh, I’ll keep at it all right. Got to do my 
 share toward winning the war, and if these socks 
 exterminate one German, that’ll be so much. 
 
 77 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 (They all sit, knitting — Mrs. R. at l. of table, as be- 
 fore; Lucy r. of table and Jessie r. c. Enter 
 Tom, r.) 
 
 Tom. Well, well, but you’re an industrious lot. Guess 
 I ought to have some knitting, too, or something 
 like that. 
 
 Lucy. Well, why not? It wouldn’t hurt a man to 
 knit, any more than a woman to do some of the 
 things she does. 
 
 Jessie. Why, of course not. I could drive an ox- 
 team or hoe a potato field ten times better’n I 
 can knit these socks. I’ll bet. 
 
 Mrs. R. The idea! I guess you couldn’t. I don’t 
 approve of the way v.'Omen are taking up the 
 men’s work these days. It seems all wrong to me. 
 
 Jessie. Yes, you’re just an old-fashioned woman. 
 Mother, dear. Not up to the times. 
 
 Lucy. Then I hope she never is. 
 
 Tom. Me, too. I wouldn’t have Mother change one 
 iota for the world. Eh, Mother-o’-mine ? 
 
 (He has gone around hack of her, leans over her chair, 
 with arms about her.) 
 
 Mrs. R. (looking up at him, tenderly). Well, so long 
 as you are suited, Tom — you and a few others — I 
 guess I ought to be happy. But you do spoil 
 me so. 
 
 Tom. Pshaw ! It couldn’t be done. 
 
 (Jessie and Lucy smile affectionately at Mrs. R., who 
 now rises.) 
 
 Mrs. R. Well, I’m not so sure about that. (Cross- 
 ing to R.) I’m going in the kitchen now. I 
 want to see what Ivy and Oliver are up to. Be- 
 sides, I have a few things to see to. 
 
 Lucy. Now, Mrs. Randall, don’t go and fuss. 
 
 Mrs. R. No, of course I won’t. Just some cakes and 
 cider and a few nuts and apples, that’s all. 
 
 (Exit, R. Jessie rises, goes to r.) 
 
 78 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 Jessie. Guess I’ll go and see if I can help. You 
 two excuse me? {Smiling knowingly.) 
 
 Lucy. Why, yes — of course 
 
 Tom. Oh, sure — take your time 
 
 {These two sentences are spoken together. Jessie 
 smiles and exits r. Lucy is still seated R. of table, 
 Tqm is standing other side of table.) 
 
 Lucy. I — haven’t seen much of you lately, Tom. 
 Where have you been keeping yourself? 
 
 Tom. Oh — around. Here at home, most of the 
 
 time. It seems the best place for me, somehow. 
 
 Lucy. I can’t say that I agree with you. 
 
 Tom. You — don’t? 
 
 Lucy. No. You are simply helping people to take 
 you at their own estimate. Excuse me, Tom, I 
 don’t mean to hurt your feelings. You know 
 that. But I do think you make a mistake. 
 
 Tom. Maybe I do. It’s mighty hard, though. Why, 
 I had even begun to think you were going back 
 on me, Lucy. 
 
 Lucy. You know better than that. It’s been hard for 
 me, too. You don’t know all I have to contend 
 with. But never mind that. Sit down, Tom. I 
 want to talk to you. {He sits; she leans on table, 
 looking across at him earnestly.) I’ve been wait- 
 ing for this opportunity. 
 
 Tom. To give me a talking to ? 
 
 Lucy. Well, yes — if you want to put it that way. 
 Anyhow, to say a few things that have been on 
 my mind for a long time. First: do you mean 
 to keep it up? 
 
 Tom. What? — keep what — up? 
 
 Lucy. You know — bearing all the shame and misery 
 that you have to bear, for something somebody 
 else did. That’s what you’re doing. 
 
 Toat. I believe you have said that before, or hinted 
 as much. You haven’t much to go on, though, 
 have you? 
 
 Lucy {ignoring what he says). And you think it’s 
 
 79 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 your duty? Is it for Phil, or for your mother — 
 chiefly ? {He rises, amazed. ) 
 
 Tom. Lucy ! What do you mean ? What are you — 
 driving at ? 
 
 Lucy {quietly). Driving square up to the right 
 hitching-post, Tom Randall, and you know it. 
 Oh, Fve understood the whole thing right along — 
 ever since last summer. I suspected it before 
 Phil went away. I was sure of it soon after. It’s 
 noble of you, Tom. You’re a real hero — a true 
 patriot — and I’d like to give you the Cross of 
 Honor and all the other decorations and things. 
 But I think it’s rather too much. Phil is away 
 over there now, where it doesn’t matter so much 
 to him. You are here, with it to bear. Don’t you 
 think, if you can prove your innocence — even if 
 you have to implicate him — it’s your privilege 
 now — your duty to yourself 
 
 Tom. No — I can’t 
 
 Lucy. And to — me! — Tom? 
 
 Tom. Oh, Lucy, don’t put it that way. I — I can bear 
 it for myself, but don’t make it harder for me. 
 I promised — faithfully, on my word of honor — 
 and I pride myself I still have a “ word of honor ” 
 that stands for something. I couldn’t go back 
 on it. No — not even for you, Lucy — I couldn’t! 
 
 Lucy. I see. And I suppose I shouldn’t ask it of 
 you. But I can do my share — bear my share — 
 too. I can stand by you and with you, and show 
 everybody that I believe in you, no matter what 
 anybody else says or thinks. That’s what I want 
 to do, Tom. 
 
 {They are standing c. Tom looks at her, almost nn- 
 comprehendingly, almost overcome as her meaning 
 dawns upon him.) 
 
 Tom. Would you do it, Lucy? Would you become — 
 my wife — now — as things are — and still let me 
 keep my promise ? Could you do that ? 
 
 Lucy. Yes, Tom, yes. Gladly. I want to do it 
 
 8q 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 Tom. But your father — he 
 
 Lucy. I don’t care. Not for him nor the whole world. 
 It’s you, Tom — you v/ho need me and whom I 
 want. Isn’t that enough ? 
 
 Tom (wonderingly — looking at her with great tender- 
 ness), Enough? It’s everything — it’s wonder- 
 ful! You’re the most wonderful, the bravest, 
 truest girl in all the world. {He takes her in his 
 arms; she nestles against him — there is a pause, 
 then suddenly he puts her from him with determi- 
 nation.) But it can’t be — it mustn’t. It wouldn’t 
 be right. No — no! 
 
 Lucy. Tom! It must, it shall! In spite of every- 
 thing. {Puts hand on his arm.) 
 
 Tom {drawing away from her, sadly, hut firmly). No. 
 I would be a coward. I couldn’t let you give up 
 so much for me. Some time — it may come right — 
 then — but not yet — not now 
 
 {He turns up l. c. ; she goes to him, pleadingly.) 
 
 Lucy. Tom! 
 
 Tom. No — don’t, Lucy — please ! Don’t make it 
 harder for me. I must bear it — alone. 
 
 {He exits l. She stands l. c., hy table, sadly, almost 
 breaking down. There is a pause, then a stamp- 
 ing of feet outside and knocking on door c. Lucy 
 looks that way, hut does not go to door; takes up 
 her knitting, goes L. Enter Mrs. R., hurriedly, r.) 
 
 Mrs. R. Oh, you here alone, Lucy? {Going up to 
 door c.) I guess that’s Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins. I 
 asked them to come over a little while, too. 
 
 Lucy. Did you? Seems it’s a regular party. 
 
 Mrs. R. Oh, no; but seeing they are just back from 
 their wedding trip, and all, you know 
 
 {The knocking on door is repeated. Lucy crosses, 
 exits R., just as Mrs. R. opens door, admitting 
 Hezekiah and Sophia. They are well bundled 
 up, with snow on heads and shoulders. They come 
 
 8i 
 
FOE THE OLD FLAG 
 
 in hurriedly, shaking themselves, etc. Mrs. Ri 
 glances out, then quickly closes door.) 
 
 Sophia. Uit! We’re almost froze. 
 
 I\Irs. R. Aly, it’s a regular storm, isn’t it? 
 
 Sophia. Storm? I should say so. It’s blowing and 
 drifting something terrible. 
 
 Hezekiah. Twin sister to a blizzard, I call it. S’ 
 stiif I d’ know’s I’ll ever git thawed out. 
 
 Sophia. Well, you would come. I told him it 
 wa’n’t fit. Mis’ Randall, but he’s so afraid he’ll 
 miss something. I guess he’d insisted on cornin’ 
 ’f it ’d been a blizzard ’n’ a cyclone all in one. 
 That’s about what ’tis, too. 
 
 Hezekiah. Listen t’ that. Me ’nsisted! Gosh, can 
 y’ beat that? You couldn’t ’a’ kep’ her t’ home 
 with a chain ’n’ padlock. 
 
 Mrs. R. Well, I’m real glad you got here, anyway. 
 Come in the front room. I guess you’ll find it 
 real warm in there. Ivy lit the fire in the wood- 
 stove some time ago. 
 
 Sophia. Oh, it’s plenty warm enough here. Mis’ 
 Randall. Ain’t it, Hezekiah? 
 
 Hezekiah. Sure — plenty — for me. 
 
 {They have removed things, which Mrs. R. takes. 
 Sophia retains immense cretonne knitting-hag, 
 which she has had under shazvl or cloak.) 
 
 Mrs. R. Well, all right then, sit right down here and 
 make yourselves as comfortable as you can for 
 the present. I’ll take these things out by the 
 kitchen stove, where they’ll get nice and dry. 
 
 {Exit at R., with things. Sophia sits r. of table with 
 knitting; Hezekiah is c.) 
 
 Sophia. Be y’ feelin’ all right, Hezekiah? Sure you 
 didn’t git a chill? 
 
 Hezekiah. Chill? No. Be’n out in worse weather 
 ’n this plenty o’ times. It’s you I’m worried about, 
 dearie. 
 
 82 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 (Puis arm about her, as if about to kiss her; she draws 
 away, repulsing him.) 
 
 Sophia. Hezekiah Wilkins, b’have y’rself ! What if 
 some of ’em ’d come in and see y’ ? 
 
 Hezekiah. What’d I care? Ain’t we bride ’n’ 
 groom ? Guess we got a right to love a little 
 
 Sophia. Bride ’n’ groom? Land, we be’n married 
 over a month. ’Bout time you had a little sense, 
 accordin’ t’ my way o’ thinkin’. ’T your age, too ! 
 
 Hezekiah. What’s age got t’ do with it? Guess 
 after wait’n’ all them years t’ git y’, y’ ain’t goin’ 
 t’ keep me from showin’ how much I love y’, now 
 ’t you’re mine. 
 
 Sophia {as he continues attempting to fondle her). 
 Well, y’ don’t have to do it b’fore folks. {He is 
 more persistent — she rises, pushing him back.) 
 F’r the land’s sake, leave me be! I never saw 
 sech a man. 
 
 {Enter Mrs. R. at r.) 
 
 Hezekiah. ’Tain’t right. Is it, Mis’ Randall? 
 
 Mrs. R. What isn’t, Mr. Wilkins? 
 
 Hezekiah. Why, f’r Sophi’ t’ 
 
 Sophia. Don’t you pay no attention t’ him, Mis’ 
 Randall. He’s too silly for anything — wantin’ t’ 
 make love all the time, at his age. No matter 
 where we are, either — always actin’ like we was 
 a young married couple. 
 
 Hezekiah. Well, what’d I marry y’ f’r, ’f ’twa’n’t t’ 
 show my devotion ? 
 
 SoppiiA. Devotion fiddlesticks! {She is again 
 seated, opens bag, takes out sock partly knitted — 
 holds it out to Hezekiah.) Here’s your knittin’. 
 Take it and keep busy, f’r goodness’ sake. 
 
 Mrs. R. Oh, have you learned to knit too, Hezekiah ? 
 
 Hezekiah. She made me. Makes me tired. Knit- 
 t’n’s f’r women. {Refuses to take work.) I 
 don’t want it. 
 
 Sophia. Hezekiah Wilkins, you take that knittin’. 
 Ain’t you willin’ t’ do that much f’r y’r country? 
 
 83 
 
FOR THE OLD Ft AO 
 
 Hezektah. Me? Gosh a’ fish-hooks, ’n’ me a vet’- 
 ran what fit f’r the Union. ’S if I hadn’t done 
 more ’n knit a darned old pair o’ socks ! 
 
 !Mrs. R. Well, I guess that’s so, Hezekiah. It does 
 seem as if you might be excused. Don’t you 
 think so, Sophia? 
 
 Sophia. No, I don’t. It won’t hurt him a bit. I’ve 
 dug p’tatoes ’n’ split kindlin’-wood lots o’ times, 
 ’ll’ I guess that ain’t woman’s work, any more 
 knittin’s a man’s. 
 
 {Again oifering ivork to Hezekiah, who now grabs 
 if spite fully.) 
 
 Hezekiah. Oh, well, then, give it here ! {Looking 
 at it.) Pretty lookin’ kind o’ thing that is, ain’t 
 it? Git more stitches in m’ side th’n I put in the 
 blamed old stockin’. I thought we come over 
 here t’ have a pleasant evenin’. Wanted t’ tell 
 ’em about our wedd’n’ trip. 
 
 Sophia. Oh, I guess they’ve heard all they want to 
 about that. Ain’t y’. Mis’ Randall? 
 
 Mrs. R. It’s nothing but what I could stand hearing 
 over again, Sophia. It must have been quite a 
 trip, to Philadelphia and all. They say that’s a 
 wonderful city. 
 
 Hezekiah. I should say ’tis. Talk about “ slow,” — 
 wal, ’f Philadelphy’s what they call slow, spare me 
 fr’m where they’re s’posed t’ be rapid. Wft 
 saw 
 
 Sophia {interrupting him). That’s where the Liberty 
 Bell is, y’ know. We saw it — crack ’n’ all 
 
 Hezekiah. ’Course we did. Didn’t s’pose they was 
 goin’ t’ hide the crack the days we was there, 
 did y’ ? 
 
 Sophia. And the very table they set at t’ sign the 
 Declaration o’ Independence — and the house — the 
 very window — where Betsy Ross set t’ make the 
 first American flag. 
 
 Hezekiah. ’N’ Benjamin Franklin’s grave, ’n’-- 
 
 Sophia. Yes, ’n’ their City Hall’s got a tower higher’n 
 a church steeple, with Billy Penn standin’ on 
 84 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 top of it. We went 'most to the top, hi’ — what d’ 
 think, Mis’ Randall ? Hezekiah got s’ dizzy, goin* 
 up s’ far in that elevator, ’t they had t’ let us out 
 on about the seventy-eighth floor 
 
 Hezekiah. Huh! ’Twa’n’t no sech thing — ’twa’n’t 
 inore’n the twenty-third 
 
 Sophia. Wal, anyway, it was wonderful, and we 
 certainly did have a fine time. Everybuddy seemed 
 t’ know we was bride ’n’ groom, though, fr’m the 
 way Hezekiah acted. I got so ashamed, I thought 
 I’d sink. 
 
 Mrs. R. I don’t see what you cared — so long as you 
 had a good time. 
 
 Sophia. But I hate t’ see a man act so silly. His 
 third time, too. {Watches Hezekiah.) See 
 here, if you can’t knit any better’n that you might 
 as well stop. The war’ll be over before you get 
 that one sock done. 
 
 Hezekiah. Wal, I guess they’ll be some one-footed 
 ones left that’ll be glad t’ git it. {Rises.) You 
 make me nervous. How can I knit, with you 
 watchin’ every minute? 
 
 Mrs. R. Why don’t you go in the other room, 
 Hezekiah? Tom’s in there. You can tell him 
 about your trip. 
 
 Hezekiah L.). All right, guess I will. Mebbe 
 
 it’ll cheer him up. 
 
 Mrs. R. Yes, maybe it would. 
 
 Sophia. Well, you go, ’cause I’ve got somethin’ I 
 want t’ tell Mis’ Randall, anyway. Mebbe we 
 won’t get another chance t’ be alone this evenin’. 
 
 Hezekiah. Huh ! ’Mother one of them “ messages,” 
 I s’pose. I’m jealous o’ them spirits — how d’ I 
 know but what some of ’em’s male ones ? Hey ? 
 
 {Exit, R., chuckling.) 
 
 Sophia. Don’t you pay any attention t’ him. Mis’ 
 Randall. He’s always talkin’ like that. Says I 
 ought t’^ give it all up, now ’t I’m his. But I 
 can’t, Mis’ Randall — I can’t. It’s them that won’t 
 give me up — Prairie Flower. 
 
 85 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 Mrs. R. So you still hear from her, do you? 
 
 Sophia {mysteriously). Oh, yes — often. Not s* 
 often ’s I did, though. It has t’ be something very 
 important now, it seems. 'N’ ’tis, this time. It’s 
 for you. Mis’ Randall. It come t’ me last night, 
 as plain as day. 
 
 Mrs. R. Dear me, I was in hopes there wouldn’t be 
 any more for me. It sort of makes me nervous. 
 
 Sophia. Why, it ought t’ lift you up. It does me. 
 I feel the honor and the responsibility placed upon 
 me. {Impressively.) Mis’ Randall, it all came 
 to me last night. Sort of symbolic-like, but plain 
 as could be. I saw a battle-field, then — a 
 wounded soldier, in a hospital, I think it was. 
 He seemed to be trying to tell me something — 
 something he wanted me to tell somebody. And 
 I thought it was you. Then he got s’ weak he 
 couldn’t say it — and — and then 
 
 Mrs. R. {with an anxiety which she cannot conceal). 
 What, Sophia? What else? Of course, I don’t 
 believe in it — but — I can’t help being inter- 
 ested — 
 
 Sophia. Wal, I wouldn’t want t’ alarm you, for any- 
 thing; but for a time it seemed as if it was the last 
 word he ever spoke. 
 
 Mrs. R. You don’t mean he was — that he — died? 
 
 vSoPHiA. For a time I did. But it went further — I 
 saw a young man in uniform set out on a long 
 journey. It was as if he went on the water — came 
 back to this country — as if he was coming — 
 here 
 
 Mrs. R. {rising, in unconcealed excitement). Oh, 
 Sophia, he is coming home — my boy — my Phil ! 
 Was it Phil? Do you think he is coming? 
 
 Sophia. Wal, it was all sort o’ misty, as if it wa’n’t 
 intended I should know exactly. But that’s what 
 I saw. 
 
 Mrs. R. I thought you said it was all “ as plain as 
 day.” I guess it wasn’t. Seems to me it was 
 nothing but a dream, the kind I have myself a 
 good (leal. 
 
 86 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 Sophia. You can take it for what it*s worth. I 
 ain't sayin' what that is. But it was plain enough — 
 that is, that it was a message, and, t’ my mind, 
 that it was intended for you, even if it was kind 
 o’ faint at the end. That’s the way it is. Some- 
 times I come out of ’em before I get it all. 
 
 Mrs. R. Yes, I guess you do. Well, I’m much 
 obliged, anyway, seeing you thought you ought to 
 tell me. But I can’t say I put much faith in it. 
 {Going l.) Won’t you come in where your hus- 
 band is, Mrs. Wilkins? 
 
 Sophia {rising). Yes, I s’pose I’d better, ’r he’ll be 
 out here after me. Land, I don’t see how I ever 
 consented t’ have him, after s’ long. I can’t 
 hardly sense it yet, ’t I’m a married woman — ’n’ 
 t’ nothin’ but an old relic of the Civil War. 
 
 Mrs. R. Yes, it does seem kind of queer, I will admit. 
 Most men would have lost hope long ago. But I 
 guess he knew you intended to have him some 
 time, all along. 
 
 Sophia. Mis’ Randall, how you talk ! The very idee ! 
 Why, I never had no more intention of b’comin’ 
 Mis’ Hezekiah Wilkins ’n I have of — of — wal, 
 of — wal, of goin’ t’ France in an air- ship. But I 
 had t’ take him t’ get red of him. Now ’t I’m 
 his wife I can at least be the boss and keep him 
 in his place. It’s easier t’ manage a husband ’n 
 ’tis a man what wants t’ be. 
 
 Mrs. R. Well, anyway, he’s got you, at last. 
 
 Sophia. I’ve got him, I guess you mean. ’N’ now ’t 
 I have, I declare I don’t know what t’ do with 
 him. I s’pose I’ll have t’ make the best of it. 
 
 Mrs. R. It’s a wonder Prairie Flower didn’t warn 
 you, if it wasn’t just the best thing for you to do. 
 
 Sophia. Mebbe she would’ve, ’f I’d listened. But I 
 turned a deef ear, ’n’ now I’ve got t’ pay the 
 penalty. 
 
 (Hezekiah sticks head in door l.) 
 
 Hezekiah. Say, when’s my little lovey-dovey coming 
 in with her little piggy- vriggy ? 
 
FOB THE OLD FLAG 
 
 Sophia,' In a minute. Go back in there! (Hez- 
 EKiAH withdraws. ) Did you ever hear sech sick- 
 ishness — at his age, too ? It's like livin' on whipped 
 cream and choc’late drops f'r a month till y'r dy- 
 ing f’r pickles 'n' chow-chow. {Going l.) But 
 I s'pose I’ll have to go in, 'r he’ll never give me a 
 minute’s peace. (As she goes out.) No, I don't 
 see how I ever consented t’ take him — I cer- 
 tainly don't. 
 
 (Exit, L. Mrs. R. stands a moment, looking after her, 
 with an amused smile. Then enter Lucy and 
 Jessie, r.) 
 
 Jessie. Where are the bride and groom, Mother? 
 
 Mrs. R. They went in the front room. Tom's in 
 there, too. I guess you’d better go in, and maybe 
 have a little music. I’m just dying to hear you 
 sing, Lucy. 
 
 Lucy. Mercy, if I can save your life so easily as that, 
 let me do it. I’m only glad it doesn’t have the 
 opposite effect. Come, Jessie, you can play for 
 me. 
 
 Jessie. All right. I’ll be right in. 
 
 (Exit Lucy, l.) 
 
 Mrs. R. Sophia Ash — I mean Mrs. Wilkins — has 
 been giving me another “ message,” Jessie. She 
 says a man in uniform is coming. Do you sup- 
 pose — 
 
 Jessie. What I suppose is that she has you all upset, 
 and I wish she’d leave you alone. It’s too ridic- 
 ulous. If I put stock in all my dreams and 
 imaginings, like she does. I'd have enough “ mes- 
 sages ” and “ visions ” to keep us guessing for- 
 evermore. (Going l.) Don’t you pay a bit of 
 attention to anything she says. Mother. Between 
 ” Prairie Flower ” and that new husband of hers, 
 I don't wonder she has her hands full. But if she 
 doesn't leave you alone, I intend to give her a 
 piece of my mind. 
 
 88 
 
FOB THE OLD FLAG 
 
 {Exit, L.) 
 
 Mrs. R. Jessie— be careful. I wouldn't have you 
 hurt Sophia’s feelings for anything. (She stands 
 a 'moment, ruminating , then goes to door r. and 
 calls.) Ivy — Oliver! 
 
 {Enter Ivy, r.) 
 
 Ivy. ’D you call me, Mis’ Randall ? 
 
 Mrs. R. "Yes. I guess you and Oliver can go in the 
 front room now. They’re going to have some 
 music. We won’t have the refreshments yet a 
 while. 
 
 Ivy. All right. We got a whole pile o’ nuts cracked. 
 {Calls off R.) Oliver — Oliver, come on, now I 
 
 {Enter Oliver, r.) 
 
 Oliver. ’D y’ call me ? 
 
 Ivy. Sure. Come on. We’re goin’ in the front room 
 t’ have some music. 
 
 Oliver. Pshaw ! Can’t eat music. 
 
 Mrs. R. Why, Oliver, I thought you were so anxious 
 to hear Miss Garrett sing. 
 
 Oliver. Am. But I could listen t’ her ’n’ eat too. 
 
 Ivy (l.). All you think of ’s eat’n’. Et as many nuts 
 as y’ cracked. 
 
 Oliver. Shucks I Didn’t, neither. {He has gone l. 
 Ivy gets behind him and pushes him to door l.) 
 Oh, all right. I’m a-goin’. See how she bosses 
 me. Mis’ Randall? Jest like a wife. 
 
 Ivy. Oh, you ! 
 
 {She gives him a slap and he runs off l. She follows. 
 Mrs. R. looks after them a moment, smiling. A 
 small organ is heard being pla'yed off l., then a 
 sweet soprano or contralto voice, supposed to be 
 that of Lucy Garrett, singing, Keep the Home 
 Fires Biirningf^ or some other appropriate sym- 
 pathetic song; if convenient, with violin obligato. 
 A phonograph record may be used for this effect, 
 which should not be omitted. During song Mrs. 
 
 89 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 R, stands a moment in thought, then crosses to R., 
 pauses there and listens, then exits r. The stage 
 is vaeant for a moment, as the music continues. 
 After a pause, sleigh-bells are heard off c., in 
 distance, approaching. Finally they come to door 
 outside and stop. There is a knocking on door c. 
 After short pause it is repeated, more loudly. As 
 there is no anszver, the door is opened gently and 
 Rodney Hunt looks in. He is in army uniform, 
 with heavy overcoat, the collar of zvhich is turned 
 up, zvith hat or cap pulled dozvn, so that mo- 
 mentarily his identity may be concealed. He 
 closes door, looks about; goes to l., stands listen- 
 ing to music, then looks off l. Mrs. R. enters r., 
 at first does not see him, starts up tozvard door, 
 then sees Rodney, zjoho has his back turned to her. 
 At first she thinks it is Philip, gasps, almost over- 
 come. Grasps chair for support. Calls feebly.) 
 
 Mrs. R. Philip — my — boy! 
 
 (Rodney turns, removes hat. She takes a step tozvard- 
 him, then falters, nearly falls; he runs and catches 
 her in his arms.) 
 
 Rodney. Mrs. Randall ! You didn’t know me — you 
 thought 
 
 IMrs. R. {partly recovering, clinging to him). Philip — 
 my boy — you have come back I Oh, my boy ! my 
 boy! (Weeping, almost hysterically.) I knew 
 you would come. I knew. I hoped — I prayed 
 
 Rodney. Pm sorry, Mrs. Randall, but it’s not your 
 son. 
 
 (She looks at him fjiore closely, steadily; the truth 
 dazvns upon her. Starts azvay from him, clasping 
 her hands.) 
 
 Mrs. R. No — I see. Tell me, where is — he 
 
 (Enter Jessie, l., at first not noticing others.) 
 
 Jessie. Mother, aren’t you coming 
 
 90 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 (Pauses, as she sees Rodney, at first bewildered, then 
 recognizing him.) 
 
 Rodney. Jes — Miss Randall! Don’t you know me? 
 
 Jessie. Why — yes — it’s Mr. Hunt. 
 
 (She shakes hands with him cordially.) 
 
 Rodney. I don’t wonder you hardly knew me — in 
 these. 
 
 Jessie. You’re a soldier! And you never told me — 
 us. 
 
 Rodney. No. I wanted to make good first ; to try, at 
 least, to be one that neither my country nor you 
 would be ashamed of. 
 
 Jessie. Oh, I’m so glad! Mother, Mr. Hunt is a 
 soldier now. You see? 
 
 Mrs. R. Yes, dear. But — ask him about Philip. 
 
 Jessie. What about him, Mr. Plunt? He has not 
 come back with you? 
 
 Rodney. No. (He gives her, aside, a look which she 
 understands. She quivers, hut partly conceals 
 her emotion.) I have a message — a letter. 
 
 Mrs. R. Then he was — well — when you left him? 
 
 Rodney. Mrs. Randall, I — I am sorry — but — you will 
 be brave? 
 
 Mrs. R. Brave? You ask me to be — brave? Then — 
 oh, tell me, tell me ! I can bear it. My boy — he 
 is 
 
 Rodney. He was a real hero, Mrs. Randall. He did 
 valiant deeds and won a great name before 
 
 (He pauses, as Mrs. R. totters, and is assisted by 
 Jessie to chair, l. c., where she sits, covering face 
 with hands; Jessie zvith arm about her.) 
 
 Tessie. Mother, we must be brave, too — as he was. 
 
 Mrs. R. Yes, yes, I know. Don’t be afraid. I will 
 be brave. 
 
 (Rodney, zvho has removed overcoat and hat, which 
 he lays aside, now takes letter from pocket.) 
 
 91 
 
FOR THE OLD FLAG 
 
 Rodney {io Jessie). Is your brother here? This 
 letter and my message are for him to hear. 
 
 Jessie. Yes. He is in there, with Lucy Garrett and 
 the others. 
 
 Rodney. Miss Garrett? It concerns her, too. Will 
 you call them? 
 
 Jessie. Yes. 
 
 {Exit, L. The music has ceased. Mrs. R. siill siis by 
 table; Rodney stands c., holding envelope in 
 hand.) 
 
 Mrs. R. It is a letter from Philip? He wrote it? 
 
 Rodney. No. I wrote it, at his dictation. It was 
 just at the last, when he was unable to write. I 
 wish I could tell you, Mrs. Randall, what a brave, 
 noble boy he Avas — a real hero. It was through 
 him that several of his comrades escaped death. 
 
 Mrs. R. {rising). And he gave — his own life — to 
 save them ? 
 
 Rodney. Yes. 
 
 Mrs. R. My boy, my brave, noble boy — a hero ! He 
 died for his country and to save others. Yes, I 
 can be brave noAV — I can bear it. 
 
 {Enter Jessie, Lucy and Tom, l. Lucy and Tom 
 shozv great surprise as they recognize Rodney. 
 Both shake hands cordially with him.) 
 
 Tom. Well, this is a surprise ! Where did you come 
 from ? 
 
 Rodney. France. Straight as I could get here. 
 
 Lucy. And in uniform? Well, isn’t that grand? 
 Look, Jessie ! look at your soldier boy. 
 
 Jessie {a bit confused). Oh, I noticed. I hope you 
 don’t think those glory-togs could escape my at- 
 tention. 
 
 (Rodney is r., Tom, r. c, Lucy, c., Jessie and Mrs. 
 
 R., L. c. and l.) 
 
 What about Phil ? He didn’t 
 
 'ik)M. But tell me — 
 come with you ? 
 
 92 
 
Foil THE OLD FLAG 
 
 Rodney. No. You see, I was gassed Ihe first week 
 I was in the trenches. They gave me a leave of 
 absence. Not ht yet, but hope to go back before 
 long. As for Phil — that’s where the hard part of 
 it comes in, Tom. I have told your mother. She 
 ' knows — and your sister. 
 
 Tom. And I think I know, now. The worst. 
 Mother ! 
 
 (Tom crosses io Mrs. R. ; comforts her. They are 
 grouped about; Rodney takes out letter, opens it.) 
 
 Rodney, This letter will tell you better than I can. 
 Will you read it, Miss Garrett? 
 
 Lucy {taking letter). I? — aloud? 
 
 Rodney. Yes, please. It is in my handwriting, writ- 
 ing at Piiil’s nictation, just at the last. He wanted 
 you all to hear it, and everybody to know what it 
 contains. 
 
 Lucy. Then, of course 
 
 {She glances over letter, looks hurriedly down page, 
 in much excitement ; gives an exclamation of sur- 
 prise, trembling.) 
 
 Jessie. But you were to read it aloud, Lucy. We 
 are waiting. 
 
 Lucy. Oh — yes! {Reads.) “It is nearly over. I 
 have come to the end, and I can’t go without 
 making a confession. I want to right a great 
 wrong and do what I can to atone. I hope it isn’t 
 too late. Mother, I beg of you, with my last 
 breath, to forgive me. You will, I know, even if 
 Tom can’t. It’s too much to expect him to. I 
 have done him too great a wrong. I was in the 
 bank that night. I had just left when Tom came. 
 I took the money, hid part of it in Tom’s room, 
 and afterward made it look as if he was the one 
 who stole it. I was the thief, and he paid the 
 penalty. Let him be cleared now, have it all 
 straightened out, so that he and Lucy— -I don’t 
 suppose they can forgive me, but I hope they will 
 
 93 
 
FOB THE OLD FLAG 
 
 believe that I have tried, over here, to do what I 
 could to make up, just a little, for the wrong I 
 did over there/' 
 
 (Lucy reads this brokenly, zvlih pauses, weeping. 
 Mrs. R. and Jessie also are weeping, ihe others 
 likewise deeply affected. As Lucy finishes, there 
 is silence and a pause. Mrs. R. rises and Jessie, 
 her arms about her, silently leads her off l. 
 Jessie looks hack, with a winning smile, at Rod- 
 ki:y, holding out one hand to him. He follows 
 and also exits l. Tom atid Lucy stajid c. She 
 holds out the letter to him; he takes her hand, 
 draws her toward him.) 
 
 Tom. Lucy, do you know what it means? I am 
 vindicated— I can hold up my head again — do you 
 know ? 
 
 Lucy. Yes, Tom, I know. But I knew all the time. 
 I believed in you. 
 
 Toi^r, That’s the wonderful part of it. Even more 
 wonderful than this. But, just think, now I can 
 go. I can wear a uniform — go to France — take 
 his place — and fight for the Flag. 
 
 Lucy. Yes, Tom, and I can wait for you — till you 
 come back. 
 
 (They go slowly toward l., his arm about her. The 
 large flag still hangs on wall, stands there, or is 
 on table. They take it up and hold it hetzveen 
 them. The organ may he heard playing softly 
 off L., then voices, subdued, singing ''America'' 
 as the curtain falls . ) 
 
 curtain 
 
Read One or More of These Before Deciding on 
 Your Next Program 
 
 GRADUATION DAY AT WOOD HILD SCHOOL. 
 An Entertainment in Two Acts, by Ward Macauley. For six 
 males and four females, with several minor parts._ Time of 
 playing, two hours. Modern costumes. Simple interior scenes; 
 may be presented in a hall without scenery. The unusual com- 
 bination of a real “entertainment,” including music, recitations, 
 etc., with an interesting love story. The graduation exercises 
 ^ include short speeches, recitations, songs, funny interruptions, 
 and a comical speech by a country school trustee. Price, 15 
 cents. 
 
 EXAMINATION DAY AT WOOD HILL SCHOOL. 
 An Entertainment in One Act, by Ward Macauley, Eight malts 
 and six female characters, with minor parts. Plays one hour. 
 Scene, an easy interior, or may be given without scenery. Cos- 
 tumes, modern. Miss Marks, the teacher, refuses to marry a 
 trustee, who threatens to discharge her. The examination in- 
 cludes recitations and songs, and brings out many funny answers 
 to questions. At the close Robert Coleman, an old lover, claims 
 the teacher. Very easy and very effective. Price, 15 cents. 
 
 BACK TO THE COUNTRY STORE. A Rural Enter- 
 tainment in Three Acts, by Ward Macauley. For four male 
 and five female characters, with some supers. Time, two hours. 
 Two scenes, both easy interiors. Can be played effectively with- 
 out scenery. Costumes, modern. All the principal parts are 
 sure hits. Quigley Higginbotham, known as “Quig,” a clerk in 
 a country store,_ aspires to be a great author or singer ^ and 
 decides to try his fortunes in New York. The last scene is in 
 Quig’s home. He returns a failure but is offered a partnership 
 in the country store. He pops the question in the midst of a 
 surprise party given in his honor. Easy to do and very funny. 
 Price, 15 cents. 
 
 THE DISTRICT CONVENTION. 'A Farcical Sketch 
 in One Act, by Frank Dumont. For eleven males and one 
 female, or twelve males. Any number of other parts or super- 
 numeraries may be added. Plays forty-five minutes. No special 
 ^scenery is required, and the costumes and properties are all 
 easy. The play shows an uproarious political nominating con- 
 vention. The climax comes when a woman’s rights cham- 
 pion, captures the convention. There is a great chance to bur- 
 lesque modern politics and to work in local gags. Every 
 part will make a hit. Price, 15 cents. 
 
 SI SLOCUM’S COUNTRY STORE. An Entertainment 
 in One Act, by Frank Dumont. Eleven male and five female 
 characters with supernumeraries. Several parts may be doubled. 
 Plays one hour. Interior scene, or may be played without set 
 scenery. Costumes, modern. The rehearsal for an entertain- 
 ment in the village church gives plenty of opportunity for 
 specialty work. A very jolly entertainment of the sort adapted 
 to almost any place or occasion. Price, 15 cents. 
 
 THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
 PIIiLADE!J>H!A 
 
Uniisualiy Good Entertainments 
 
 Read One or More of These Before Deciding on 
 Your Next Program 
 
 A SURPRISE PARTY AT BRINKLEY’S. An En- 
 tertainment in One Scene, by Ward Macauley. Seven male and 
 seven female characters. Interior scene, or may be given with- 
 out scenery. Costumes, modern. Time, one hour. By the 
 author of the popular successes, “Graduation Day at Wood Hill 
 School,” “Back to the Country Store,” etc. The villagers have 
 ■planned a birthday surprise party for Mary Brinkley, recently 
 graduated from college. They all join in jolly games, songs, 
 conundrums, etc., and Mary becomes engaged, which surprises 
 the surprisers. The entertainment is a sure success. Price, 15 cents, 
 
 JONES VS. JINKS. A Mock Trial in One Act, by 
 Edward Mumford. Fifteen male and six female characters, with 
 supernumeraries if desired. May be played all male. Many of the 
 parts (members of the jury, etc.) are small. Scene, a simple 
 interior ; may be played without scenery. Costumes, modern. 
 Time of playing, one hour. This mock trial has many novel 
 features, unusual characters and quick action. Nearly every 
 character has a funny entrance and laughable lines. There are 
 many rich parts, and fast fun throughout. Price, 15 cents. 
 
 THE SIGHT-SEEING CAR. A Comedy Sketch in One 
 Act, by Ernest M. Gould. For seven males, two females, or 
 may be all male. Parts may be doubled, with quick changes, so 
 that four persons may play the sketch. Time, forty-five minutes. 
 Simple street scene. Costumes, modern. The superintendent 
 of a sight-seeing automobile engages two men to run the 
 machine. A Jew, a farmer, a fat lady and other humorous 
 characters give them, all kinds of trouble. This is a regular gat- 
 ling-gun stream of rollicking repartee. Price, 15 cents. 
 
 THE CASE OF SMYTHE VS. SMITH. An Original 
 Mock Trial in One Act, by Frank Dumont. Eighteen males 
 and two females, or may be all male. Plays about one hour. 
 Scene, a county courtroom ; requires no scenery ; may be played 
 in an ordinary hall. Costumes, modern. This entertainment is 
 nearly perfect of its kind, and a sure success. It can be easily 
 produced in any place or on any occasion, and provides almost 
 any number of good parts. Price, 15 cents. 
 
 THE OLD MAIDS’ ASSOCIATION. A Farcical Enters 
 tainment in One Act, by Louise Latham Wilson. For thirteen 
 females and one male. The male part may be played by a 
 female, and the number of characters increased to twenty or 
 more. Time, forty minutes. The play requires neither scenerw 
 nor properties, and very little in the way of costumes. Car^ 
 'easily be prepared in one or two rehearsals. Price, 25 cents. 
 
 * BARGAIN DAY AT BLOOMSTEIN’S. A Farcical 
 
 Entertainment in One Act, by Edv/ard Mumford. For five males 
 and ten females, with supers. Interior scene. Costumes, mod- 
 ern. Time, thirty minutes. The characters and the situations 
 which arise from their endeavors to buy and sell make rapid-fire 
 fun from start to finish. Price, 15 cents. 
 
 THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
 PHILADELPHIA 
 
Successful Plays for All Girls 
 
 Ifi Selecting Your Next Play Do Not Overlook This List 
 
 YOUNG DOCTOR DEVINE. A Farce in Two Acts. 
 
 by Mrs. E. J. H. Goodfellow. One of the most popular 
 plays for girls. For nine female characters. Time in 
 playing, thirty minutes. Scenery, ordinary interior; Mod- 
 ern costumes. Girls in a boarding-school, learning that a 
 young doctor is coming to vaccinate all the pupils, eagerly con- 
 sult each other as to the manner of fascinating the physician, 
 • When the doctor appears upon the scene the pupils discover that 
 the physician is a female practitioner. Price, 15 cents. 
 
 SISTER MASONS. A Burlesque in One Act, by Frank 
 Dumont. For eleven females. Time, thirty minutes. Costumes, 
 fantastic gowns, or dominoes. Scene, interior. A grand expose 
 of Masonry. Some women profess to learn the secrets of a 
 Masonic lodge by hearing their husbands talk in their sleep, 
 and they institute a similar organization. Price, 15 cents. 
 
 A COMMANDING POSITION. A Farcical Enter- 
 tainment, by Amelia Sanford. • For seven female char- 
 acters and ten or more other ladies and children. Time, one 
 hour. Costumes, modern. Scenes, easy interiors and one street 
 scene. Marian Young gets tired living with her aunt. Miss 
 Skinflint, She decides to “attain a commanding position," 
 Marian tries hospital nursing, college settlement work and 
 school teaching, but decides to go back to housework. Price, 15 
 cents. 
 
 HOW A WOMAN KEEPS A SECRET. A Comedy 
 
 in One Act, by Frank Dumont. For ten female eharacteiWL 
 Time, half an hour. Scene, an easy interior. Costumes, modern. 
 Mabel Sweetly has just become engaged to Harold, but it’s “the 
 deepest kind of a secret." Before announcing it they must win 
 the approval of Harold’s uncle, now in Europe, or lose a possible 
 ten thousand a year. At a tea Mabel meets her dearest friend. 
 Maude sees Mabel has a secret, she coaxes and Mabel tells hes. 
 But Maude lets out the secret in a few minutes to another 
 friend and so the secret travels. Price, 15 cents. 
 
 THE OXFORD AFFAIR. A Comedy in Three Aeta, 
 by Josephine H. Cobb and Jennie E. Paine. For eight female 
 characters. Plays oijie hour and three-quarters. Scenes, inter- 
 iors at a seaside hotel. Costumes, modern. The action of tke 
 play is located at a summer resort. Alice Graham, in order to 
 chaperon herself, poses as a widow, and Miss Oxford first claims 
 her as a sister-in-law, then denounces her. The onerous duties 
 of Miss Oxford, who attempts to serve as chaperon to Miss 
 Howe and Miss Ashton in the faee of many obstacles, furnish 
 an evening of rare enjoyment. Price 15 cents. 
 
 THE PENN PUBUSHING COMPANY 
 
 PHILADELPHIA 
 
The Power of Expression 
 
 Expression and efficiency go hand in hand. 
 
 The power of clear and forceful expression brings confi- 
 dence and poise at all times — in private gatherings, in public 
 discussion, in society, in business. 
 
 It is an invaluable asset to any man or woman. It can often 
 be turned into money, but it is always a real joy. 
 
 In learning to express thought, we learn to command 
 thought itself, and thought is power. You can have this 
 power if you will. 
 
 Whoever has the power of clear expression is always sure 
 of himself. 
 
 The power of expression leads to: 
 
 The ability to think “on your feet” 
 
 Successful public speaking 
 
 Effective recitals 
 
 The mastery over other minds 
 
 Social prominence 
 
 Business success 
 
 Efficiency in any undertaking 
 
 Are these things worth while? 
 
 They are all successfully taught at The National School of 
 Elocution and Orator}’’, which during many years has de- 
 veloped this power in hundreds of men and women. 
 
 A catalogue giving full information as to how any of these 
 accomplishments may be attained will be sent free on request. 
 
 THE NATIONAL SCHOOL OF 
 ELOCUTION AND ORATORY 
 1714 Delancey Street Philadelphia