Writing for Vaudeville · Chapter 22Part 22
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STRAIGHT: Oh you fool (gives COMEDIAN a push).
COMEDIAN: Oh, what a mean lady dat is.
STRAIGHT: You musn't ask her if she's a flirter. You must say something. De way it says in the book. You must speak of something. If you can't speak of anything else, speak of the weather.
COMEDIAN: All right, I'll do it again this time.
STRAIGHT: This is the last time I'll be a lady for you. Here I come (biz.).
COMEDIAN: Good evening, Mrs. Lady. Sloppy weather we're having.
STRAIGHT: Sloppy weather! It's no use; I can't teach you how to be a flirter, you got to learn it from the book. Listen. Here is what it says. "After you made the acquaintanceship of de lady, you should call at her house in the evening. As you open the gate you look up at the vindow and she will wave a handkerchief like this (biz.). That means, somebody is vaiting for you."
COMEDIAN: The bulldog.
STRAIGHT: No. The flirtess. "You valk quickly to the door."
COMEDIAN: The bulldog after you.
STRAIGHT: Dere is no bulldog in this. You don't flirt vith a bulldog.
COMEDIAN: But suppose the bulldog flirts with you?
STRAIGHT: Shut up. "She meets you at the door. You have your handkerchief on your arm" (biz.)
COMEDIAN: And the dog on my leg.
STRAIGHT: No, the handkerchief is on your arm. Dat means "Can I come in?"
COMEDIAN: And den what do you do?
STRAIGHT: If she says "Yes," you go in the parlor, you sit on the sofa, side by side, you take her hand.
COMEDIAN: And she takes your vatch.
STRAIGHT: No. You take her hand, den you say: "Whose goo-goo luvin' baby is oosum?"
COMEDIAN: Does it say that in the book?
STRAIGHT: Sure.
COMEDIAN: Let me see it. (COMEDIAN tears out page.) Den vat do you do?
STRAIGHT: You put her vaist around your arms—
COMEDIAN: And den?
STRAIGHT: Den you squeeze it—
COMEDIAN: And den?
STRAIGHT: She'll press her head upon your manly shoulder—
COMEDIAN: And den—
STRAIGHT: She looks up into your eyes—
COMEDIAN: And den?
STRAIGHT: You put the other arm around her—
COMEDIAN: And den?
STRAIGHT: You hold her tight—
COMEDIAN: And den?
STRAIGHT: You turn down the gas—
COMEDIAN: And den?
STRAIGHT: She sighs—
COMEDIAN: And den?
STRAIGHT: You sigh—
COMEDIAN: And den?
STRAIGHT: Dat's the end of the book.
COMEDIAN: Is dat all?
STRAIGHT: Sure. What do you want for ten cents?
COMEDIAN: But vat do you do after you turn down the gas?
STRAIGHT: Do you expect the book to tell you everything?
By Louis Weslyn
Author of "At the News Stand," "The Girl and the Pearl," "An Easy Mary," "A Campus Flirtation," Etc., Etc.
THE GIRL: (As she comes on with a little run.) I don't see why on earth you insist upon following me.
THE FELLOW: (Lifting his hat.) I never knew why I was on earth until I met you. (Waving glove at her.) Say, this is your glove—you know it's your glove.
THE GIRL: (Laughingly.) It must belong to somebody else.
THE FELLOW: No, it doesn't. I saw you drop it. Besides, you are wearing only one glove, and this one matches it.
THE GIRL: (Stopping on right of stage near rustic bench and turning to face him, holding out her hand.) You are right. It is my glove. I'll take it, please.
THE FELLOW: (Stopping to gaze at her admiringly.) No, on second thought, I'll keep it. (He folds it up tenderly, and places it in the upper left-hand pocket of his coat.) I'll keep it right here, too,—near my heart.
THE GIRL: Oh, what nonsense! You've never seen me but three times in your life.
THE FELLOW: (Coming nearer her.) Yes—that's true. And you look better every time I see you. Say, you do look awfully nice this morning. Nobody would think, from your appearance, that you belonged to a camping party here on the shore of Lake George. I guess that thunder storm last night didn't bother you a little bit. Why, you look as if you were out for a stroll on Fifth Avenue.
THE GIRL: (Aside.) Little does he know that I got caught in that shower and am now wearing my chum, Genevieve's, gown. (To him.) What a jollier you are! You look pretty natty yourself this morning, it seems to me.
THE FELLOW: (Aside.) This suit of clothes I got from Tommy Higgins has made a hit with her. I guess I'll just let her think they belong to me, and won't tell her that I got soaked in the rain last night. (To her, lifting his hat again.) I'm tickled nearly to death to have you say such complimentary things to me. It makes me glad I came on this camping trip.
THE GIRL: You belong to the camping party flying the flag of the skull and cross-bones, don't you?
THE FELLOW: Yes—all the boys are young doctors, except me.
THE GIRL: And what are you?
THE FELLOW: I'm the patient.
THE GIRL: Are you sick?
THE FELLOW: Love-sick.
THE GIRL: (Turning up her nose.) How ridiculous! What brought you to Lake George?
THE FELLOW: You.
THE GIRL: I! Oh, you are too absurd for anything. Give me my glove, please, and let me go.
THE FELLOW: (Coming still nearer.) Don't be rash. There's no place to go. All of your camping party have gone on a boating trip except yourself. You're surely not going back there and hang around the camp all alone?
THE GIRL: (In surprise.) How did YOU know that the rest of my party had gone away for the day?
THE FELLOW: I saw 'em start. Why didn't you go with 'em?
THE GIRL: I had nothing to wear but this tailor-made gown, and a girl can't go boating in a dress like this. I only intended to stay two days when I came up here from New York to join the camp, and was not prepared with enough clothes. I've sent home for clothes and am expecting them to arrive at the camp this morning— that's why I didn't go boating, since you are impertinent enough to ask. (She gives him an indignant look.)
THE FELLOW: I beg your pardon. Won't you sit down?
THE GIRL: No, I will not. (Still looking quite indignant, she sits down immediately on bench. He sits down beside her.)
THE FELLOW: Neither will I. (He looks at her out of the corners of his eyes, and she turns her face away, nervously tapping the stage with one foot.)
THE GIRL: You seem to know all that has been going on at our camp. I believe you have been spying on us.
THE FELLOW: Not at all. I know one of the girls in your camp.
THE GIRL: (Sarcastically.) Oh, you do! (She tosses her head.) So you have been following me up in order to send some message to another girl. Who is she?
THE FELLOW: Genevieve Patterson.
THE GIRL: (Aside.) I'll never let him know now that I have on Genevieve's clothes.
THE FELLOW: But you're mistaken. I've already sent the message. It was about you.
THE GIRL: About me? What about me?
THE FELLOW: I wanted Genevieve to introduce us. Say—you haven't told me your name yet.
THE GIRL: I don't intend to. I think you are very forward.
THE FELLOW: Shall I tell you my name?
THE GIRL: By no means.
THE FELLOW: You're not interested?
THE GIRL: Not a bit.
(There is a pause. She keeps her head turned away. He looks upward and all around, somewhat embarrassed.)
THE FELLOW: (Finally breaking the silence.) Are there any bugs in your camp?
THE GIRL: (Facing him angrily.) Sir!
THE FELLOW: I mean gnats, mosquitoes—things like that.
THE GIRL: Yes. I was badly bitten last night by a mosquito.
THE FELLOW: (Very much interested.) Where did he get you?
THE GIRL: (Laughing.) Well, you are so fresh that I can't be mad at you. You're too funny. Since you want to know so much, he got me on the knee. I wasn't far-seeing enough to bring mosquito netting. It's a bad bite.
THE FELLOW: Is it possible?
THE GIRL: Don't you believe it?
THE FELLOW: Well, I'm not far-seeing enough to know for sure. (With a sly glance at her knees.)
THE GIRL: How silly of you! But say—I know a joke on you. I saw you fall in the lake yesterday.
THE FELLOW: (Nodding his head.) While I was fishing?
THE GIRL: Yes; it was so amusing. I don't know when I've enjoyed such a hearty joke. How did you come to fall in?
THE FELLOW: I didn't come to fall in. I came to fish.
THE GIRL: I also saw that man with the camera over in your camp. What was he dojng?
THE FELLOW: Oh, he was a moving picture man from New York. He was taking moving pictures of our cheese.
THE GIRL: Preposterous! Have you caught any fish since you came?
THE FELLOW: Only a dog-fish, with a litter of puppies.
THE GIRL: (With wide-open eyes.) How interesting! What did you do with them?
THE FELLOW: We made frankfurter sausages out of the little ones, and we are using the big one to guard the camp.
THE GIRL: To guard the camp?
THE FELLOW: Yes—it's a watch-dog fish.
THE GIRL: Well, I've heard of sea-dogs, but I never knew before that—
THE FELLOW: Oh, yes—quite common. I suppose, of course, you heard the cat-fish having a concert last night.
THE GIRL: No—surely you are joking.
THE FELLOW: No, indeed—they were all tom-cats.
THE GIRL: Who ever heard of such a thing?
THE FELLOW: Well, you've heard of tom-cods, haven't you?
THE GIRL: Yes, of course, but—
THE FELLOW: Well, why not tom-cats then? Say, you must be sure to come over to our camp and see the collection in our private aquarium. We have two compartments, and keep the little daughter fish on one side, and—
THE GIRL: The daughter fish!
THE FELLOW: (Nodding his head.) Yes, and the son-fish on the other. (THE GIRL springs to her feet, angrily.)
THE GIRL: You are simply guying me. I shan't listen to you another moment. Give me my glove, sir, I demand it.
THE FELLOW: (Also jumping to his feet and grasping her by the arm.) Oh, please don't get mad. We were getting along so nicely, too.
THE GIRL: (Sneeringly.) "WE" were getting along so nicely. You mean YOU were. I wasn't.
THE FELLOW: Yes, you were doing FINE. You were listening to me, and I can get along all right with anybody that will listen to me. Besides—ah-ah—fraulein—mam'selle—you know, I don't know your name—besides I—I—I like you. I—I think you're the sweetest girl I've ever seen.
THE GIRL: (Turning her head away, and releasing her arm from his grasp.) Oh, pshaw! You've said that to a hundred girls.
THE FELLOW: No—believe me, I have not. YOU'VE made a mighty big hit with me. I'm hard hit this time. I—
THE GIRL: (Laughing in spite of herself.) Oh, you foolish boy. How can you expect me to believe you? I'll bet anything that your coat pockets are filled with love letters from other girls this very minute.
THE FELLOW: You are wrong. You are unjust. Clementina, you are—
THE GIRL: (Indignant again.) Clementina! How dare you address me by such a ridiculous—
THE FELLOW: Oh, pardon me. I thought Clementina was quite poetic. Besides, I've got to call you something. You do me a terrible injustice. On my word of honor—as a—as a fisherman—I haven't a love letter in my coat pocket—or anywhere else. I am young, innocent, virtuous and—
THE GIRL: (Bursting into laughter again.) And utterly foolish, I should judge. You are afraid to let me search your pockets.
THE FELLOW: Afraid? Who's afraid? Me afraid! Well, I'd be tickled to death to have you search my pockets. I dare you to search my pockets. I dare you—understand? (He faces her and throws up his hands over his head.)
THE GIRL: You dare me, do you? Well, I just won't take a dare. I'll do it.
THE FELLOW: Go ahead and do it. I repeat, I dare you! If you doubt my word, prove to your satisfaction that I never lie. I dare you!
THE GIRL: (Leaning her parasol against bench, and stepping up to him in very business-like manner.) Very well, then. I accept your challenge. You can't bluff me out. I believe that ALL men lie when they talk to women, and I am under the impression that you are no exception. Keep your hands up in the air—promise?
THE FELLOW: I promise.
THE GIRL: This is the first time I've ever held up anybody, but here goes. (She searches his right-hand pocket.) I don't suppose you've ever been robbed before?
THE FELLOW: Oh, yes—I was once surrounded by a band of robbers.
THE GIRL: (Still searching.) Indeed! On a public highway?
THE FELLOW: (Still holding up his hands.) No, in a New York hotel cafe. They were the waiters.
THE GIRL: (Taking her hand out of right-hand pocket.) Well, there's nothing in that one but a box of matches. How about this one? (She thrusts her hand into the lower left-hand pocket, and pulls out a letter, written on dainty writing paper.) Ah! this is what I expected to find. Perfumed note paper. (She looks at it critically.) Yes, this is the one—no need to search further.
THE FELLOW: What the devil!—(His hands drop to his sides, and he opens his eyes in amazement.)
THE GIRL: (Turning on him angrily.) Sir—such language!
THE FELLOW: Oh, I beg your pardon—but—but—(He points to letter.) I—I—that letter isn't mine. I can't understand how it got into my pocket. I—(Suddenly a look of enlightenment comes into his face. Aside, he says.) By thunder!—I had forgotten all about it. This suit of clothes belongs to Tommy Higgins. Oh, what a mess I've made of it. She'll never believe me now if I tell her I am wearing another fellow's suit. (To her, excitedly.) Say—listen to me, honestly that letter was not written to me, Tommy Higgins, you see—
THE GIRL: (Waving him aside.) No excuses. You probably thought you didn't have it with you. Falsehoods are always found out, you see. I was right. You are like all the rest of the men—a born liar—only with this difference—you are a bigger liar than the average. You are really in a class all by yourself. (With the letter held out before her, she scans it eagerly.)
Oh, this is immense!—this is delicious!
THE FELLOW: (Making a grab for the letter.) Give that to me, please.
THE GIRL: Not on your life. It may not be proper to read other people's letters, but the present circumstances are unusual. I shall certainly read it—and read it aloud. I want to make you swallow every word and see how they agree with you. Listen to I this, you barbaric Ananias. (She reads aloud.) "My beloved Affinity—Come back to town next Saturday without fail. Just slip away from the other boys at the camp. Tell them that an important business matter demands your presence in the city. I am crazy to see you. Life without you is very stupid. Come to me, my dearest, without delay.
Always your own,
Clementina."
THE FELLOW: (Collapsing in a heap on the bench.) CLEMENTINA!!
THE GIRL: (Folding up the letter and looking at him in utter scorn.) So that's where you got the name! So you were thinking of the writer of this letter when you addressed ME by the name of Clementina a while ago. Simply outrageous! (She stamps her feet.)
THE FELLOW: (With a groan.) Oh, Lord! I just happened to say "Clementina" because I thought it was a pretty name. Won't you believe me? I don't know who this Clementina is. I never saw the writer of that letter in all my life. That letter was meant for Tommy Higgins. This suit of clothes—
THE GIRL: (Interrupting.) Don't even attempt to make ridiculous explanations. Don't make yourself more of a liar than you have already proved. I won't listen to another word from you. I didn't want to listen to you in the first place. Here is your affinity's letter, sir. (She hands it to him. He takes it and stuffs it angrily into the coat pocket.) Now, let me have my parasol, please, and my glove. (She reaches for the parasol, but he catches it up and holds it behind his back, as he rises from the bench.)
THE FELLOW: You shall not go away until you hear what I want to say. Tommy Higgins—
THE GIRL: Oh, bother Tommy Higgins!
THE FELLOW: Yes. That's what I say—only stronger. But listen, please—
THE GIRL: Don't discuss the matter further. My parasol and glove; sir! (She is facing him angrily.)
THE FELLOW: Oh, come now. Don't be so hard on a fellow. I tell you that letter wasn't written to me. What if I should search your pockets and find a letter that belonged to somebody else? How would you feel about it?
THE GIRL: You would never find anything in MY pockets that I am ashamed of—that is, if I HAD any pockets. But I have no pockets.
THE FELLOW: (Pointing with one hand at the right side of her jacket.) I beg your pardon. It seems that you know how to tell 'em, too. What's that, if it isn't a pocket?
THE GIRL: (In embarrassment.) Oh—yes—so it is. (Aside.) I had forgotten that I was wearing Genevieve's suit.
THE FELLOW: Well, turn about is fair play, isn't it? I'm going to search your pocket now.
THE GIRL: You mean to insinuate that I have anything in my pocket of a compromising nature? How dare you!
THE FELLOW: You won't believe ME! Why should I believe you? For all I know, you may be a far different kind of girl than I took you to be.
THE GIRL: (Very angry.) You are insulting, sir. But since I stooped so low as to search your pockets, I will give you the satisfaction of searching mine—and then that will be an end of our acquaintance. You can then go your way—and I'll go my way.
THE FELLOW: We'll see about that. Hold up your hands.
THE GIRL: (Darting furious glances at him and holding her hands over her head.) Very well, sir. Hurry up, please, and have it over with. (THE FELLOW very deliberately goes to bench, leans the parasol up against it, just as THE GIRL had done before, and imitating the business-like way in which she had gone through his pockets, he comes up to her and pushes up his coat sleeves, as if preparing for a serious piece of business.)
THE FELLOW: (Still mimicing her manner.) I don't suppose you've ever been held up before?
THE GIRL: (Icily.) No—you are the first burglar I have ever met.
THE FELLOW: Promise to hold your hands up until I have finished?
THE GIRL: (Scornfully.) Of course, I'm a girl of my word.
THE FELLOW: All right then. (He deliberately kisses her squarely on the lips, while her hands are held up over her head. She gives a cry and starts to drop her hands and push him away, but he catches her arms and gently holds them up over her head again.) No, no, I'm not through yet.
THE GIRL: You are a brute. You are not worthy to associate with a respectable girl. (THE FELLOW thrusts his hands into the pocket of her jacket and puns out a box of cigarettes and a letter. He holds them up before her horrified eyes.)
THE FELLOW: Well. I'll be—(He starts to say "damned," but stops just in time. THE GIRL'S arms drop limply to her sides, and with eyes staring in complete bewilderment she staggers to the bench and collapses down upon it.)
THE GIRL: Good heavens!
THE FELLOW: (Blinking his eyes at the articles which he holds before him.) What innocent playthings! A box of Pall Malls and a letter—no doubt, an affinity letter. (He shakes his head, soberly.) Well, well! And you just said I wasn't fit to associate with you.
THE GIRL: (Her breast heaving in great agitation.) Oh, this is a terrible mistake! What could Genevieve have been doing with those things?
THE FELLOW: (Turning on her, quickly.) Genevieve?
THE GIRL: Yes, Genevieve.
THE FELLOW: Genevieve Patterson.
THE GIRL: Yes, Genevieve Patterson—the girl you know—my best friend. Oh, can't you understand? Those things don't belong to me. They are—(She stops abruptly, bites her lips, clasps her hands. Then says, aside.) Oh, what am I doing? I mustn't allow Genevieve's reputation to be ruined. I might as well take the blame and brave it out myself. This situation is frightful. (She turns to him again.) I can't explain, but don't—oh, please don't think that I—that I—(She stops, looking as if she is about to cry.)
THE FELLOW: (Again looking at the articles and shaking his head.) And you always looked like such a nice girl, too. Cigarettes—and— (He opens up the letter.)
THE GIRL: (Suddenly springing to her feet.) You must not read that letter. It does not belong to me. You have no right to read that letter.
THE FELLOW: But you read the letter that didn't belong to me.
THE GIRL: It did belong to you.
THE FELLOW: It didn't!
THE FELLOW: Didn't!
THE GIRL: (Running forward and trying to grab the letter, which he holds out of her reach.) I forbid you to read that letter. I swear to you, it is not mine.
THE FELLOW: (Still holding it out of her reach and looking it over.) By George! You are right—it is NOT yours. It is MINE!
THE FELLOW: Yes, mine. It's the very message I sent to Genevieve Patterson yesterday—the letter in which I asked for an introduction to you. (He hands it to her.) Here—read it yourself, if you don't believe me this time. (THE GIRL wonderingly takes the letter and reads it to herself, her lips moving and her eyes wide open in surprise.)
THE GIRL: (As she finishes she looks sweetly up at him.) Then you are NOT such a liar after all. You did tell me the truth.
THE FELLOW: Nothing but the truth.
THE GIRL: But what about that other letter?
THE FELLOW: (Taking her by the shoulder and speaking quickly.) Now, you've got to listen. That other letter was written to Tommy Higgins. I was caught in the shower last night, and had to borrow this suit of clothes from Tommy.
THE GIRL: (A glad smile gradually coming over her face.) O-h-h!
THE FELLOW: But how did you come to have my letter written to Genevieve?
THE GIRL: Oh, don't you understand? (She looks at him beseechingly.)
THE FELLOW: (The truth suddenly striking him.) Oh-h-h-! I see! You got caught in the shower, too. You borrowed that tailor-made suit from Genevieve.
THE GIRL: Can you doubt it?
THE FELLOW: But the cigarettes?
THE GIRL: I can't account for them. I only know—
THE FELLOW: Never mind. I don't care. (He stuffs the cigarettes into his own pocket and grasps both of her hands in his own.) Tell me—you don't think I'm the biggest liar in the world, do you?
THE GIRL: (Archly.) No—not quite.
THE FELLOW: (Slipping his arm around her.) And if you were married—to—to a fellow like me, you'd make him an awfully good wife, wouldn't you?
THE GIRL: (Laughing.). No—I'd try to make HIM a good husband. (He bends over and is just about to kiss her when a MAN'S VOICE is heard off stage to the Right.)
MAN'S VOICE: (Off stage.) Hey, there, Miss—your trunk has come. (THE FELLOW and THE GIRL spring apart, guiltily.)
THE FELLOW: (Bitterly.) Just when I had it all cinched. (THE GIRL runs to the bench, picks up her parasol, still laughing.)
THE GIRL: It's the wagon from the railroad station, with my clothes from town. Good-bye. (She starts off, Right.)
THE FELLOW: But you're coming back again?
THE GIRL: Well—maybe—perhaps—If you're good. (She exits laughing.)
THE FELLOW: She's got me going. My head's in a muddle, and I feel like a sailor full of horn-pipes. And that reminds me of Tommy Higgins' latest song. It goes like this: (Here is introduced comic song. At finish THE GIRL comes running on from Right, dressed in a pretty summer dress, and carrying another pretty silk parasol. THE FELLOW takes his hat off and holding it high over his head, exclaims:) Here comes the rainbow after the shower!
THE GIRL: I must explain to you—I saw Genevieve—the cigarettes belong to her brother, Jack.
THE FELLOW: And I've just found out what belongs to me.
THE GIRL: What?
THE FELLOW: You! (He takes her parasol, opens it, and holds it in front of them for an instant so that their faces are hidden from audience. This is music cue for the Conversation Number which brings the sketch to a finish.)
By Arthur Denvir Author of "Busy Isabel," "How Ignatius Got Pneumonia," "When Wit Won," "The War Correspondent," Etc., Etc.
GLADYS DRESSUITCASE . . . . . A Deserted Wife ALPHONSO DRESSUITCASE . . . . Her Dying Che-ild MOE REISS DRESSUITCASE. . . . Her Fugitive Husband BIRDIE BEDSLATZ . . . . . . . Her Doll-faced Rival ALGERNON O'FLAHERTY . . . . . The Villain Who Pursued Her
Music: "Mendelssohn's Spring Song," Played in discords. Spot Light on L. I.
Enter GLADYS wearing linen duster and dragging a big rope to which is attached a case of beer with about eight empty bottles in it. She stops C.
GLADYS: (Tearfully.) At last I am almost home. Eleven miles walk from the sweat shop here, and that's some hoofing it, believe me. (Sways.) Oh, I am faint (Looks over shoulder at beer case.), faint for the want of my Coca-Cola. (Enter ALGERNON R. I—wears slouch hat, heavy moustache, red shirt and high boots. She is facing L.) Oh, I have a hunch I'm being shadowed—flagged by a track-walker! But I mustn't think of that. (Starts to drag case L.) I must get home to my dying child. He needs me—he needs me. (Exits L. I.)
ALGERNON: (Goes L. C. and looks after her.) It is Gladys—found at last! (Enter BIRDIE L. I. She is in bright red with white plumes and is a beautiful, radiant adventuress. )
BIRDIE: Did you get a good look at her?
ALGERNON: Yes—it's Gladys and she's down and out—(Both together:) Curse her!
ALGERNON: Now I can begin pursuing her again.
BIRDIE: Yes, and I can gloat over her misery—and gloating's the best thing I do.
ALGERNON: Come (fiercely!) We are wasting time.
BIRDIE: She'll never know me with this dark hair and no make-up on.
ALGERNON: (At L. I—still more fiercely.) Can that junk! Come! (Exits L. I.)
BIRDIE: (Going to L. I.) He has me in his power. I must follow him. Curse him! (Exits after ALGERNON. Enter MOE REISS in bum evening-clothes and opera hat. Carries cane.)
MOE REISS: (Reading from back of envelope.) Down this street and turn into the alley full of ash cans! I'm on the right track at last. Once more I shall see my wife and my little boy! Of course, she'll be sore because I ran away and deserted her, leaving her no alimony except the dying che-ild. But I must produce a real wife and child from somewhere or I'll lose the $9.75 my uncle left me. (Goes L. musingly.) Why do I love money so? Ay, that's the question. (Looking up at gallery.) And what's the answer? (Points off L. with cane—dramatically.) We shall see—we shall see. (Dashes off L.)
The lights go out, and the Drop in One takes all the time that the clock strikes sixteen or seventeen to go up, so it is timed very slowly.
A Mott Street Garret—everything of the poorest description. Old table down stage R., with chair on either side and waste paper basket in front. Cot bed down stage L. Old cupboard up stage C. Small stand at head of cot.
PHONSIE lies in cot, head up stage, covered up. He should weigh over two hundred pounds. He wears Buster Brown wig and nightie that buttons up the back. GLADYS is seated at table d. s. R., sewing on a tiny handkerchief. She is magnificently dressed and wears all the jewelry she can carry. Pile of handkerchiefs at back of table within reach and a waste basket in front of table where she can throw handkerchiefs when used.
As curtain rises, the clock off stage slowly strikes for the sixteenth or seventeenth time.
GLADYS: Five o'clock and my sewing still unfinished. Oh, it must be done to-night. There's the rent—six dollars. To-day is Friday—bargain day—I wonder if the landlord would take four ninety-eight.
(Business. PHONSIE snores.) And my child needs more medicine. The dog biscuits haven't helped him a bit, and his stomach is too weak to digest the skin foods. (Wood crash off stage.) How restless he is, poor little tot!!!! Fatherless and deserted, sick and emaciated—eight years have I passed in this wretched place, hopeless, hapless, hipless. At times the struggle seems more than I can bear, but I must be brave for my child, my little one. (Buries face in hands.) (Business. Sews.)