A message from Mars

Copyright, 1900, by Richard Ganthony
Copyright, 1927 (In Renewal) by Bonita L. Ganthony
Rewritten and Revised, 1923, by Richard Ganthony
Copyright, 1923, by Richard Ganthony

Especial notice should be taken that the possession of this book without a valid contract for production first having been obtained from the publisher, confers no right or license to professionals or amateurs to produce the play publicly or in private for gain or charity.

In its present form this play is dedicated to the reading public only, and no performance, representation, production, recitation, or public reading, or radio broadcasting may be given except by special arrangement with Samuel French, 25 West 45th Street, New York.

This play may be presented by amateurs upon payment of a royalty of Twenty-Five Dollars for each performance, payable to Samuel French, 25 West 45th Street, New York, one week before the date when the play is given.

Professional royalty quoted on application to Samuel French, 25 West 45th Street, New York, N. Y.

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“Section 4966:—Any person publicly performing or representing any dramatic or musical composition for which copyright has been obtained, without the consent of the proprietor of said dramatic or musical composition, or his heirs and assigns, shall be liable for damages thereof, such damages, in all cases to be assessed at such sum, not less than one hundred dollars for the first and fifty dollars for every subsequent performance, as to the court shall appear to be just. If the unlawful performance and representation be wilful and for profit, such person or persons shall be guilty of a misdemeanor, and upon conviction shall be imprisoned for a period not exceeding one year.”—U. S. Revised Statutes: Title 60, Chap. 3.

CHARACTERS

Horace Parker’s house, London, W. A living room with doors R. and L. Large window C. with curtains to draw. A sofa in front of window. A coat rack, or closet with curtain, containing three overcoats of Horace’s and golf caps and sticks, L. Table L. on which are whiskey bottle, syphons, glasses, and jar of biscuits. On R. is a fireplace with fire burning. Up of fire is small stand. Below is a chair. A table in front of fire with armchair between it and fire. Another chair L. of table. A large standing oil lamp near table R. with red shade. This should have a greenish figure on a classical style, represented as holding or steadying the lamp standard. This figure is supposed to become the Messenger from Mars in the dream, only enlarged. The figure can, however, be omitted.

At Rise: Enter Bella R. Lights lamp or turns it up. Draws curtains. Attends to fire, and exits L. Enter Minnie Templar, dressed for a ball, followed by Aunt Martha R.

Minnie. He thinks of nothing but his books, and his papers, and his horrid little stars.

Minnie. Yes, you. You know he is engaged to me, and yet you allow him to treat me as if we had been married for years. (Up to window.)

Aunt. My dear Minnie—(Sits L. of table)—if Horace is a little thoughtless, surely it isn’t my fault. I suppose he has forgotten all about the dance——

Minnie. Forgotten! (Comes C.) I’ll tell you what it is. Aunt Martha, you will have to go instead. (Goes to fire.)

Minnie. Nothing suits you to-night. I declare[7] you are as bad as Horace! I suppose I shall have to give up the dance. It is a shame!

Aunt. My dear, I would have gone with pleasure if that odious Louise hadn’t disappointed me. But you wouldn’t have me make an exhibition of myself. One must have some pride.

Minnie. Pride? You’re all pride. I do believe if the house were on fire, and you cut off in a top room, you’d decline the fire-escape unless you were dressed in the latest Paris fashion. (Goes up to window.)

Aunt. Well, upon my word, dear, you are not very polite. I must say that I am very sorry that you should be disappointed about your dance, but I don’t believe you’d have cared so very much if you hadn’t known you were wearing a particularly pretty frock.

Minnie. Does it, Auntie? (Coming to Aunt.) What I meant was I go for the dancing—principally. I do love dancing. Auntie, don’t you think you could manage? (Kisses her. Front door heard to slam.) Ah, that must be Horace.

(Enter Horace R. in fur coat. Minnie runs to him and kisses him. Horace puts copy of “The Astronomer” on table.)

Horace. Coughing. No wonder—everybody’s coughing, this beastly weather. I’m coughing—— (Coughs.)

Minnie. (At top of table) Poor dear. How good of you to go out. When will it be here?

Aunt. That odious Louise hasn’t sent home my dress. But there, you two will be all right without me.

Horace. Without you? Oh, yes, we’ll manage. (Taking off coat—puts it down on chair R. below fireplace.)

Aunt. I think men are perfect fools. One that will do, indeed. Now don’t speak to me any more.

Horace. Kindly listen to me. In spite of my frightful cough—(Slight cough)—I’ve been out in the bitter snow to get this copy of the “Astronomer.” It contains an article on life on the planet Mars, in which you know I am much interested. And you ask me to put on thin dress clothes and go out again, and run tremendous risks with my delicate throat and supersensitive lungs, and all for what? To see a lot of fools capering about and making idiots of themselves until four or five in the morning. I think you are most inconsiderate—

Minnie. Oh, never mind. I didn’t understand that you had anything in particular to do.

Minnie. Sit down here—(Armchair)—and make yourself thoroughly comfortable.

Horace. (Sitting down, but feeling in all his pockets) One who realizes that one cannot always be running about from place to place, neglecting the serious interests of life.

Horace. My cigar case. I fancy I must have left it in my room. (Minnie runs L. to get it.) Wait a minute. Did I put it down as I came through the hall? (Minnie runs R.) Wait, wait, I’m not certain I took it out with me at all this morning, in which case it surely will be in my study. (Minnie runs L.) Now, don’t run about. You make me giddy. Do not run about. Have a thorough search. (Exit Minnie L.)

Aunt. Yes, and you’re growing worse every day. (Goes L.) You are simply wrapped up in selfishness, and egotism, and conceit.

Horace. Merely because I prefer a quiet evening to myself and my books? Because I prefer scientific discovery to heartless frivolity? Absurd.

Aunt. You are forgetting your duty to the girl you are going to make your wife. You seem to think because she was adopted by your mother you have the right to order her about as if she were a servant.

Horace. But, hang it all, she is not dependent. My mother provided for her sufficiently.

Aunt. Yes, I know, but everything comes from our family, and you never allow her to forget the fact. She considers she owes you a debt of gratitude.

Horace. (Aunt goes L.) Now, my dear Aunt, don’t you think you are very unwise to try and precipitate matters? You have heard that people who marry in haste very often——

Aunt. (Returning to table) You’ll have plenty of leisure for repentance shortly, but it will be for quite a different reason. Minnie will wake up presently and see you as you really are. She is a most attractive girl. You’ll feel pretty miserable when you have lost her.

Horace. Ridiculous. Minnie knows when she is well off. Hullo. I could have sworn I felt in that pocket! (Finds cigar case.)

Horace. I might have been smoking all this[12] time. (Lights up.) There’s nothing like a good cigar, after all.

Horace. For one thing, a cigar doesn’t talk. And when you have finished with one, you can begin another.

Minnie. (Goes to him and places cushions in chair) There, now. Are you nice and comfortable?

Minnie. Now, Auntie dear, I must make my boy cosy, and then I think I shall go to bed.

Aunt. Horace, I ask you, have you the heart to let Minnie sacrifice her pleasure for you in this way?

Aunt. Minnie shan’t be deprived of her evening. I’ll put on my yellow satin and look a perfect fright.

Minnie. I don’t want to inflict this on you, Auntie dear. I’m quite content to go to bed.

Aunt. Content. Oh, yes, I understand your content. But you shall go, my dear, to as many balls and parties as possible. You shall go to Ascot and Henley and Goodwood and Cowes. We’ll find escorts easily enough. You shall see plenty of new faces. I’ll take care of that. Vanity, indeed! I’ll teach him to call me vain! (Starts to exit L. when Bella enters R. with box.)

Aunt. Just in time. Take it up to my room at once. (Exit Bella L.) I won’t keep you waiting[14] any longer than I can help. You’ll find Horace such a delightful companion, so witty and entertaining. Oh, don’t speak to him, then you won’t get any uncivil answers. (Exit L.)

Horace. You know, she thinks I ought to have gone with you to-night. That’s because she only looks at it from her own standpoint. Can’t take a broad view of the case.

Horace. Can hardly say that. Just seems to belong to the masculine intellect. Men see all round a subject. Women don’t. They’re circumscribed. Can’t see over the hedge.

Horace. That was quite simple. Aunt Martha wanted me to go because she didn’t want to go herself. The only view she could take.

Horace. Of course my viewpoint was very different. I had already been out in the snow once to get this month’s “Astronomer,” and there wasn’t any reason why I should go out again. There is a[15] discussion about life on Mars this month, which I am following closely. It wouldn’t have done Aunt Martha any good to stop at home and read the article, because, being practically devoid of brains, she wouldn’t have understood a word about it. Then again, women ought to go to dances, which are got up entirely for their benefit. Whereas men hate that kind of frivolity. So it was obviously her duty to go.

Horace. You see, Aunt Martha couldn’t take in all these points because her mind isn’t broad enough to grasp them. The consequence was her view was very narrow and rather selfish.

Minnie. Oh, I can. But one thing I see very plainly, and that is that you both are putting yourselves to inconvenience on my account.

Minnie. That’s true. Thank you for reminding me. But I hate to think I should be so much trouble to you both. Of course I know I have no real claim upon you. It isn’t as if I were your very own sister.

Horace. I should think not, indeed. You’re going to be my wife. Just think of that.

Minnie. Horace, tell me. Do you love me? Really, really love me? Or are you going to marry me because it was your mother’s wish? (Horace kisses her hand.) You mustn’t be angry with me. Perhaps I expect too much, but I think I should be happier if you were just a little bit more—ah, more[16] loving in your manner. Oh, Horace, Horace, I don’t want you to marry me out of pity!

Horace. My dear child, don’t be silly! (Takes her hand.) I do love you! I love you most awfully, but I am not what is called a demonstrative man. Few scientific men are, I fancy.

Horace. Oh, yes, they do. But you don’t understand. I love you in a scientific way.

Minnie. I think I like the old way best. But I suppose I am silly and narrow minded like Aunt Martha. (Kisses him.) There, we won’t say any more about it. Are you comfortable?

Horace. Um—yes—you may as well. (Minnie gets whiskey from table L. and two syphons and jar of biscuits. Aside) Dear little girl. How she does love me! I must get her a ring, or a pin, or a thimble to-morrow. That will make her perfectly happy.

Minnie. Don’t sit up too late, dear. You mustn’t work too hard. You’ll strain your eyes.

Horace. No danger, but I shall want some more oil in the lamp. Will you please tell Bella.

Minnie. Certainly. Now promise me you won’t tire yourself. (Kisses him.) Promise.

(Enter Aunt in new dress, followed by Bella with wraps, which are put on sofa up stage. Exit Bella R.)

Aunt. You little flatterer. I think it is rather nice myself. Put on your cloak, dear. Is the cab ready?

Aunt. The “Astronomer,” indeed! I’ll make him see stars! Horace! Horace! (At table. Minnie L.)

Horace. I’ve ordered nothing but a little peace and quiet which doesn’t come at my call.

Aunt. (Snatches his paper away and throws it over her shoulder) Why haven’t you ordered a cab?

Aunt. Bella is not engaged to run errands outside the house. I daren’t ask cook, and Jane has company.

Horace. Please, and clearly understand, I am not going out in the cold again to-night. You seem to forget that I am in a very delicate state of health, and if I were to venture out on a night like this the consequences might be most serious.

Aunt. (Reading note) “Dear Miss Parker. May I have the pleasure of taking you and Miss Templar to Mrs. Clarence’s dance this evening”—

Minnie. How kind and thoughtful of him! He always seems to be doing the right thing just at the right moment.

Horace. Minnie, I don’t at all care that you should go with this fellow to-night. He is not at all the kind of man I wish you to be seen going about with.

Aunt. What dog-in-the-manger attitude is this? You won’t take her yourself nor let anyone else.

Horace. I have expressed my wish on the matter and I propose to have my way, so——

Aunt. This is a most opportune kindness you are showing us, Mr. Dicey. We gladly accept your escort. (Shakes hands.)

Minnie. (Shaking hands) You can hardly guess how much obliged we are to you. Thank you for thinking of us.

Aunt. So of course my nephew is very grateful to you. Aren’t you, Horace? Now he will be able to pursue his scientific studies without fear of interruption.

Minnie. If it had not been for you, Mr. Dicey, I doubt whether any of us would have gone. We were very nearly giving up going.

Dicey. Have I really saved the situation for you? That is jolly good luck. May I claim an extra number of dances on the strength of it?

Minnie. Oh, yes, I have, for those who have the grace to ask for them. Mr. Dicey will have[21] his fair share. He dances beautifully and our steps suit each other to perfection.

Horace. My aunt is ready, I see. If you will take her, we will follow a little later.

Dicey. I thought you were out of town, or I should not have come. But there is plenty of room in the car. Won’t you and your sister come with us?

Minnie. Thank you, Mr. Dicey, but it is a little early for congratulations. We laugh it over between ourselves sometimes in a brotherly-sisterly sort of way without much serious consideration what marriage means. There’s nothing settled yet. Will you see Auntie to the car while I get my wrap?

Minnie. (Coming to L. of table and taking off her engagement ring) I think you will understand me when I say, “Here is your ring.” You have given me a glimpse of such a love-cheapening life that I have grown afraid. I believed in you, Horace, though I was never blind to your faults. I[22] had hoped I might help you to conquer them, but I realize now the task is beyond me. A stronger spirit would have to be invoked. Without your love I should fail, and I see now you have none to offer me. The devotion of your life is for yourself and yourself alone.

Horace. And all this fuss because I don’t want you to go with a silly ass to a dance to-night.

Minnie. No. For your utter lack of consideration. I might hurt my dear friend, Kitty Clarence, by not going to her dance. Oh, that was nothing! Disappoint Auntie—nothing—give up my own pleasure—nothing—insult a visitor—nothing, nothing at all. Here it is, Horace. (Puts ring on table.) I cannot wear it. The gold seems to have gone out of it. (Exit R.)

Horace. And that’s the girl I’ve been talking to about broad views! (Working round table to paper on the floor.) Well, I’ve met some narrow-minded people in my life, but she is far and away the most narrow-minded of the lot. (Picks up paper.) It’s very disappointing, that’s what it is, very disappointing. Women are all alike. No liberality, no generosity. You think you have found an exception, you pour out all the wealth of your priceless love upon her, and the moment the shoe pinches—there you are. I suppose she will want to make it up to-morrow, then I shall have to put down my foot and come to a thorough understanding. Confound that fellow Dicey! It’s all his fault. I never ought to have allowed him to take her. I ought to have gone myself. Damn Dicey! Now for this article. I suppose I’d better read it. Don’t feel a bit like it. However, it may act as a sedative. (Settles down to read.)

Bella. He wouldn’t trust it out of his hand, sir. He says he must give it to you himself.

Bella. Well, sir, he seems to think he is a respectable sort of a man, but he’s what I should call a tramp.

Horace. A tramp? Well, I can’t see him, then. I can’t see him. Tell him to come again in the morning.

Bella. Well, sir, he said he was a persevering kind of man, but he’s what I should call obstinate.

Bella. He said he wouldn’t go away till he had seen you—and I don’t think he will.

Horace. It is too maddening. I can’t have one moment to myself. Very well, show him in. Show him in. (Exit Bella.) First of all Aunt Martha, then that fool Dicey, then Minnie and now a tramp.

Horace. (Reading) “—might be able to give him some work.” I haven’t any work to give you. “Clever workman—seen better days.”

Tramp. Don’t be hard, Guv’ner. I’m cold and tired. I’ve walked all the way from Coventry.

Horace. Walked? Why, Mr. Brampton says here he has given you the money for your railway fare.

Tramp. Yes, drink and meat. There’s no crime in that, is there? Even a tramp must eat.

Tramp. Just my luck! (Going.) Beg pardon, Guv’ner, do you feel like standing me a drink before I go, just to keep out the cold?

Tramp. (Drinks glass of whiskey Minnie had poured out) Ah, that’s good! That brings back old times. You wouldn’t think, Guv’ner, that I was a prosperous man once. (Horace indicates that whiskey is responsible.) No, it wasn’t drink that ruined me. Drink may have kept me down, but it didn’t throw me. I’m an engineer by trade—leastways, I was, but I ain’t worked at it now these five years. Thank you kindly for the whiskey. Good night, sir.

Tramp. Thank you, sir, I would. (Helps himself.) Your health, Guv’ner! You wouldn’t think there was much of the inventor about me? Would you? But I’ve got some ideas, good uns too, only I ain’t got the capital, see?

Tramp. I’ll let you into one of my ideas, Guv’ner, if you’ll take it up. It’ll make your fortune.

Tramp. Have you, now? I haven’t, that’s the difference. Feels pretty comfortable, doesn’t it? I was doing very well once, over there in the States.

Tramp. Yes. They’re pretty smart there, but I showed them I was as good as they. I made a steam valve that’s on most boilers to-day. Yes, I did. Just me. I got ten thousand dollars down before I got my papers out. But my partner got ahead of me. I never saw another cent. I fought him as long as the money lasted. But it didn’t go far in the Courts of Justice. It was the Law as downed me, Guv’ner. Drink?—only damned me.

Tramp. Not much chance of that. One can’t do anything without a little capital, and who’s going to trust me? No, I’ll pick up a living how I can.

Tramp. Why don’t I go back to my old trade? Why don’t I? Who’s going to take me on? Who’ll give me a job? Will you?

Tramp. Then what’s the good of asking? But it don’t matter. I’ve got nothing to live for now. Nothing to save for. The Law broke me up, killed the missus.

Tramp. I ain’t proud. Thank you, Guv’ner. You’re a good un. I worked my way back to England only to find my missus dead and the little un gone.

Tramp. The people she had been with had left, and I never could find out what had become of her. Poor little Minnie!

Tramp. Everything gone. Why should I care? Care! I beg pardon, sir. The whiskey set me talking. My story can’t interest you. Good night, sir. Perhaps if I come back in a day or two you might know of a job.

Horace. Minnie! Minnie! How dare he mention her name? Of course she couldn’t possibly have anything to do with him. But it did give me a turn. Poor devil, I suppose I was rather rough on him. Never mind, serves him right. I dare say he deserved it. Anyhow, it will prevent him coming back again to-morrow. (About to drink.) Confound him, he has used my glass! (Fetches another from table L.) It seems to me I am curiously unlucky. I can’t think why people are so unfair to me. I’m such a good sort. I don’t know anyone who has a better temper or a more generous, open disposition. I expect that is the secret of it. (Puts whiskey, glasses and biscuits on small table above fireplace.) Other people are so mean, and selfish, and unfair. (Sits in armchair.) Now let me get on with it. (Reads “Astronomer.”) Where was I? Ah, yes, here we are. (Reads.) “Latest observations have revealed strange lights which some astronomers believe to be signals put out in the hope of an answer from Earth.” I don’t believe a word of it. It may be possible, though. If Mars is inhabited, I wonder what they are like. Are they savages, or are they ahead of us? (Lamp flickers a little.) Confound it! The lamp’s going out. Minnie never told her. Forgets all about a poor fellow left alone in the dark. Most selfish of her. (Turns over page and reads by firelight as lamp fails more and more.) Ah, just the end. (Reads.) “The advent of a messenger or an army from Mars should not seem to us of the twentieth century a greater marvel than did the shining sails of Columbus to the aborigines of America. What an unfolding of wisdom would their coming yield. What problems could they solve, what new ones[28] set us. The mind fails in contemplation. Too vast—vast.” (Lamp goes out. Horace falls asleep. Enter A Messenger from Mars.)

(N.B. If the lamp has the classical figure suggested, this will now be removed while the stage is dark and a proportionately larger one substituted in which an actor takes the place of the small figure. The lamp-shade will now be approximately four feet in diameter. If the figure does not form a part of the lamp ornamentation in the first instance it will remain simply as a lamp, and the actor takes up a position about C. while stage is dark, and the lights growing bring him slowly into view. A good effect is obtained by blacking out all the stage except the small part R. showing Horace asleep in his chair, with the firelight playing upon him. A gentle roll of thunder should announce the arrival of the Messenger. The following is Horace’s dream.)

Horace. No more than why the other tramp bothered me. You have come rather farther—you may stay a little longer. From the venturesome spirit that prompted this visit I conclude you are of the greatest of your race.

Messenger. I am the poorest gifted, most unhappy, lowest fallen, and easiest spared. I am a criminal, and therefore condemned to make this journey.

Messenger. I sinned in vanity. A dear companion and myself had composed a hymn of praise. He died, and I gave it forth as entirely my own.

Messenger. In Mars we do not write for gain. For five days I endured the bitterest remorse when I confessed my crime, and was sentenced to make this journey.

Horace. Doubtless you have learnt that I am interested in your world and quite rightly expected a sympathetic welcome from me?

Messenger. And of all its citizens yourself the most striking example—(Horace bows)—of the Greed and Egoism of the age.

Horace. (Staggering to his feet and about to rush at Messenger) Hullo! I’ll not stand for this! Get out of my——

(Messenger raises his arm and Horace receives[30] an electric shock which reels him back into his chair. The furniture may be arranged to shake and rock about as if under the same influence. Messenger refrains and Horace slowly recovers himself.)

Messenger. Good! Now listen with heart and mind. You have learnt that Mars has a planetary lifetime brief compared with Earth, and yet we Martians are to you as are you to the cattle that you breed.

Messenger. Triflers of Time, learn the cause. Self—Self is the Miasm of the world you live in; a soul plague blotching Earth’s body over with its petty spites, outraged homes, labor riots, revolutions, civil wars, carnivals of blood, marring the Grand Purpose. No war has ever wasted Mars, nor could it. There have been no rushings back, no buried epochs, no sleeping centuries, for Self was unmasked at the beginning.

Messenger. Self wears a thousand, making a counterfeit of every virtue. The soldier’s glory, the painter’s touch, the statesman’s aim, the poet’s dream hide something still of self behind them. Even your children are becoming egoists—the saddest sign of all.

Messenger. Considering your opportunities, you are the basest, the most selfish of men.

Messenger. In your house is one whose impulses are fully half unselfish, the maid Minnie. You couldn’t spare one evening to make her happy.

Messenger. You deserve none. Again, there was that poor unfortunate who in a weak moment confided to you his life’s tragedy.

Messenger. You might have saved him. You would have been blessed a thousandfold if you had.

Messenger. In what a hideous Pretence you live. There, before you, stood a man of genius. You drove him out to die. An Inventor perishing in the hey-day of Invention-Worship.

Messenger. You a man of science! You know nothing at all. There is more in his little finger than your whole body.

Horace. Look here. If you’ll guarantee him—and with your inside knowledge of things generally—I might hunt him up to-morrow and set him going.

Messenger. Hypocrite! Beyond belief hypocrite! You train your dogs with hunger and a whip. It seems I must try that system upon you. Get up!

Horace. Do let me explain. The fact is I am in rather a delicate state of health, and if I were to venture out on a night like this, the consequences might be most serious.

Horace. I’m not starting out with any comfort at all. I really don’t think I should be wise to venture out to-night. It is so very sharp outside.

Horace. No. I’m damned if I do! (Messenger raises his arm, and again Horace is electrified and the furniture thrown into a commotion. Horace sinks to his knees in front of Messenger in terror.) I’ll come! I’ll come!

Horace. I’ve given him the slip. I’ve fooled him! That’s one on Mars. (Comes up steps cautiously, looking about him.) Deuce take his impudence! I wish he were in—— Well, Mars would be bad enough, from his description of it. If I could get a cab I’d ride round till morning. (Enter a policeman R.) Good evening, Policeman.

Policeman. There’s a cab stand in the Bouverie Road. You might find one there, sir.

Horace. Look here, I wish you would get me a taxi or four-wheeler, anything. I don’t care what it is. Here’s a half crown for you. If you bring it back in ten minutes I’ll double it with pleasure.

Horace. Splendid force, the police. I believe this is the best hiding place I can find. (Descends area steps and disappears from view. Enter Messenger L.)

Horace. (Much discomfited—comes up again) Rabbit! Beastly personal! Oh, there you are.

Horace. I’ve been looking for you everywhere—even down in that area. Where have you been?

Messenger. None whatever. (Horace astounded to find his thought read by Messenger.) Look around. Do you know where you are?

Horace. (The front of the house is a transparency and now lights up from within and shows a ballroom. Ladies and gentlemen strolling about between dances.) I declare, if it isn’t Mrs. Clarence’s! In full swing.

Messenger. I have brought you here where you[35] refused to come to-night to give you your first lesson in Otherdom.

Messenger. You do not understand? It is characteristic of your race that while all that is vile and ignoble is well expressed by your word “Selfishness,” your language does not supply its opposite. In Mars we have a word which means the abandonment of self and the striving for others. It is the great essential virtue, Otherdom.

Messenger. Poor thing of Temperature! Your scientists still leave you slaves of the weather. What braggarts are you to dream as yet of civilization! When you can weave water into clothing, spin fire into ribbons, and wear them in the altitudes, you shall speak of some advancement. Your mills of Fashion sigh and hum, but not one of you can outdress a butterfly. Yet the New Times would rush upon you had Otherdom a place with you. That is the substance of which Knowledge is but the shadow playing about it—growing as it grows. You seek to puff out the shadow—it will be shadow merely while Time’s torch burns. Look yonder. Who comes? Speak to her.

Horace. No, thank you. I’d rather not. I warn you, if you are seen you will have an awful crowd round you.

(The Woman has sauntered on, looked at Horace, loitered, and gone off R. again. Now she re-enters in similar style.)

Horace. Look here, I’m not invisible, and if I am seen by anybody in this house—— Oh, Lor’!

Outcast. You’ll catch cold, dear, if you don’t come indoors. (Horace turns his back on her.) Bah, you! Give me a tanner to get a drink with?

Horace. Gold—there’s none in circulation. Do you know what she is? A vile wanton, a plague of the streets!

Messenger. No more! Dare man so speak of women? Oh, are you not Joint Guardians of the Future? Give, Horace, give.

Outcast. Bless your good heart! It’ll pay the rent, sir. We won’t have to turn out. You don’t know what a lift it is, sir. Thank you, thank you, sir. Good night, sir. Good night, sir. Oh, bless you! (Exit R.)

Horace. I dare say you find it quite funny. It must be blessed to give away other people’s money. It was you gave it, mind, not I.

Horace. It strikes me I am getting the worst of it all round. How much longer is this foolery to go on? You’ll never bring me to your way of thinking.

Horace. You are in for a long visit. Now where will you put up? I can’t take you in myself, but how about our Moon? I make you a present of the Moon—and you can put a fence round it.

Horace. That is why I make you a present of it. I’m taking a leaf out of your book. You give away my money, so I give you somebody else’s Moon. That in practice appears to be your delightful Otherdom.

Messenger. I shall rejoice in saving you no less that the task is imposed upon me.

Horace. You are doomed to failure. Give it up—and please let me go home. I’m nearly always in bed by half-past eleven.

Messenger. Hush, hush! She is one whom it pains to see a fault in you. Love, the elementary Otherdom, possesses her. A divine gift of madness set in opposition to the cold logic of Self. She did love you——

Messenger. Listen a while. (Waves his hand and the interior of house lights up and discovers Minnie and Dicey chatting.)

Minnie. Isn’t it a lovely dance? I’m so glad we came, and it was all thanks to you.

Dicey. Oh, you mustn’t thank me any more. I’m over-rewarded. But is Mr. Parker often like that?

Minnie. He refused to come to-night after he had promised—promised faithfully.

Dicey. He spoke a word and all the beauty of life seemed to shrivel up and die away. And then somebody not far away contradicted him. In a moment the cloud was gone and the whole world seemed even brighter and happier than it had been before.

Horace. Lor’, the fellow thinks he is making love! Makes me sick to hear him. I’d like to kick him!

Messenger. What right have you to stand in the way of this young man who gives love for love? You don’t love her.

Horace. Minnie knows I do, but she doesn’t want to be reminded of it every minute or two.

Dicey. What could he ever be to you? Certainly no companion for life. He? He is only fit to be a bit of furniture in a library, while you are all life and sunshine. Minnie, you know I love you.

Dicey. Now for a small confession. Ever so long ago I bought a ring, in hope, or, perhaps, in[40] despair. Whenever my chances seemed most faint, fortune most forbidding, I used to take it out of my pocket and look at it.

Horace. Silly ass! Can you imagine a more deplorable waste of time? Whenever a man is down on his luck to take out a ring and look at it? Oh, dear, oh, dear!

Minnie. (Bus. with ring) Oh, Arthur, how lovely! Oh, what a beauty! Oh, it is ever so much prettier than——

Horace. Of course. Of course. How like a woman! The diamonds are bigger and that settles the whole thing! (Lights down within house, only the exterior now shown.)

Messenger. Never mind, you said you were going to buy her a thimble to-morrow. What’s a diamond ring to a thimble?

Horace. I meant a present. I didn’t particularize so, I simply called it a thimble. But I’ll buy her a star to-morrow—an enormous star of diamonds. I’ll make Mr. Dicey sit up!

Messenger. So like a man. He thinks if the diamonds are bigger that will settle the whole thing.

Horace. Of course it is unnecessary. Minnie would not marry a brainless idiot like Dicey. Aunt Martha would see to that. After all, Aunt Martha is a sensible woman.

Horace. She can’t help that, poor thing. Aunt Martha would never sit still and see Minnie sacrificed.

Messenger. Quite true. Let us hear her wishes. (Waves his hand and interior is again illuminated. Aunt and Mrs. Clarence are discovered seated.)

Aunt. Did I say that? Well, I suppose influenza is as good a name for it as any other.

Aunt. No, I haven’t. It is more of a moral complaint than physical. He thinks of nothing and nobody but himself. He quite neglects Minnie.

Mrs. Clarence. I should think not, indeed. How pretty she looks to-night. Horace is engaged to her, isn’t he?

Aunt. I’m glad to say it is broken off. He has nobody to blame but himself. She plucked up courage this evening and gave him his congé.

Mrs. Clarence. So that’s it. Influenza has a lot to answer for. Excuse me a moment, dear. (Exit Mrs. Clarence.)

Horace. My fellow men—oh, yes. But not such creatures as these. Men of the world, men of business, hard-headed men of science. Take their opinions. I venture to say they will speak of me with respect and very possibly with admiration.

(Dicey has brought Minnie back and left her with Aunt Martha, he retiring. He shows elation as he bows.)

Minnie. I have something to tell you. Something particular. Oh, Auntie, I hope you won’t be vexed!

Aunt. You have had a very narrow escape. Arthur is a good man. I feel that. As for Horace, he is a pig!

Aunt. Pig! I do say it! I will say it! It describes him exactly. Horace is a pig!

Horace. She’s a perfect fool! Women are all alike. Mean and selfish, and sly and narrow-minded—oh, fearfully narrow-minded! I’m jolly well out of it, and I’m jolly glad to be so jolly well out of it! One thing I know—I’ll never speak to another woman again as long as I live.

Messenger. You are still devoted to self in spite of the poor opinion of your friends. Have you no suspicion of yourself?

Horace. It strikes me that there is a lot of guess-work about you, and what’s more, you are making some uncommonly bad shots. You’ve pitched on me as an example of selfishness. Now, I’m not selfish. It’s the other people who are selfish. Not I.

Horace. Oh, my goodness, there are the Waits! Where’s a policeman? I’ll have them moved on.

Horace. Permit me a word. You have advanced not a single argument why my conduct should be deemed reprehensible. We are quite well aware of our duty to each other, but in our highly organized society to-day we employ the important principle of the Division of Labor. Some attend to Charities, others to Science, others again to Production or Distribution, and so on and so on.

Messenger. Continue your divisions,—some do the fun-making and some do the grieving, some do the feasting and some the fasting. You, Prince of Duncedom, go gather rainbows, photograph a sunset, make a dyke of sponge, a castle on quicksand, a pillar of jelly. It were as wise as to build a Society on Self. That is a cement of gunpowder which dries in time and, gathering force, shatters a continent. In all your heart-breaking history but one order has been founded upon Love. It has been growing slowly since the first Christmas. Tell this to your politicians, your false judges, to the fringe of corruption at the base of the Law, and to all others panting and raging round the Golden Grab-bag.

Horace. Oh, I see how it is. You have been reading our newspapers. They blackguard everything, themselves included. But now, Marsy, you must allow there has been a tremendous plunge ahead in the last hundred years.

Messenger. None! A great hubbub of Invention has been made, but what of Otherdom? A terrific rush to the standard of Mammon. “Arm! arm!” is the cry, “for the great Battle of Buy and Sell.” Invention echoes, “here are swords for all and any—good or bad, right or wrong, no question.”[45] False foods, false drinks, false houses, false public service. Invent! Invent! Railways for War to travel on, the grand science of Butchery, no question! Telegraphs to swindle by, Advertisements of any fraud, no question! And still your vaunted Progress bellows, “More Swords! More Swords!”

Horace. Oh, no, there’s a crowd around him already. It’s all right. They’ll take him to the hospital.

Horace. No. I should only be in the way. The police will attend to it. It’s their business. Oh, confound it! They are bringing him this way.

(Enter crowd of people, men and women, carrying a wounded man. Murmurs of pity and sympathy from all.)

Omnes. Poor feller! Lord help ’im! Why can’t they look where they’re a driving to?

Polly. Never you mind about us, Jim. You’re the one to worry about. Is a doctor coming?

Horace. I assure you I wouldn’t be justified. This sort of thing is all properly provided for. It’s all right.

Second Man. It was the driver’s fault. I see it all, just how it ’appened. He wasn’t looking where he was a-goin’.

Dr. Chapman. Poor fellow! I can do nothing for him. It is a hospital case. You must find a shutter.

Wounded Man. Oh, Polly, you’ll have a bad time with the kiddies till I’m about again.

Polly. Don’t you take on, Jim. We’ll pull through somehow, though I don’t know how. (Cries.)

Horace. All? Mayn’t I keep the tenner? Just the tenner in case you get thirsty.

Horace. Don’t! Don’t do it! I will! I will! (To Polly) Here, young woman, is a trifle, a mere trifle to help you. (Gives all the notes, savagely thrusting them into her hands, and turns away.)

Polly. (Dazed at the sight of the notes) Sir, you are good to us. Oh, thank you, sir! Jim, the gentleman has given us three pound notes—— Oh, no, it isn’t! It says ten pounds—— Good lummie, this says on it twenty pounds, and this fifty pounds, and he calls it a trifle!

Second Man. There’s some good in these stuck-up swells, after all. Three cheers for the gentleman!

(Enter L. ambulance, doctor and policeman. They put wounded man on a stretcher and carry him off L. Cheering back at Horace, the crowd follows.)

Dr. Chapman. Let me shake you by the hand, sir. You’ve done a noble action. Thank God we have such men as you in England still! Good night, sir, good night! You’re a brick! (Exit.)

Messenger. That was the fairest sight I have seen. Otherdom was thriving for a space. But those, I notice, were of your poor.

Horace. Well, I’d like to know how long this Otherdom lesson is to go on. You’re simply robbing me of all I have. Eighty and one, and five shillings for the policeman—eighty-one pounds five shillings since I came out with you. It’s the most expensive evening I have ever had in my life. I have just one penny left, one solitary penny. I expect you will have that before long.

Messenger. Oh, frozen nature, will nothing melt you? Is there no Summer of Love to this Winter of Self? I must be brief with you or my mission fails. Your air, your gravitation, this pitiful, pitiless spectacle—(Horace himself)—all distress me. A woman’s cry, contempt of friends, a fellow creature’s mortal agony all fail to stir you. Then you shall learn pity as the poor learn it—by needing it.

Horace. What now? I should have thought you had caused enough unpleasantness for one evening.

Newsboy. Special! Extra special! Panic in the city! Great bank failure! Special, sir?

Newsboy. Extra, extra, sir? (Dicey exits, and Newsboy, R., calling as he goes.) Extra! Panic in the city! Great bank failure! (Exit.)

Horace. Thank goodness I had that penny left! That’s the only money I have spent to-night for which I have received any value. I suppose this is a swindle; they generally are. Here it is, anyway. (In consternation as he reads.) What? What is this? The United Bank closed! My bank broke! I shall be ruined! The shares are only half paid up. The calls will utterly swamp me! Do you hear, I am ruined!

Messenger. You can pity yourself. When anybody else was in trouble, it didn’t matter, did it? But for your own misfortunes you have quite a tender heart. Doubtless your many admiring friends will assist you.

(Lights up in house and Dicey and Mrs. Clarence discovered together reading the paper.)

Dicey. I know Parker is a very large shareholder, if not the largest. He’ll be hit hard. Probably ruined.

Dicey. Here they come. How best can I break it to them? I must learn whether they are caught, too.

Aunt. Oh, he pooh-poohed our friend. Horace knew it all. He is so pig-headed! I shouldn’t wonder if he was about cleared out.

Mrs. Clarence. I can’t say I am very sorry. He has led a most selfish life, as everybody knows. He has his desert.

Horace. It is just what I told you. It’s the other people who are selfish, not I. Why don’t you take Mrs. Clarence in hand? She’s a beauty, if you like.

Mrs. Clarence. There are plenty of fools who manage to earn their own living. A little adversity will be the making of him. It’s a terrible blow, all the same, and you are brave to face it as you are doing.

Dicey. Well, I don’t know. Mr. Horace Parker has not made himself particularly pleasant to me.

Dicey. That’s enough. Your slightest wish is law to me. I’ll get him a berth with some friends of mine in the city. They’ll take him on as clerk to oblige me—but he’ll have to learn typewriting.

Horace. You’d do credit to the Spanish Inquisition! Haven’t you done with me?

Messenger. It is only your pride that is hurt. Your heart is still as hard as ever.

Horace. Well, I am not beaten yet, if that is what you mean. I may be ruined financially, but I’ve got pages and pages of notes at home which I have taken during the last twelve months.

Horace. About the planets. And Mars in particular. And with the information you have been[52] kind enough to give me to-night, I’ll write a book that will fairly make them sit up. Of course, nobody will believe it. But they will buy the book. I’ll sell my house and publish it myself. You can’t down an Englishman in one round, Marsy, my lad!

Horace. How absurd you are! The firemen will attend to it. That’s what they are paid for. You can’t expect me to bother about it. It is not my business.

Messenger. It must be something serious. There’s another engine, is it not? Won’t you go?

Horace. We shall see all about it in the papers to-morrow. I tell you I should only be in the way. Now, please may I go home?

(Lights up within the house, and discovered are Mrs. Clarence and Sir Edward Vivian.)

Horace. I know of him, and he knows me. He[53] has a very high opinion of me. He told a friend of mine last year that I was the coming man.

Sir Edward. Indeed! I am very sorry to hear it. He was a useful subscriber. Very sad! Dear, dear!

Mrs. Clarence. I suppose he will be able to turn his scientific abilities to use and make a living that way?

Sir Edward. My dear Madame, his science is all fudge. Very praiseworthy in a wealthy man, of course. That sort of thing has to be encouraged among the rich. We need funds always. But as to any practical value—why, the thing is absurd to a degree.

Mrs. Clarence. And all the time he has been posing before us poor innocents as a veritable leader of thought.

Sir Edward. I may give you one instance. He has some fantastical ideas about life on the planet Mars. Now, all scientific men of any standing are quite agreed on this point. There is no such thing as life on the planet Mars.

(Lights out in interior. Enter Bella L. hastily. She rings bell at front door.)

Bella. Is Mr. Parker here, please? (Footman shakes his head.) Or Miss Parker, then? Quick, please! The house is on fire. (Footman admits her and the door is closed.)

Messenger. Be calm. The firemen will attend to it. You’ll see all about it in the papers to-morrow.

Horace. My house is on fire! Let me go! (He starts to go, but is hypnotically held back.)

Messenger. Stay where you are. You would only be in the way. It is insured, of course.

Horace. Curse you, no! All my papers will be destroyed. I’m done! I’m beaten! It’s your doing! Well, kill me at once! It would be a kindness! (Sobs, thoroughly crushed.)

Messenger. Where are your divisions of labor now? Yours will be to tramp the streets. Stand forth, poor shivering wretch! You are a beggar in rags!

(Horace’s coat, scarf and hat are torn from him, and he appears as a ragged loafer.)

(Horace leans back against the railings of the house, a most forlorn object. After a pause, enter slowly from R. the Tramp. Tramp spies Horace and sidles up to him, and takes up a similar pose by his side. Nothing said for a little, but they examine each other.)

Tramp. Here’s a biscuit I’ve got left. It was given to me by a swell to-night. A real tip-topper. That sort of chap don’t know what hunger is.

Tramp. Same as me again. Well, I like the looks of you. You seem a good sort, anyhow.

Horace. Do I? You are the first to say so to-night. I’ve heard nothing but the contrary opinion of late.

Tramp. Same as me again. I had a wife once, though. But she’s dead and gone. I had a little daughter, but I don’t know what become of her. What’s on here? A party?

(Footman opens door and Aunt and Bella come out, followed by Dicey and Minnie.)

Tramp. There in the doorway, with that swell! It’s my Minnie! I’ll swear to it! The living image of her mother! I’m going to speak to her.

Horace. See, she has someone to care for her. Why break in upon her life? You have forfeited your claim.

Tramp. Not much I haven’t. She could give me a fine lift up, and then I’d help you.

Horace. Not if I die in the gutter! It may be[57] your right. But don’t drag her down to your level and mine. Stop him, Marsy! You can.

Messenger. (Waves his hand to Tramp, who seems to give up his purpose.) A thought for another. The fire is catching.

Tramp. Well, you’re a rum ’un! No wonder you are down on your luck. A man must think of himself in this world a little bit. But you’re a good sort. I won’t speak to the girl, though she is my daughter. See here now, I’ve got an idea.

Tramp. The people will be going home presently. Let’s get to work and clear the snow for them to get to their cars. We might pick up a bit that way.

Tramp. Can’t get shovels. Look around and see if you can’t find a bit of board to scrape with.

Tramp. Didn’t I see you last August down Margate way with a piano-organ and a monkey?

Tramp. I thought I’d met you before. Ah, you have come down a bit since then. About ready for them.

Tramp. (Most cheerily) Cleared the snow for you, Lady. Made a nice path, Sir. (Touching his hat.)

Horace. (Faintly imitating and touching his hat) Cleared the snow for you, Lady. Made a nice path, Sir.

Tramp. Beg pardon, sir. Look what we’ve done. Ain’t it nice and handy for the lady? (Less cheerily.)

Horace. (Rather more forcibly) See what we’ve done. Ain’t it nice and handy for the lady?

Second Gentleman. All muffled up or I would— (Exit with others of the party.)

Tramp. We cleared the snow away for you, sir. Can’t you spare us a trifle, sir?

Horace. (Firing up) We cleared it, and if you don’t like it you can bally well walk in the snow! (Shoulders Sir Edward off the path into the snow.)

Sir Edward. You impudent loafer! Hi, Policeman! (Enter Policeman L.) This ruffian assaulted me.

Policeman. Come out of that, you two! I know you! You’re old hands! Be off, both of you!

Horace. I was nearly starting a labor riot. Well, that’s what is at the bottom of most of them.

Tramp. (Thoroughly broken) My ideas don’t[60] seem to come to anything any more. I’m a failure, and a bad ’un. I’ve been feeling bad all day, and this has about done for me. (Falls down.)

Horace. Don’t talk like that! It is a splendid idea, and there are plenty more to come out.

Tramp. I only wants burying, Partner, and they’ll have to do that. Damn ’em!

Messenger. If you had your money again, you’d just go your old way, and leave him to die.

Horace. That’s gone, and I wouldn’t have it back at that price. Only help him now.

(Horace pulls himself together and knocks loudly at the door. Footman opens door.)

Horace. There’s a poor fellow dying of cold and hunger. Ask Mrs. Clarence if she will——

Horace. (Holding the door open) Mrs. Clarence, you must not refuse this service.

Horace. My pocket? What for? What’s this? A note! A pound note! Halves, Partner! Halves! (Horace bending over Tramp, succoring him.)

Scene same as at end of Act I.

At rise of curtain there should be shown on a transparency set, well down stage, a picture of the end of the last act, the snow scene and Horace bending over the Tramp and The Messenger soaring homewards. At the same time Horace himself is seen sleeping in his chair, breathing heavily. With the first clanging of the fire-engine bell and Horace waking up, the lights increase at back and the dream scene fades away. The lamp is now seen to be lighted again, the fire burning brightly, and an “Extra” evening paper lying on table, close to Horace. After sufficient pause after curtain is up, a fire engine is heard rumbling past from R. to L. outside, and this disturbs Horace, who begins to wake, as the transparency picture fades away.

Horace. (Looks about him, bewildered, then at his clothes. Gives a short laugh and grunt, and leans back, smiling, with closed eyes.) What a nightmare!

Horace. Marsy, old boy, you have a lot to answer for! Fancy my dreaming I was hungry! Comes of eating a heavy dinner. (With a sudden thought.)[63] By Jove! (Searches his pockets for his money. Finds it with a sigh of relief. Counts his notes carefully.) Ten, twenty, fifty, and one. All there. (Pulls out some silver from his trousers pocket.) Even the silver. Very careless, very careless of me. I can hardly be trusted out at night with so much. I might in a weak moment hand it over to some hospital amid the admiring cheers of the populace. I must watch myself.

(Loud clang of fire-engine bell as it passes from R. to L. startles him, and involuntarily he shouts out.)

Horace. Fire! (Then he checks himself.) Hope nobody heard me. My nerves are all on edge. I wish old Marsy would tell me whether that inventive vagabond got over his troubles or peacefully expired in the snow. Poor devil! I almost wish I could meet him again. We call such fellows riff-raff, rabble, but, if the truth were told, might not some of us be found to be the real loafers in the snug corners of Easy Street, of little good to anyone, cumbering up the way till that old patrolman, Death, steps up and bids us “Move on”?

Horace. You must have been dreaming, Bella.[64] That’s very wrong. You shouldn’t. It’s a bad habit to get into. However, as you are sleepy you needn’t wait up. I shan’t sleep again. I mean I don’t think I shall feel like going to sleep at all.

Bella. (Aside) As if I didn’t see him asleep. I think I would like to go to bed, sir, if you think Miss Minnie won’t want anything. They can’t be long now, sir.

Bella. You were so—so busy, sir, when I came in with the oil, I didn’t like to wa—— to disturb you, sir. Good night, sir.

Horace. Good night, Bella. (She exits R.) Then there was an Extra in reality. That was not all dream. There it is. What made me dream of the bank smash if nothing had been said about it? I dreamt of Mars. I had been reading of Mars. At this moment, great heavens, I may be, in very fact, a ruined man! (Seizes paper with trembling hands and finds the place. Reads.) Not a word! (Wipes his forehead.) Not a word, but there might have been! And why should this house not be burning as well as the one that is? What would I do? Cut my throat! An arrant coward’s refuge, after all. Ah, from the beggar’s point of view, wealth seemed so flinty hearted, while charity was natural and easy to the poor. (Fire engine.) Evidently no false alarm this time. Somebody sick with anxiety and dread to-night. Heaven help them, whoever they are! What a rap Marsy would give me for that[65] speech. He’d say, “Help them yourself. Don’t overtax Heaven.” Pshaw, I’d only be in the way. We have an excellent fire department. Best in the world. And there are so many need helping. How many lines of this paper tell of suffering, and how much may we read between the lines! (Skims over paper.) “Wanted, plain sewing, to do at home.” “Young man wants work. Will do anything honest.” Honest? He is particular for these days. And I swore to Marsy that I wouldn’t take back my money except to share it with others. He might have made favorable terms with me just then. (Sees ring on table.) Minnie’s ring. My trying to bully her. It was the act of a cur! I’ll tell her so. I’ll—(Fire engine passes.) Another! It must be serious. (Looks through curtains of window C.) What a sheet of flame! It must be in the next street. It may reach here. (Looks intently.) No, the wind’s the other way. (Relieved.) That tenement house, I’ll be bound! Poor people, what will they do this bitter night if they are burnt out? I don’t know what I could do if I really wanted to. I think I’ll put on my coat and hat and go and see. Don’t suppose I’ll do much harm looking on. (Fire-engine bell again. He looks out again.) Ladder escape. (Dresses a little quicker now.) I might take an extra coat for some one. (Goes to closet containing several overcoats and takes one. Hesitates and then puts another over his arm. Is going R. when another engine passes.) I can’t stand it! (Snatches the last overcoat. Leaves the closet door open and rushes out with coats over his arm R.)

(Considerable pause, when front door bell rings. Pause, and then knock heard. Further pause, and knock and bell heard. Voices heard. After further pause, vigorous knocking and ringing heard, and voices in expostulation. Knocking[66] and ringing suddenly stop as door is opened, and then enter Aunt, followed by Minnie and Dicey, and last by Bella, in hastily thrown on gown. They gather round the fire.)

Aunt. Really, Bella, I don’t understand you! We have been fully ten minutes battering at that door, and getting our deaths. I declare my teeth are chattering.

Aunt. I am sure we poor deserted females have much to be grateful for to you. You see how the master of the house treats us. Have you any idea where Mr. Parker is?

Bella. No, Madam. He said he was going to sit up for you, and that is why I went to bed. I dressed as quick as I could, Madam.

Aunt. I’ll warrant he has gone to bed. Just like his utter want of thought for anybody. I hope he is sound asleep. He shall explain and apologize. This is going a little too far. Locking us out. Excuse me a moment. (Bella and Aunt exeunt R.)

Minnie. Have a little something till Auntie[67] comes back. Horace ought to be here to thank you for doing his duty.

Minnie. I am too much awake now. I shan’t sleep till daylight. Oh, here are some cigars. Have some?

Dicey. Some? If you are sure I am not trespassing upon your good nature, I’ll start one here and finish it on my way home. (Minnie strikes a light.) Oh, you are too good.

Dicey. Just order the car as if it were your own. I wish it was. It couldn’t have a fairer owner.

Dicey. All the wines of Bacchus would be less intoxicating than my last waltz with you.

Dicey. (As she turns away on pretence of turning the lamp up, aside) Always Horace. Heigho! I must really be going, and thank you so much for all the pleasure—and pain you have given me. (Re-enter Aunt R.)

Aunt. He is not in his room. I hammered on his door till my arm ached, and then thinking he was keeping up his joke, I lit a match and marched in. His bed wasn’t crumpled, even. Must you go?

Dicey. I must, indeed; the richer by a cigar, however—(Shakes hands with Aunt and turns to Minnie)—the poorer by a heart! Good night.

Minnie. I like him, but I don’t love him. How strange it is. He would do anything for me, while—well—I don’t suppose he—(Meaning Horace)—would, unless a mountain fell at his feet to start him into action. (Enter Aunt.)

Aunt. A very nice young man, but hardly correct of him to come in at such an hour.

Minnie. Oh, Auntie, we made him. But where can Horace be, then? His coat has gone. (Pointing to chair below fireplace where it had been. Aunt notices closet open and empty.)

(Enter R. a crowd of poor people, preceded by a burly working man, half dressed, carrying a child. He advances well to C., the ladies retreating in alarm before him, slightly screaming. He stops short.)

Working Man. Gent told us to come in, ladies. We’re all burnt out by the fire.

Aunt. Gather round the fire. Bring the children to the front. This is terrible! Poor little ones!

(The crowd consists of the following: First the man described, whose face is partly blackened by smoke, his child wrapped in a bit of blanket;[69] then a woman wearing Horace’s fur coat over her night dress, and carrying a baby. An old couple, woman wearing a gray overcoat of Horace’s; a girl wearing Horace’s mackintosh over nightclothes; she leads a boy in knee pants, no stockings, and one shoe on; a little girl carrying a baby. She tries to get to fire, but is blocked off by others, so dives under the table with her charge. Others, men and women, may be added, one wearing another of Horace’s overcoats. Then comes in Horace and the Tramp, carrying an unconscious youth whom they place on the sofa C. Bella also comes in, looking rather bewildered.)

Horace. Ah, that’s right, Bella, stir up the fire. Then call all the servants and start fires in all the bedrooms. We must find places for these unfortunate people. Has the doctor come yet? I am awfully afraid this lad is beyond his aid.

First Working Woman. You set us hoping, Miss, so you do. We ought to be thankful for our lives and our babies. Some didn’t get out. I don’t know how many.

Horace. No doctor yet? I’ll go myself. Where is our doctor? (He lifts his fur cap off a child’s head and gets his scarf from another.)

Minnie. Dr. Chapman is only a few doors down[70] on the right. You’ll know the house by the red light. (Horace is going R. A knock on front door heard.) Perhaps that is the doctor.

Horace. Will you dispose them, Auntie? (Apart to her) I ought to apologize to you for bringing in all this crowd without asking you, but you see what a deplorable——

Aunt. Let this old couple come first, and the children, and you. (Aunt Martha shepherds about half the crowd off R. and exits.)

Tramp. (To Horace) Boy is in a bad way, Guv’ner, but Doctor thinks he can pull him through.

Tramp. His mother was burnt up, Miss, to-night. (Minnie nearly faints, and Horace catches her. She gently removes herself from his arms.) Excuse me, Miss, I was too blunt with it.

Minnie. Can you walk now better? Don’t cry, we will get you some clothes in the morning.

Second Working Woman. God bless your kind heart, Miss, and you, sir. We’d have died if you hadn’t come.

Dr. Chapman. Well, if you wish to turn your house into a hospital, all right. To save his life, he must be put to bed at once, and kept there.

Aunt. Oh, how could I? I have forgotten the principal sufferer, and there is not another room left.

Dr. Chapman. Carry him as he is, sofa and all. That will save a good deal of strain.

(Dr. Chapman, Horace and Tramp carry out boy on sofa R. Minnie enters as they exeunt.)

Aunt. (Sharing her wonderment) Yes. (They look at each other for a moment in silence.)

Aunt. Do you know, Minnie, I hardly think you[72] should call a man, with a mind rather above social small talk, selfish, because he doesn’t care to go to your balls with you.

Aunt. I don’t dance. You have misjudged him. He is the soul of generosity. Do you know, he actually began excusing himself to me for bringing the poor people in out of the cold.

Minnie. Fancy those babies sleeping through it all! Weren’t they sweet? (Enter Tramp and Horace R.)

Aunt. And you, my poor fellow! I must find a corner for you somewhere. You have no home now, I suppose.

Tramp. No, ma’m. I’ve done without a home for several moons. So I’m used to it, but it’s tough on those who get it sudden.

Horace. I’m interested in this man. I showed him scant courtesy this evening, and felt sorry for him afterwards. We met again at the fire. He is an inventor, moreover.

Tramp. Ah, Guv’ner, if they had only had my fire-escape there would have been no killed.

Horace. Have you an idea for a fire-escape? By Jove, we’ll patent it! Meanwhile——

Horace. I mean, of course—oh, yes, a shovel, by all means. The servants are up, and if you don’t object to eating before retiring, for there’s no hurry about the snow——

Horace. Who were Minnie’s parents, Aunt? Do you know? Can it be possible that——

Tramp. That this young lady is mine? Lor’, no, Guv’ner! My daughter would only be about twelve years old.

Minnie. I am sure you have a brave as well as a kind heart, for I have heard from others what risks you took in carrying them out.

Horace. Well, take a substantial supper—or breakfast, whichever it may be called—and presently we’ll clear that snow off together. (Exit Tramp with Minnie R.)

Aunt. My dear Horace, I am truly ashamed of the abuse I heaped upon you this evening. Do forgive me.

Aunt. What a noble reproof you have administered by this turning of your house into a common[74] lodging place, you who so dislike being disturbed, and I thought abominated the lower class. I’m afraid I should have hesitated long before I invited them in.

Horace. Not if you had seen them as I did. Oh, Auntie, why have we so little Otherdom?

Horace. It can only be because we never realize how the poor live. In the wise days of old, when men were nearer nature, fast days were instituted, that the Fat might remember the Lean. Now our Fasts are feasts. I wonder what a bonafide all-round forty-eight hour starve, once a year even, would do for our rich friends. Make that a fad, Auntie. You’d revolutionize the world.

Aunt. You are quite right, Horace. We do fall far short of our whole duty. But where are you going to sleep? Will you go to a hotel?

Aunt. Kiss me, Horace. Heaven bless you. You have made me very happy to-night. (Exit.)

Horace. The sofa gone. I see nothing for it but to camp on the hearthrug or in the chair. Don’t want that any more. (Turns out lamp.) I wish I could have made my peace with Minnie. But she hasn’t forgotten so readily. She shrank away from me when I caught her. I must just hope for the best. (Settles down in chair.)

Minnie. Light out—then I am too late. He has gone to some hotel. I wonder how the fire is doing? (Goes to window and pulls curtains away, when the[75] morning light falls upon her. Horace, aroused, sees her.)

Horace. I might be dreaming again. Ah, I can read it now! She is my guide—my Marsy—my conscience! Minnie!!

Horace. Never! Never! It was your spirit that changed me, and my purpose in life. Help me to continue.

Horace. (Picks up ring from table) Let me put it back on its finger. (Sounds of scraping of shovel outside.)

Minnie. (Goes to window and looks out) It is that poor inventor man shoveling the snow.

Minnie. And shall we help him to find his Minnie, now that you have found yours?

Horace. That we will, dearest. (Puts on ring.) There it is again, my love, my Minnie!

French’s International Copyrighted Edition contains plays, comedies and farces of international reputation; also recent professional successes by famous American and English Authors.

SAMUEL FRENCH
Oldest Play Publisher in the World
28-30 West 38th Street, NEW YORK CITY

Golden Days

A comedy of youth, in four acts, by Sidney Toler and Marion Short. 7 males, 10 females. Three interior scenes. Costumes modern. Plays 2½ hours.

“Golden Days” is a play with all the charm of youth. It enjoyed a run of sixteen weeks in Chicago with Patricia Collinge in the leading role, and was then brought to the Gaiety Theatre, New York, with Helen Hayes in the part of “Mary Anne.”

Come Out of the Kitchen

A charming comedy in 3 acts, adapted by A. E. Thomas from the story of the same name by Alice Duer Miller. 6 males, 5 females. Three interior scenes. Costumes, modern. Plays 2½ hours.

“Come Out of the Kitchen,” with Ruth Chatterton in the leading role, made a notable success on its production by Henry Miller at the Cohan Theatre, New York. It was also a great success at the Strand Theatre, London. A most ingenious and entertaining comedy, and we strongly recommend it for amateur production.

His Majesty Bunker Bean

A farcical comedy in four acts. By Lee Wilson Dodd, from the novel by Harry Leon Wilson. 12 males, 6 females. Four interior scenes. Costumes, modern. Plays 2½ hours. Those who have laughed immoderately at Harry Leon Wilson’s story will be greatly amused by the play, which tells the story of a cowed and credulous youth who became kingly when he was tricked into believing himself a reincarnation of Napoleon. “His Majesty Bunker Bean,” with Taylor Holmes in the title role, was brought to the Astor Theatre, New York, after a run of 25 weeks in Chicago. A delightful and wholesome farce comedy with no dull moments.

A Full House

A farcical comedy in three acts. By Fred Jackson. 7 males, 7 females. One interior scene. Modern costumes. Plays 2½ hours. This newest and funniest of all farces was written by Fred Jackson, the well-known short story writer, and is backed up by the prestige of an impressive New York success and the promise of unlimited fun presented in the most attractive form. A cleverer farce has not been seen for many a long day. “A Full House” is a house full of laughs.

The Charm School

A fascinating comedy in three acts by Alice Duer Miller and Robert Milton. 6 males, 10 females. (May be played by 5 males and 8 females). Any number of school girls may be used in the ensembles. Scenes, two interiors. Costumes, modern. Plays 2½ hours.

The story of “The Charm School” is familiar to Mrs. Miller’s readers. It relates the adventures of a handsome young automobile salesman scarcely out of his ’teens who, upon inheriting a girl’s boarding school from a maiden aunt, insists on running it himself, according to his own ideas, chief of which is, by the way, that the dominant feature in the education of the young girl of to-day should be CHARM.

The situations that arise are teeming with humor—clean, wholesome humor. In the end the young man gives up the school and promises to wait until the most precocious of his pupils reaches a marriageable age.

“The Charm School” has the freshness of youth, the inspiration of an extravagant but novel idea, the charm of originality, and the promise of wholesome, sanely amusing, pleasant entertainment. We strongly recommend it for high school production.

“The Charm School” was first produced at the Bijou Theatre, New York, and then toured the country. Two companies are now playing it in England.

Daddy Long-Legs

A charming comedy in four acts, by Jean Webster. The full cast calls for 6 males, 7 females and 6 orphans, but the play, by the easy doubling of some of the characters may be played by 4 males, 4 females and three orphans. The orphans appear only in the first act and may be played by small girls of any age. Four easy interior scenes. Costumes modern. Plays 2½ hours.

The New York Times reviewer, on the morning following the Broadway production, wrote the following comment:

“If you will take your pencil and write down, one below the other, the words delightful, charming, sweet, beautiful and entertaining, and then draw a line and add them up, the answer will be ‘Daddy Long-Legs.’ To that result you might even add brilliant, pathetic and humorous, but the answer even then would be just what it was before—the play which Miss Jean Webster has made from her book, ‘Daddy Long-Legs,’ and which was presented at the Gaiety last night. To attempt to describe the simplicity and beauty of ‘Daddy Long-Legs’ would be like attempting to describe the first breath of Spring after an exceedingly tiresome and hard Winter.”

“Daddy Long-Legs” enjoyed a two-years’ run in New York and was then toured for over three years, and is now published in play form for the first time.

BILLETED.

A comedy in 3 acts, by F. Tennison Jesse and H. Harwood. 4 males, 5 females. One easy interior scene. A charming comedy, constructed with uncommon skill, and abounds with clever lines. Margaret Anglin’s big success. Amateurs will find this comedy easy to produce and popular with all audiences.

NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH.

A comedy in 3 acts. By James Montgomery. 5 males, 6 females. Costumes, modern. Two interior scenes. Plays 2 and ½ hours.

Is it possible to tell the absolute truth—even for twenty-four hours? It is—at least Bob Bennett, the hero of “Nothing But the Truth,” accomplished the feat. The bet he made with his business partners, and the trouble he got into—with his partners, his friends, and his fiancée—this is the subject of William Collier’s tremendous comedy hit. “Nothing But the Truth” can be whole-heartedly recommended as one of the most sprightly, amusing and popular comedies that this country can boast.

IN WALKED JIMMY.

A comedy in 4 acts, by Minnie Z. Jaffa. 10 males, 2 females (although any number of males and females may be used as clerks, etc.). Two interior scenes. Costumes, modern. Plays 2 and ½ hours. The thing into which Jimmy walked was a broken-down shoe factory, when the clerks had all been fired, and when the proprietor was in serious contemplation of suicide.

Jimmy, nothing else but plain Jimmy, would have been a mysterious figure had it not been for his matter-of-fact manner, his smile and his everlasting humanness. He put the shoe business on its feet, won the heart of the girl clerk, saved her erring brother from jail, escaped that place as a permanent boarding house himself, and foiled the villain.

Clean, wholesome comedy with just a touch of human nature, just a dash of excitement and more than a little bit of true philosophy make “In Walked Jimmy” one of the most delightful of plays. Jimmy is full of the religion of life, the religion of happiness and the religion of helpfulness, and he so permeates the atmosphere with his “religion” that everyone is happy. The spirit of optimism, good cheer, and hearty laughter dominates the play. There is not a dull moment in any of the four acts. We strongly recommend it.

MARTHA BY-THE-DAY.

An optimistic comedy in three acts, by Julie M. Lippmann, author of the “Martha” stories. 5 males, 5 females. Three interior scenes. Costumes modern. Plays 2 and ½ hours.

It is altogether a gentle thing, this play. It is full of quaint humor, old-fashioned, homely sentiment, the kind that people who see the play will recall and chuckle over to-morrow and the next day.

Miss Lippmann has herself adapted her very successful book for stage service, and in doing this has selected from her novel the most telling incidents, infectious comedy and homely sentiment for the play, and the result is thoroughly delightful.

SAMUEL FRENCH, 28-30 West 38th Street, New York City
New and Explicit Descriptive Catalogue Mailed
Free on Request

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Horace Parker
Aunt Martha (Miss Parker)
Minnie Templar, Adopted sister to Horace
Arthur Dicey
Bella, Servant at the Parkers’
A Tramp
A Messenger from Mars
Mrs. Clarence
Sir Edward Vivian, An Astronomer	}	Guests of Mrs. Clarence
1st Gentleman	}
2nd Gentleman	}
Other Ladies and Gentlemen	}
Footman, At Mrs. Clarence’s
Dr. Chapman
A Woman Outcast
A Policeman
A Newsboy
A Wounded Man	}	Crowd in Street Accident
Polly, his wife	}
1st Man	}
2nd Man	}
Ambulance Doctor	}
Other Men and Women	}
1st Working Man	}	Refugees from a fire
1st Working Woman	}
2nd Working Woman	}
Girl Mothering a Baby	}
An Old Couple	}
Other Working People and Babies	}

ACT	I.	A room in Horace Parker’s house. 9 p.m.
ACT	II.	(A Dream) Outside Mrs. Clarence’s house.
ACT	III.	Same as Act I. The same evening.

The Project Gutenberg eBook of A message from Mars