Part 6

FORMER POOR MAN. [_Hesitating, and a bit surprised._] Why--er--I said that I had a big piece of luck to-day, and I am going to celebrate. I am having a fine dinner, and I just asked if--if--you wouldn't have dinner with me.

VAIN WOMAN. [_Still looking blank and a little confused, then smiling archly and acting as though she had been hearing compliments, she speaks affectedly._] Really, do you think so? [_Looking down and smoothing her dress._] But, then, every one tells me that I am.

FORMER POOR MAN. [_Puzzled, turns to_ IMP _for help_.] Just what is her trouble, Nut?

IMP. [_Secretly gleeful._] She is stone-deaf. You had better write it.

FORMER POOR MAN. Never! No deaf ones for me.

[_Turns away and consults menu again._ VAIN WOMAN _poses and frequently looks in hand-glass to reassure herself_.

[FORMER RICH CITIZEN _re-enters from the changing-room. He is dressed in shabby overalls, jumper, and an old hat. He has a pipe in his mouth. He walks arrogantly over to the_ FORMER POOR MAN _and addresses him_.

FORMER RICH CITIZEN. Give me a light.

FORMER POOR MAN. [_Trying to live up to his fine clothes and wallet full of money, looks the_ FORMER RICH CITIZEN _over snubbingly_.] Say, who do you think you are? You light out, see?

FORMER RICH CITIZEN. [_Very much surprised, stands nonplussed a moment._] Well, upon my word, I--I----

[_He stops short in his speech, walks haughtily over to the railing, where he stands glowering at the_ FORMER POOR MAN. _The_ FORMER POOR MAN _starts for the street door, but_ IMP _runs after him, waving the bottle of tablets_.

IMP. I'll sell you these for two bits.

FORMER POOR MAN. What is that?

IMP. [_Grinning._] Indigestion tablets.

FORMER POOR MAN. [_Puts his hand to his stomach and laughs a little lamely._] Keep 'em; I don't need 'em.

[VAIN WOMAN _fastens her fur and starts for the street-door, giving the_ FORMER RICH CITIZEN _a snubbing look as she passes him_. IMP _stops her and offers the ear-trumpet_.

IMP. You might need this; I'll sell it for a dollar.

[_She does not hear what he says, but she looks her scorn at the ear-trumpet and walks proudly out._

FORMER RICH CITIZEN. [_Fumbling at his pocket, as if to find a watch._] Boy, what time is it? I haven't my watch.

IMP. [_Grinning mischievously._] Time to milk the cows.

[_The_ FORMER RICH CITIZEN _starts angrily toward_ IMP, _then evidently thinking better of it, shrugs his shoulders and stalks majestically to the street-door. He pauses with it partly open, turns as if to speak to_ IMP, _drawing himself up haughtily--a ludicrous figure in his shabby outfit--then he goes abruptly out, slamming the door_.

[IMP _doubles himself up in a paroxysm of glee as the curtain falls_.

SCENE II

_A fortnight has passed. The curtain rises upon the same stage-setting. The_ JUDGE _is not about, but we see_ IMP _asleep in a chair. All seems quiet and serene. But suddenly the street-door opens noisily, and the_ FORMER POOR MAN _bursts into the room. He is panting, as though he had been running. He is haggard and seems in great pain, for occasionally he moans. He looks wildly about the room, and seeing_ IMP _asleep in the chair, he rushes to him and shakes him roughly_. IMP _wakes slowly, yawning and rubbing his eyes_.

FORMER POOR MAN. [_Frantically._] The Judge, where is he? I must see him at once.

IMP. [_Yawning._] You're too early. He isn't down yet.

[_Settles himself to go to sleep again._

FORMER POOR MAN. [_Walking the floor, and holding his hands to his stomach._] Don't go to sleep again. I'm nearly crazy. What time does the Judge get here? Where does he live? Can't we send for him?

IMP. [_Indifferently._] Oh, he is liable to come any minute--and then he may not come for an hour or two.

FORMER POOR MAN. [_Pacing the floor, moaning and rubbing his stomach_.] Oh, I can't stand it much longer. It's driving me wild, I tell you. I do wish the Judge would come.

IMP. [_Getting up from his chair and keeping step with the_ FORMER POOR MAN.] What's the matter? I thought all you wanted was to eat, drink, and be merry.

FORMER POOR MAN. [_Frantically waving his arms._] Eat, drink, and be merry be----! Everything I eat gives me indigestion something awful; everything I drink gives it to me worse. How can I be merry when I am in this torment all the time? I tell you this pain is driving me mad. I want to get rid of it quick. Oh, why doesn't the Judge come?

IMP. What's the Judge got to do with it?

FORMER POOR MAN. [_Pathetically._] I am going to beg him to take back this indigestion and give me back my poverty. It was not so bad, after all; not nearly so bad as this pain in my stomach.

[_The street-door opens slowly, and a sorrowful woman enters. She is weeping softly. It is the_ VAIN WOMAN. _Gone is her posing and her proud manner. She walks humbly to the railing, and not seeing the_ JUDGE, she turns to IMP. _The_ FORMER POOR MAN _looks at the_ VAIN WOMAN, _frowningly muttering: "What's she here for?" Then he sits down at the left and rocks back and forth in misery._

VAIN WOMAN. [_Tearfully._] I must see the Judge right away, please.

IMP. [Languidly.] He isn't down yet. You're too earl----

VAIN WOMAN. [_Interrupting._] Tell him that it is very important, that I am in great distress and that he must see me at once.

IMP. [_Loudly._] I said that he was not down yet.

[_Seeing that she does not understand, he takes a writing-pad from his desk, scribbles a few words, and standing in front of her, holds it up for her to read._

VAIN WOMAN. [_After reading._] Oh, when will he be here? Can't you get him to come right away? Oh, I am so unhappy. [_She walks the floor in agitation._

[_The_ FORMER POOR MAN _grunts in irritation and turns his back on her_.

VAIN WOMAN. I cannot hear a word that is said to me. No one seems to want me around, and I am not invited out any more. I have the feeling that people are making fun of me instead of praising my beauty. Oh, it is dreadful to be deaf. [_Getting hysterical._] I want the Judge to take away this deafness. I would rather have my wrinkles.

[IMP _shakes his head in pretended sympathy, saying: "Too bad, too bad."_

[_She misunderstands and cries out._

VAIN WOMAN. Has the Judge given away my wrinkles? I want them back. I want my very own wrinkles, too. Wrinkles are distinguished-looking. [_Beginning to sob._] I don't want to be deaf any longer.

IMP. [_Running over to the_ FORMER POOR MAN.] Say, this lady feels very bad. Can't you cheer her up a little?

FORMER POOR MAN. [_Who is still rocking back and forth with his own misery, looks up at_ IMP _in disgust_.] Cheer--her--up! Me? What's the joke?

[_The_ VAIN WOMAN _walks to the curtained door, looks in as if seeking something, then returns to a chair, where she sits, weeping softly_.

[_A peculiar thumping is heard at the street-door. The_ FORMER POOR MAN _jumps to his feet in expectancy, hoping it is the_ JUDGE. IMP, _also, stands waiting. The door opens as though the person that opened it did so with difficulty. The_ FORMER RICH CITIZEN _hobbles in. He is ragged and dirty, and one foot is bandaged, which causes him to use a crutch. He carries a large milk-can. He hobbles painfully to the centre of the stage. The_ FORMER POOR MAN _grunts with disappointment, and sits down again, rubbing away at his stomach. The_ VAIN WOMAN _sits with bowed head, silently weeping. The_ FORMER RICH CITIZEN _looks about, then addresses_ IMP _in a rather husky voice_.

FORMER RICH CITIZEN. I wish to see the Judge at once. It is most urgent.

IMP. [_With an ill-concealed smile._] You can't see the Judge at once.

FORMER RICH CITIZEN. [_Impatiently._] Why not? I told you it was most urgent.

IMP. [_Grinning openly._] Because he isn't here. He hasn't come in yet. What's your trouble?

FORMER RICH CITIZEN. [_Vehemently._] Trouble! Everything's the trouble! I have been abused, insulted, overworked--even the cows have kicked me. [_Looking down at his bandaged foot._] I can't stand it. I won't stand it. I want back my proper place in the world, where I am respected, and where I can rest and sleep and mingle with my kind. [_He hobbles to a chair and sits down wearily._

FORMER POOR MAN. [_Getting up from his chair, walks over to the_ FORMER RICH CITIZEN, _waggles his finger in his face and speaks fretfully_.] What cause have you to squeal so? If you had indigestion like I have all the time, you might be entitled to raise a holler. Why, I can't eat a thing without having the most awful pain right here [_puts his hand to the pit of his stomach_], and when I take a drink, oh, heavens, it----

FORMER RICH CITIZEN. [_Interrupting contemptuously._] You big baby, howling about the stomachache. If you had a man-sized trouble, there might be some excuse for you. Now I, who have been used to wealth and respect, have been subjected to the most gruelling ordeals; why, in that dairy there were a million cows, and they kicked me, and horned me, and I----

VAIN WOMAN. [_Walks over to them, interrupting their talk, and speaks in a voice punctuated with sniffing sobs._] Have--[_sniff_] either of you gentlemen [_sniff_] ever been deaf? [_Sniff, sniff._] It is a terrible thing [_sniff_] for a beautiful woman like I am [_sniff_] to have such an affliction. [_Sniff, sniff, sniff._

[FORMER RICH CITIZEN _shrugs his shoulders indifferently and limps to the other side of the stage, where he sits_.

FORMER POOR MAN. [_Stalks over to the railing, where he leans limply._] Lord deliver me from a sniffling woman.

[IMP, _who is perched on his desk, chuckles wickedly of their sufferings_. VAIN WOMAN _sinks dejectedly into the chair vacated by the_ FORMER RICH CITIZEN.

[_A knock is heard at the street-door. The_ FORMER POOR MAN _and the_ FORMER RICH CITIZEN _start forward eagerly, expecting the_ JUDGE. _Even the_ VAIN WOMAN, _seeing the others rise, gets to her feet hopefully_. IMP _hastily slides from his desk and, pulling down his tight little jacket and cocking his round little cap a little more over one eye, goes to see who knocks. A messenger hands him a letter and silently departs._

IMP. [_Importantly._] Letter for me from the Judge.

FORMER POOR MAN. A letter! Why doesn't he come himself?

FORMER RICH CITIZEN. Send for him, boy.

IMP. [_Grins at_ FORMER RICH CITIZEN _in an insolent manner_.] Well, well, I wonder what the Judge is writing to me for. It's queer he would send me a letter.

[_He looks the letter over carefully, both sides; holds it up to the light, smells it, shakes it. The two men and the woman grow more and more nervous._

FORMER POOR MAN. [_Extremely irritated._] For goodness' sake, open it and read it.

FORMER RICH CITIZEN. Yes, yes, and don't be so long about it.

[VAIN WOMAN _simply stands pathetically and waits_. IMP _walks over to his desk, hunts for a knife, finally finds one; looks letter over again, then slowly slits the envelope and draws out letter, which he reads silently to himself. They are breathlessly waiting._ IMP _whistles softly to himself_.

IMP. Well, what do you think of that!

FORMER POOR MAN. [_Excitedly._] What is it--why don't you tell us?

FORMER RICH CITIZEN. [_Pounding with his crutch on the floor._] Come, come, don't keep me waiting like this.

IMP. [_Reads letter again, silently, chuckling._] All right. Here it is. [_Reads._]

"MY DEAR IMP:

"I have tried faithfully for years to aid distressed humanity, but they are an ungrateful lot of fools, and I wash my hands of them. When this letter reaches you I will be on the high seas, and I am never coming back. So write 'Finis' in the big old ledger of miseries, and shut up shop, for the Exchange is closed--forever.

Yours in disgust, THE JUDGE."

[_They all stand dazed a moment. The_ VAIN WOMAN, _sensing that something terrible has happened, rushes from one to the other, saying: "What is it? What has happened?"_ IMP _gives her the letter to read_.

FORMER POOR MAN. [_In a perfect frenzy._] My God! Indigestion all the rest of my days.

VAIN WOMAN. [_After reading letter collapses in a chair, hysterically sobbing out._] Deaf, always deaf! Oh, what shall I do!

FORMER RICH CITIZEN. [_Leaning heavily on his crutch and shaking his free hand, clenched in anger._] This is an outrage. I am rich and have influence, and I shall take steps to--to----

[IMP _laughs mockingly. The man looks down at his milk-spattered clothes, his bandaged foot, and, letting his crutch fall to the floor, sinks dejectedly into a chair, burying his face in his hands._

[IMP _dangles his keys and opens the street-door, as an invitation for them to go. The_ FORMER POOR MAN _is the first to start, moving dazedly and breathing hard_. IMP _offers him the bottle of indigestion tablets; the man grasps them, eagerly, tipping_ IMP, _who chuckles as he pockets the money. The_ FORMER POOR MAN _takes a tablet as he exits. The_ VAIN WOMAN, _bowed with sorrow, moves slowly toward the door_. IMP _touches her arm and offers the ear-trumpet. She accepts it, with a wild sob, tipping_ IMP, _who again chuckles as he pockets the money. The last we see of the_ VAIN WOMAN, _she is trying to hold the ear-trumpet to her ear, and exits, sobbing. The_ FORMER RICH CITIZEN _still sits in his chair, his head in his hands_. IMP _picks up the milk-can, and, tapping the man not too gently on the shoulder, thrusts the milk-can at him and makes a significant gesture, indicative of_--THIS WAY OUT. _The man rises dejectedly, picks up his crutch, takes the milk-can, and hobbles painfully toward the door._ IMP _doubles himself up in wild Mephistophelian glee as the_

CURTAIN FALLS

SAM AVERAGE

BY

PERCY MACKAYE

_Sam Average_ is reprinted by special permission of Percy Mackaye. This play first appeared in _Yankee Fantasies_, Duffield & Company, New York.

_Special Notice_

No public or private performance of this play--professional or amateur--and no public reading of it for money may be given without the written permission of the author and the payment of royalty. Persons who desire to obtain such permission should communicate direct with the author at his address, Harvard Club, 27 West 44th Street, New York City.

PERCY MACKAYE

Percy Mackaye, who was born in New York City in 1875, is one of the few Americans whose interest has been almost wholly in the theatre. As a lecturer, writer, and champion of real art in drama, he has had few if any equals. He inherited his interest in drama from his father, Steele Mackaye, author of _Hazel Kirke_. He was educated at Harvard, where he studied under Professor George Pierce Baker, and at Leipzig. He has travelled extensively in Europe and at various times has resided in Rome, Switzerland, and London. In 1914 Dartmouth conferred upon him the honorary Master of Arts degree. At present he holds a fellowship in dramatic literature in Miami University, Oxford, Ohio.

Mr. Mackaye's efforts in the dramatic field have been varied. Masques, pageants, operas, and plays are to his credit. _The Canterbury Pilgrims_, _The Scarecrow_, _Jeanne D'Arc_, _Mater_, _Anti-Matrimony_, _Sanctuary_, _Saint Louis Masque_, and _Caliban_ are among his better-known works.

In 1912 appeared his Yankee Fantasies, of which _Sam Average_ and _Gettysburg_ are the more noteworthy.

In all of Mr. Mackaye's work he possesses what many dramatists lack--a definite ideal. He aims at an artistic and literary effect. His _Sam Average_ is a real contribution to American patriotic drama.

CHARACTERS

ANDREW JOEL ELLEN SAM AVERAGE

SAM AVERAGE[D]

_An intrenchment in Canada, near Niagara Falls, in the year 1814. Night, shortly before dawn._

_On the right, the dull glow of a smouldering wood fire ruddies the earthen embankment, the low-stretched outline of which forms, with darkness, the scenic background._

_Near the centre, left, against the dark, a flag with stars floats from its standard._

_Beside the fire_, ANDREW, _reclined, gazes at a small frame in his hand; near him is a knapsack, with contents emptied beside it_.

_On the embankment_, JOEL, _with a gun, paces back and forth, a blanket thrown about his shoulders_.

JOEL. [_With a singing call._] Four o'clock!--All's well!

[_Jumping down from the embankment, he approaches the fire._

ANDREW. By God, Joel, it's bitter.

JOEL. [_Rubbing his hands over the coals._] A mite sharpish.

ANDREW. [_Looks up eagerly._] What?

JOEL. Cuts sharp, for Thanksgivin'.

ANDREW. [_Sinks back, gloomily._] Oh! [_A pause._] I wondered you should agree with me. You meant the weather. I meant--[_A pause again._

JOEL. Well, Andy, what'd you mean?

ANDREW. Life.

JOEL. Shucks!

ANDREW. [_To himself._] Living!

JOEL. [_Sauntering over left, listens._] Hear a rooster crow?

ANDREW. No. What are you doing?

JOEL. Tiltin' the flag over crooked in the dirt. That's our signal.

ANDREW. Nothing could be more appropriate, unless we buried it--buried it in the dirt!

JOEL. She's to find us where the flag's turned down. I fixed that with the sergeant all right. The rooster crowin' 's _her_ watchword for us.

ANDREW. An eagle screaming, Joel: that would have been better. [_Rising._] Ah! [_He laughs painfully._

JOEL. Hush up, Andy! The nearest men ain't two rods away. You'll wake 'em. Pitch it low.

ANDREW. Don't be alarmed. I'm coward enough.

JOEL. 'Course, though, there ain't much danger. I'm sentinel this end, and the sergeant has the tip at t'other. Besides, you may call it the reg'lar thing. There's been two thousand deserters already in this tuppenny-ha'penny war, and none on 'em the worse off. When a man don't get his pay for nine months--well, he ups and takes his vacation. Why not? When Nell joins us, we'll hike up the Niagara, cross over to Tonawanda, and take our breakfast in Buffalo. By that time the boys here will be marchin' away toward Lundy's Lane.

ANDREW. [_Walks back and forth, shivering._] I'm afraid.

JOEL. 'Fraid? Bosh!

ANDREW. I'm afraid to face----

JOEL. Face what? We won't get caught.

ANDREW. Your sister--my wife.

JOEL. Nell! Why, ain't she comin' here just a-purpose to get you? Ain't there reason enough, Lord knows? Ain't you made up your mind to light out home anyhow?

ANDREW. Yes. That's just what she'll never forgive me for. In her heart she'll never think of me the same. For she knows as well as I what pledge I'll be breaking--what sacred pledge.

JOEL. What you mean?

ANDREW. No matter, no matter; this is gush.

[_He returns to the fire and begins to fumble over the contents of his knapsack._ JOEL _watches him idly_.

JOEL. One of _her_ curls?

ANDREW. [_Looking at a lock of hair in the firelight._] No; the baby's, little Andy's. Some day they'll tell him how his father---- [_He winces, and puts the lock away._

JOEL. [_Going toward the embankment._] Listen!

ANDREW. [_Ties up the package, muttering._] Son of a traitor!

JOEL. [_Tiptoeing back._] It's crowed--that's her.

[_Leaping to his feet_, ANDREW _stares toward the embankment where the flag is dipped; then turns his back to it, closing his eyes and gripping his hands_.

[_After a pause, silently the figure of a young woman emerges from the dark and stands on the embankment. She is bareheaded and ill clad._

[JOEL _touches_ ANDREW, _who turns and looks toward her. Silently she steals down to him and they embrace_.

ANDREW. My Nell!

ELLEN. Nearly a year----

ANDREW. Now, at last!

ELLEN. Hold me close, Andy.

ANDREW. You're better?

ELLEN. Let's forget--just for now.

ANDREW. Is he grown much?

ELLEN. Grown? You should see him! But so ill! What could I do? You see----

ANDREW. I know, I know.

ELLEN. The money was all gone. They turned me out at the old place, and then----

ANDREW. I know, dear.

ELLEN. I got sewing, but when the smallpox----

ANDREW. I have all your letters, Nell. Come, help me to pack.

ELLEN. What! You're really decided----

JOEL. [_Approaching._] Hello, Sis!

ELLEN. [_Absently._] Ah, Joel; that you? [_Eagerly, following_ ANDREW _to the knapsack_.] But, my dear----

ANDREW. Just these few things, and we're off.

ELLEN. [_Agitated._] Wait, wait! You don't know yet why I've come--instead of writing.

ANDREW. I can guess.

ELLEN. But you can't; that's--what's so hard! I have to tell you something, and then---- [_Slowly._] I must know from your own eyes, from yourself, that you wish to do this, Andrew; that you think it is _right_.

ANDREW. [_Gently._] I guessed that.

ELLEN. This is what I must tell you. It's not just the sickness, it's not only the baby, not the money gone--and all that; it's--it's----

ANDREW. [_Murmurs._] My God!

ELLEN. It's what all that brings--the helplessness. I've been insulted. Andy--[_Her voice breaks._] I want a protector.

ANDREW. [_Taking her in his arms, where she sobs._] There, dear!

ELLEN. [_With a low moan._] You know.

ANDREW. I know. Come, now; we'll go.

ELLEN. [_Her face lighting up._] Oh! and you _dare_! It's _right_?

ANDREW. [_Moving from her, with a hoarse laugh._] _Dare?_ Dare I be damned by God and all his angels? Ha! Come, we're slow.

JOEL. Time enough.

ELLEN. [_Sinking upon_ JOEL'S _knapsack as a seat, leans her head on her hands, and looks strangely at_ ANDREW.] I'd better have written, I'm afraid.

ANDREW. [_Controlling his emotion._] Now, don't take it that way. I've considered it all.

ELLEN. [_With deep quiet._] Blasphemously?

ANDREW. Reasonably, my brave wife. When I enlisted, I did so in a dream. I dreamed I was called to love and serve our country. But that dream is shattered. This sordid war, this political murder, has not one single principle of humanity to excuse its bloody sacrilege. It doesn't deserve my loyalty--our loyalty.

ELLEN. Are you saying this--for my sake? What of "God and his angels"?

ANDREW. [_Not looking at her._] If we had a just cause--a cause of liberty like that in Seventy-six; if to serve one's country meant to serve God and his angels--then, yes; a man might put away wife and child. He might say: "I will not be a husband, a father; I will be a patriot." But now--like this--tangled in a web of spiders--caught in a grab-net of politicians--and you, you and our baby-boy, like this--hell let in on our home--no, Country be cursed!

ELLEN. [_Slowly._] So, then, when little Andy grows up----

ANDREW. [_Groaning._] I say that the only thing----

ELLEN. I am to tell him----

ANDREW. [_Defiantly._] Tell him his father deserted his country, and thanked God for the chance. [_Looking about him passionately._] Here! [_He tears a part of the flag from its standard, and reaches it toward her._] You're cold; put this round you.

[_As he is putting the strip of colored silk about her shoulders, there rises, faint yet close by, a sound of fifes and flutes, playing the merry march-strains of "Yankee Doodle."_

[_At the same time there enters along the embankment, dimly, enveloped in a great cloak, a tall_ FIGURE, _which pauses beside the standard of the torn flag, silhouetted against the first pale streaks of the dawn_.

ELLEN. [_Gazing at_ ANDREW.] What's the matter?

ANDREW. [_Listening._] Who are they? Where is it?

JOEL. [_Starts, alertly._] He hears something.

ANDREW. Why should they play before daybreak?

ELLEN. Andy----

JOEL. [_Whispers._] Ssh! Look out! We're spied on!

[_He points to the embankment._ ANDREW _and_ ELLEN _draw back_.

THE FIGURE. [_Straightening the flag-standard, and leaning on it._] Desartin'?

ANDREW. [_Puts_ ELLEN _behind him_.] Who's there? The watchword!

THE FIGURE. God save the smart folks!