Part 5

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.

AUNT. I’ll see you out myself. (_Exit with DICEY R._)

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._)

AUNT. Oh! There have been burglars here! Coats all taken. He has pursued them.

MINNIE. He couldn’t wear all his coats at once.

(_Sounds of voices at front door heard, growing louder and louder._)

AUNT. They are returning for more plunder.

(_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.

MINNIE. He has been to 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; 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.

AUNT. What is the matter with him, Horace?

HORACE. Half an arm burnt away.

MINNIE. These tiny tots! Would a little wine help them or you?

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.

MINNIE. (_Giving wine_) Try and not worry. We’ll do what we can.

HORACE. Yes, cheer up, folk! We’ll see you on your feet again.

FIRST WORKING MAN. Thank you, Mister. That’s a kind word, no mistake.

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 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 goes out and brings DR. CHAPMAN in R._)

HORACE. This is the worst case, Doctor.

(_DR. CHAPMAN goes to lad on sofa. Enter BELLA R._)

BELLA. Some of the rooms are ready, sir.

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. (_Patting his shoulder_) Nephew, I am proud of you!

HORACE. Funny! I thought she’d kick.

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.

MINNIE. You brought him in. I thought he was your son.

TRAMP. No, Miss, I ain’t got no son, only a daughter.

MINNIE. Has he no friends?

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.

HORACE. There, Minnie, don’t give way. They will need your help.

BELLA. (_Enter R._) The other rooms are ready, sir.

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.

(_MINNIE shows them off with BELLA R., and exits with crowd._)

HORACE. What is to be done, Doctor?

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.

(_Enter AUNT MARTHA R. Sees lad on sofa._)

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

HORACE. Have you used mine?

AUNT. Horace!

HORACE. Let him have that. May it save him is all I say! Now how to move him.

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._)

MINNIE. Where can they be going to put that poor boy?

AUNT. Horace insists upon giving up his bed and room to him.

MINNIE. (_Astounded_) No!

AUNT. (_Sharing her wonderment_) Yes. (_They look at each other for a moment in silence._)

MINNIE. Well, I can believe it after what he has been doing at the fire.

AUNT. Do you know, Minnie, I hardly think you 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.

MINNIE. It was you who said he was selfish. I was willing to give up the dance.

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——

TRAMP. Will you give me the job of cleaning the snow from your front walks?

HORACE. Yes, and I will pay you in advance.

TRAMP. Needn’t do that, Guv.

AUNT. You will find a shovel in the coal shed, if not——

HORACE. A bit of board will do.

TRAMP. Shovel’s best, Guv’ner——

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——

TRAMP. I doesn’t object.

AUNT. Will you show him the way to the kitchen, Minnie?

TRAMP. Minnie? Is that her name?

AUNT. Why, yes.

TRAMP. I’m looking for a daughter of that name.

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.

HORACE. Why, you said she was the image of your——

TRAMP. Me? Never, Guv’ner. Never saw this lady before.

HORACE. Not you, no, I remember. It was someone else.

AUNT. Your mother knew both Minnie’s parents. Her father was a clergyman.

TRAMP. And I ain’t exactly.

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. What do you mean by clearing the snow together?

HORACE. I fancy the exercise will stimulate thought.

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

HORACE. Why, Aunt, I’m sure I had well earned it.

AUNT. What a noble reproof you have administered by this turning of your house into a common 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?

AUNT. Other—what, dear?

HORACE. That is, philanthropy, benevolence, altruism.

AUNT. I am sure you have done your full share to-night.

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?

HORACE. Perhaps, or in the chair. Don’t bother about me.

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._)

(_Enter MINNIE R._)

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 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!!

MINNIE. (_Startled_) Horace?

HORACE. Forgive me, Minnie! I was a brute to you.

MINNIE. I wronged you, Horace. I know I did.

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

MINNIE. What can I do?

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.

HORACE. There is good in him, and we will bring it out.

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!

(_TRAMP comes into view through window shoveling the snow cheerily._)

CURTAIN

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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.”

Price, 75 cents.

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.

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Price, 75 cents

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.

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A Full House

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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.

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“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.

Price, 75 cents.

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.

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BILLETED.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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