Chapter V: Wedded (3)

"These weren't. They had lost the G when they were quite young, and consequently couldn't bite at all, and Cook said that----"

"No; I'm afraid not."

"I'm sorry," I said resignedly. "I had about forty of them--on the dresser. If you won't allow any of them, it pulls me down a lot. Er--then we have Nitro-glycerine."

There was another howl of derision.

"Not at all," I said haughtily. "Cook had chapped hands very badly, and she went to the chemist's one evening for a little glycerine. The chemist was out, and his assistant--a very nervous young fellow--gave her nitro-glycerine by mistake. It stood on the dresser, it did, really."

"Well," said everybody very reluctantly, "I suppose----"

I went on hastily.

"That's two. Then Nobody. Of course, you might easily find nobody in the kitchen. In fact you would pretty often, I should say. Three. The next is Noon. It could be noon in the kitchen as well as anywhere else. Don't be narrow-minded about that."

"All right. Go on."

"Non-sequitur," I said doubtfully.

"What on earth----"

"It's a little difficult to explain, but the idea is this. At most restaurants you can get a second help of anything for half-price, and that is technically called a 'follow.' Now, if they didn't give you a follow, that would be a Non-sequitur.... You do see that, don't you?"

There was a deadly silence.

"Five," I said cheerfully. "The last is Nottingham. I must confess," I added magnanimously, "that I am a bit doubtful whether you would actually find Nottingham in a kitchen."

"You don't say so!"

"Yes. My feeling is that you would be more likely to find the kitchen in Nottingham. On the other hand, it is just possible that as Calais was found engraven on Mary's heart, so--Oh, very well. Then it remains at five."

* * * * *

Of course you think that as I only had five, I came out last. But you are wrong. There is a pleasing rule in this game that, if you have any word in your list which somebody else has, you cannot count it. And as all the others had the obvious things--such as a nutmeg-grater or a neck of mutton, or a nomlette--my five won easily. And you will note that if only I had been allowed to count my gnats, it would have been forty-five.

XXXVII. AN INFORMAL EVENING

Dinner was a very quiet affair. Not a soul drew my chair away from under me as I sat down, and during the meal nobody threw bread about. We talked gently of art and politics and things; and when the ladies left there was no booby trap waiting for them at the door. In a word, nothing to prepare me for what was to follow.

We strolled leisurely into the drawing-room. A glance told me the worst. The ladies were in a cluster round Miss Power, and Miss Power was on the floor. She got up quickly as we came in.

"We were trying to go underneath the poker," she explained. "Can you do it?"

I waved the poker back.

"Let me see you do it again," I said. "I missed the first part."

"Oh, I can never do it. Bob, you show us."

Bob is an active young fellow. He took the poker, rested the end on the floor, and then twisted himself underneath his right arm. I expected to see him come up inside out, but he looked much the same after it. However, no doubt his organs are all on the wrong side now.

"Yes, that's how I should do it," I said hastily.

But Miss Power was firm. She gave me the poker. I pressed it hard on the floor, said good-bye to them all, and dived. I got half-way round, and was supporting myself upside down by one toe and the slippery end of the poker, when it suddenly occurred to me that the earth was revolving at an incredible speed on its own axis, and that, in addition, we were hurtling at thousands of miles a minute round the sun. It seemed impossible in these circumstances that I should keep my balance any longer; and as soon as I realised this the poker began to slip. I was in no sort of position to do anything about it, and we came down heavily together.

"Oh, what a pity!" said Miss Power. "I quite thought you'd done it."

"Being actually on the spot," I said, "I knew that I hadn't."

"Do try again."

"Not till the ground's a little softer."

"Let's do the jam-pot trick," said another girl.

"I'm not going under a jam-pot for anybody," I murmured.

However, it turned out that this trick was quite different. You place a book (Macaulay's _Essays_ or what not) on the jam-pot and sit on the book, one heel only touching the ground. In the right hand you have a box of matches, in the left a candle. The jam-pot, of course, is on its side, so that it can roll beneath you. Then you light the candle ... and hand it to anybody who wants to go to bed.

I was ready to give way to the ladies here, but even while I was bowing and saying, "Not at all," I found myself on one of the jam-pots with Bob next to me on another. To balance with the arms outstretched was not so difficult; but as the matches were then about six feet from the candle and there seemed no way of getting them nearer together the solution of the problem was as remote as ever. Three times I brought my hands together, and three times the jam-pot left me.

"Well played, Bob," said somebody. The bounder has done it.

I looked at his jam-pot.

"There you are," I said. "'Raspberry--1909.' Mine's 'Gooseberry--1911,' a rotten vintage. And look at my book, _Alone on the Prairie_; and you've got _The Mormon's Wedding_. No wonder I couldn't do it."

I refused to try it again as I didn't think I was being treated fairly; and after Bob and Miss Power had had a race at it, which Bob won, we got on to something else.

"Of course you can pick a pin out of a chair with your teeth?" said Miss Power.

"Not properly," I said. "I always swallow the pin."

"I suppose it doesn't count if you swallow the pin," said Miss Power thoughtfully.

"I don't know. I've never really thought about that side of it much. Anyhow, unless you've got a whole lot of pins you don't want, don't ask me to do it to-night."

Accordingly we passed on to the water-trick. I refused at this, but Miss Power went full length on the floor with a glass of water balanced on her forehead and came up again without spilling a single drop. Personally I shouldn't have minded spilling a single drop; it was the thought of spilling the whole glass that kept me back. Anyway it is a useless trick, the need for which never arises in an ordinary career. Picking up _The Times_ with the teeth, while clasping the left ankle with the right hand, is another matter. That might come in useful on occasions; as, for instance, if, having lost your left arm on the field and having to staunch with the right hand the flow of blood from a bullet wound in the opposite ankle, you desired to glance through the Financial Supplement while waiting for the ambulance.

"Here's a nice little trick," broke in Bob, as I was preparing myself in this way for the German invasion.

He had put two chairs together, front to front, and was standing over them, if that conveys it to you. Then he jumped up, turned round in the air, and came down facing the other way.

"Can _you_ do it?" I said to Miss Power.

"Come and try," said Bob to me. "It's not really difficult."

I went and stood over the chairs. Then I moved them apart and walked over to my hostess.

"Good-bye," I said; "I'm afraid I must go now."

"Coward!" said somebody, who knew me rather better than the others.

"It's much easier than you think," said Bob.

"I don't think it's easy at all," I protested. "I think it's impossible."

I went back and stood over the chairs again. For some time I waited there in deep thought. Then I bent my knees preparatory to the spring, straightened them up, and said.$1hat happens if you just miss it?"

"I suppose you bark your shins a bit."

"Yes, that's what I thought."

I bent my knees again, worked my arms up and down, and then stopped suddenly and said:

"What happens if you miss it pretty easily?"

"Oh, _you_ can do it, if Bob can," said Miss Power kindly.

"He's practised. I expect he started with two hassocks and worked up to this. I'm not afraid, but I want to know the possibilities. If it's only a broken leg or two, I don't mind. If it's permanent disfigurement I think I ought to consult my family first."

I jumped up and came down again the same way for practice.

"Very well," I said. "Now I'm going to try. I haven't the faintest hope of doing it, but you all seem to want to see an accident, and anyhow, I'm not going to be called a coward. One, two, three...."

"Well done," cried everybody.

"Did I do it?" I whispered, as I sat on the floor and pressed a cushion against my shins.

"Rather!"

"Then," I said, massaging my ankles, "next time I shall try to miss."

XXXVIII. A BILLIARD LESSON

I was showing Celia a few fancy strokes on the billiard table. The other members of the house-party were in the library, learning their parts for some approaching theatricals--that is to say, they were sitting round the fire and saying to each other, "This _is_ a rotten play." We had been offered the position of auditors to several of the company, but we were going to see _Parsifal_ on the next day, and I was afraid that the constant excitement would be bad for Celia.

"Why don't you ask me to play with you?" she asked. "You never teach me anything."

"There's ingratitude. Why, I gave you your first lesson at golf only last Thursday."

"So you did. I know golf. Now show me billiards."

I looked at my watch.

"We've only twenty minutes. I'll play you thirty up."

"Right-o. What do you give me--a ball or a bisque or what?"

"I can't spare you a ball, I'm afraid. I shall want all three when I get going. You may have fifteen start, and I'll tell you what to do."

"Well, what do I do first?"

"Select a cue."

She went over to the rack and inspected them.

"This seems a nice brown one. Now then, you begin."

"Celia, you've got the half-butt. Put it back and take a younger one."

"I thought it seemed taller than the others." She took another. "How's this? Good. Then off you go."

"Will you be spot or plain?" I said, chalking my cue.

"Does it matter?"

"Not very much. They're both the same shape."

"Then what's the difference?"

"Well, one is more spotted than the other."

"Then I'll be less spotted."

I went to the table.

"I think," I said, "I'll try and screw in off the red." (I did this once by accident and I've always wanted to do it again.) "Or perhaps," I corrected myself, as soon as the ball had left me, "I had better give a safety miss."

I did. My ball avoided the red and came swiftly back into the left-hand bottom pocket.

"That's three to you," I said without enthusiasm.

Celia seemed surprised.

"But I haven't begun yet," she said. "Well, I suppose you know the rules, but it seems funny. What would you like me to do?"

"Well, there isn't much on. You'd better just try and hit the red ball."

"Right." She leant over the table and took long and careful aim. I held my breath.... Still she aimed.... Then keeping her chin on the cue, she slowly turned her head and looked up at me with a thoughtful expression.

"Oughtn't there to be three balls on the table?" she said, wrinkling her forehead.

"No," I answered shortly.

"But why not?"

"Because I went down by mistake."

"But you said that when you got going, you wanted---- I can't argue bending down like this." She raised herself slowly. "You said----Oh, all right, I expect you know. Anyhow, I have scored some already, haven't I?"

"Yes. You're eighteen to my nothing."

"Yes. Well, now I shall have to aim all over again." She bent slowly over her cue. "Does it matter where I hit the red?"

"Not much. As long as you hit it on the red part."

She hit it hard on the side, and both balls came into baulk.

"Too good," I said.

"Does either of us get anything for it?"

"No." The red and white were close together, and I went up the table and down again, on the off-chance of a cannon. I misjudged it, however.

"That's three to you," I said stiffly, as I took my ball out of the right-hand bottom pocket. "Twenty-one to nothing."

"Funny how I'm doing all the scoring," said Celia meditatively. "And I've practically never played before. I shall hit the red hard now and see what happens to it."

She hit, and the red coursed madly about the table, coming to rest near the top right-hand pocket and close to the cushion. With a forcing shot I could get in.

"This will want a lot of chalk," I said pleasantly to Celia, and gave it plenty. Then I let fly....

"Why did that want a lot of chalk?" said Celia with interest.

I went to the fireplace and picked my ball out of the fender.

"That's three to you," I said coldly. "Twenty-four to nothing."

"Am I winning?"

"You're leading," I explained. "Only, you see, I may make a twenty at any moment."

"Oh!" She thought this over. "Well, I may make my three at any moment."

She chalked her cue and went over to her ball.

"What shall I do?"

"Just touch the red on the right-hand side," I said, "and you'll go into the pocket."

"The right-hand side? Do you mean my right-hand side or the ball's?"

"The right-hand side of the ball, of course; that is to say, the side opposite your right-hand."

"But its right-hand side is opposite my left hand, if the ball is facing this way."

"Take it," I said wearily, "that the ball has its back to you."

"How rude of it," said Celia, and hit it on the left-hand side, and sank it. "Was that what you meant?"

"Well ... it's another way of doing it."

"I thought it was. What do I give you for that?"

"You get three."

"Oh, I thought the other person always got the marks. I know the last three times----"

"Go on," I said freezingly. "You have another turn."

"Oh, is it like rounders?"

"Something. Go on, there's a dear. It's getting late."

She went, and left the red over the middle pocket.

"A-ha!" I said. I found a nice place in the "D" for my ball. "Now then. This is the Grey stroke, you know."

I suppose I was nervous. Anyhow, I just nicked the red ball gently on the wrong side and left it hanging over the pocket. The white travelled slowly up the table.

"Why is that called the Grey stroke?" asked Celia with great interest.

"Because once, when Sir Edward Grey was playing the German Ambassador--but it's rather a long story. I'll tell you another time."

"Oh! Well, anyhow, did the German Ambassador get anything for it?"

"No."

"Then I suppose I don't. Bother." "But you've only got to knock the red in for game."

"Oh!... There, what's that?"

"That's a miscue. I get one."

"Oh!... Oh, well," she added magnanimously, "I'm glad you've started scoring. It will make it more interesting for you."

There was just room to creep in off the red, leaving it still over the pocket. With Celia's ball nicely over the other pocket there was a chance of my twenty break. "Let's see," I said, "how many do I want?"

"Twenty-nine," replied Celia.

"Ah," I said ... and I crept in.

"That's three to you," I said icily. "Game."

XXXIX. BACHELOR RELICS

"Do you happen to want," I said to Henry, "an opera hat that doesn't op? At least it only works one side."

"No," said Henry.

"To any one who buys my opera hat for a large sum I am giving away four square yards of linoleum, a revolving bookcase, two curtain rods, a pair of spring-grip dumb-bells and an extremely patent mouse-trap."

"No," said Henry again.

"The mouse-trap," I pleaded, "is unused. That is to say, no mouse has used it yet. My mouse-trap has never been blooded."

"I don't want it myself," said Henry, "but I know a man who does."

"Henry, you know everybody. For Heaven's sake introduce me to your friend. Why does he particularly want a mouse-trap?"

"He doesn't. He wants anything that's old. Old clothes, old carpets, anything that's old he'll buy."

He seemed to be exactly the man I wanted.

"Introduce me to your fellow clubman," I said firmly.

That evening I wrote to Henry's friend, Mr. Bennett. "Dear Sir," I wrote, "if you would call upon me to-morrow I should like to show you some really old things, all genuine antiques. In particular I would call your attention to an old opera hat of exquisite workmanship, and a mouse-trap of chaste and handsome design. I have also a few yards of Queen Anne linoleum of a circular pattern which I think will please you. My James the First spring-grip dumb-bells and Louis Quatorze curtain-rods are well known to connoisseurs. A genuine old cork bedroom suite, comprising one bath-mat, will also be included in the sale. Yours faithfully."

On second thoughts I tore the letter up and sent Mr. Bennett a postcard asking him to favour the undersigned with a call at 10.30 prompt. And at 10.30 prompt he came.

I had expected to see a bearded patriarch with a hooked nose and three hats on his head, but Mr. Bennett turned out to be a very spruce gentleman, wearing (I was sorry to see) much better clothes than the opera hat I proposed to sell him. He became businesslike at once.

"Just tell me what you want to sell," he said, whipping out a pocket-book, "and I'll make a note of it. I take anything."

I looked round my spacious apartment and wondered what to begin with.

"The revolving bookcase," I announced.

"I'm afraid there's very little sale for revolving bookcases now," he said, as he made a note of it.

"As a matter of fact," I pointed out, "this one doesn't revolve. It got stuck some years ago."

He didn't seem to think that this would increase the rush, but he made a note of it.

"Then the writing-desk."

"The what?"

"The Georgian bureau. A copy of an old twentieth-century escritoire."

"Walnut?" he said, tapping it.

"Possibly. The value of this Georgian writing-desk, however, lies not in the wood but in the literary associations."

"Ah! My customers don't bother much about that, but still--whose was it?"

"Mine!" I said with dignity, placing my hand in the breast pocket of my coat. "I have written many charming things at that desk. My 'Ode to a Bell-push,' my 'Thoughts on Asia,' my----"

"Anything else in this room?" said Mr. Bennett. "Carpets, curtains----"

"Nothing else," I said coldly.

We went into the bedroom and, gazing on the linoleum, my enthusiasm returned to me.

"The linoleum," I said, with a wave of the hand.

"Very much worn," said Mr. Bennett.

I called his attention to the piece under the bed.

"Not under there," I said. "I never walk on that piece. It's as good as new."

He made a note. "What else?" he said.

I showed him round the collection. He saw the Louis Quatorze curtain-rods, the cork bedroom suite, the Cæsarian nail-brush (quite bald), the antique shaving-mirror with genuine crack--he saw it all. And then we went back into the other rooms and found some more things for him.

"Yes," he said, consulting his notebook. "And now how would you like me to buy these?"

"At a large price," I said. "If you have brought your cheque-book I'll lend you a pen."

"You want me to make you an offer? Otherwise I should sell them by auction for you, deducting ten per cent. commission."

"Not by auction," I said impulsively. "I couldn't bear to know how much or rather how little, my Georgian bureau fetched. It was there, as I think I told you, that I wrote my 'Guide to the Round Pond.' Give me an inclusive price for the lot, and never, never let me know the details."

He named an inclusive price. It was something under a hundred-and-fifty pounds. I shouldn't have minded that if it had only been a little over ten pounds. But it wasn't.

"Right," I agreed. "And, oh, I was nearly forgetting. There's an old opera hat of exquisite workmanship, which----"

"Ah, now clothes had much better be sold by auction. Make a pile of all you don't want and I'll send round a sack for them: I have an auction sale every Wednesday."

"Very well. Send round to-morrow. And you might--er--also send round a--er--cheque for--quite so. Well, then good morning."

When he had gone I went into my bedroom and made a pile of my opera-hat. It didn't look very impressive--hardly worth having a sack specially sent round for it. To keep it company I collected an assortment of clothes. It pained me to break up my wardrobe in this way, but I wanted the bidding for my opera-hat to be brisk, and a few preliminary suits would warm the public up. Altogether it was a goodly pile when it was done. The opera-hat perched on the top, half of it only at work.

* * * * *

To-day I received from Mr. Bennett a cheque, a catalogue and an account. The catalogue was marked "Lots 172-179." Somehow I felt that my opera hat would be Lot 176. I turned to it in the account.

"_Lot 176--Six shillings_"

"It did well," I said. "Perhaps in my heart of hearts I hoped for seven and sixpence, but six shillings--yes, it was a good hat."

And then I turned to the catalogue.

"_Lot 176_--Frock coat and vest, dress coat and vest, ditto, pair of trousers and opera hat."

"_And opera hat._" Well, well. At least it had the position of honour at the end. My opera hat was starred.

LITTLE PLAYS FOR AMATEURS

[~Note.~--_There are only six plots allowed to us who are not professionals. Here they are. When you have read them, then you will know all about amateur theatricals._]

XL. "FAIR MISTRESS DOROTHY"

_The scene is an apartment in the mansion of Sir Thomas Farthingale. There is no need to describe the furniture in it, as rehearsals will gradually show what is wanted. A picture or two of previous Sir Thomas's might be seen on the walls, if you have an artistic friend who could arrange this; but it is a mistake to hang up your own ancestors, as some of your guests may recognise them, and thus pierce beneath the vraisemblance of the scene._

_The period is that of Cromwell--sixteen something._

_The costumes are, as far as possible, of the same period._

Mistress Dorothy Farthingale _is seated in the middle of the stage, reading a letter and occasionally sighing_.

_Enter_ My Lord Carey.

~Carey.~ Mistress Dorothy alone! Truly Fortune smiles upon me.

~Dorothy~ (_hiding the letter quickly_). An she smiles, my lord, I needs
must frown.

~Carey~ (_used to this sort of thing and no longer put off by it_). Nay,
give me but one smile, sweet mistress. (_She sighs heavily._)
You sigh! Is't for me?

~Dorothy~ (_feeling that the sooner he and the audience understand the
situation the better_). I sigh for another, my lord, who is
absent.

~Carey~ (_annoyed_). Zounds, and zounds again! A pest upon the fellow!
(_He strides up and down the room, keeping out of the way of his
sword as much as possible._) Would that I might pink the pesky
knave!

~Dorothy~ (_turning upon him a look of hate_). Would that you might have
the chance, my lord, so it were in fair fighting. Methinks
Roger's sword-arm will not have lost its cunning in the wars.

~Carey.~ A traitor to fight against his King.

~Dorothy.~ He fights for what he thinks is right. (_She takes out his
letter and kisses it._)

~Carey~ (_observing the action_). You have a letter from him!

~Dorothy~ (_hastily concealing it and turning pale_). How know you that?

~Carey.~ Give it to me! (_She shrieks and rises._) By heavens, madam, I
will have it! (_He struggles with her and seizes it._)

_Enter_ Sir Thomas.

~Sir Thomas.~ Odds life, my lord, what means this?

~Carey~ (_straightening himself_). It means, Sir Thomas, that you
harbour a rebel within your walls. Master Roger Dale, traitor,
corresponds secretly with your daughter.

(_Who, I forgot to say, has swooned._)

~Sir Thomas~ (_sternly_). Give me the letter. Ay, 'tis Roger's hand, I
know it well. (_He reads the letter, which is full of
thoughtful metaphors about love, aloud to the audience.
Suddenly his eyebrows go up and down to express surprise. He
seizes_ Lord Carey _by the arm_.) Ha! Listen! "To-morrow when
the sun is upon the western window of the gallery, I will be
with thee." The villain!

~Carey~ (_who does not know the house very well_). When is that?

~Sir Thomas.~ Why, 'tis now, for I have but recently passed through the
gallery and did mark the sun.

~Carey~ (_fiercely_). In the name of the King, Sir Thomas, I call upon
you to arrest this traitor.

~Sir Thomas~ (_sighing_). I loved the boy well, yet----

(_He shrugs his shoulders expressively and goes out with_ Lord
Carey _to collect sufficient force for the arrest._)

_Enter_ Roger _by secret door R._

~Roger.~ My love!

~Dorothy~ (_opening her eyes_). Roger!

~Roger.~ At last!

(_For the moment they talk in short sentences like this. Then_
Dorothy _puts her hand to her brow as if she is remembering
something horrible._)

~Dorothy.~ Roger! Now I remember! It is not safe for you to stay!

~Roger~ (_very brave_). Am I a puling child to be afraid?

~Dorothy.~ My Lord Carey is here. He has read your letter.

~Roger.~ The black-livered dog! Would I had him at my sword's point to
teach him manners.

(_He puts his hand to his heart and staggers into a chair._)

~Dorothy.~ Oh, you are wounded!

~Roger.~ Faugh, 'tis but a scratch. Am I a puling----

(_He faints. She binds up his ankle._)

_Enter_ Lord Carey _with two soldiers._

~Carey.~ Arrest this traitor! (_Roger is led away by the soldiers._)

~Dorothy~ (_stretching out her hands to him_). Roger! (_She sinks into a
chair._)

~Carey~ (_choosing quite the wrong moment for a proposal_). Dorothy, I
love you! Think no more of this traitor, for he will surely
hang. 'Tis your father's wish that you and I should wed.

~Dorothy~ (_refusing him_). Go, lest I call in the grooms to whip you.

~Carey.~ By heaven---- (_Thinking better of it._) I go to fetch your
father.

(_Exit._)

_Enter_ Roger _by secret door L._

~Dorothy.~ Roger! You have escaped.

~Roger.~ Knowest not the secret passage from the wine cellar, where we
so often played as children? 'Twas in that same cellar the
thick-skulled knaves immured me.

~Dorothy.~ Roger, you must fly! Wilt wear a cloak of mine to elude our
enemies?

~Roger~ (_missing the point rather_). Nay, if I die, let me die like a
man, not like a puling girl. Yet, sweetheart----

_Enter_ Lord Carey _by ordinary door._

~Carey~ (_forgetting himself in his confusion_). Odds my zounds, dod
sink me! What murrain is this?

~Roger~ (_seizing Sir Thomas's sword, which had been accidentally left
behind on the table, as I ought to have said before, and
advancing threateningly_). It means, my lord, that a villain's
time has come. Wilt say a prayer?

(_They fight, and Carey is disarmed before they can hurt each
other._)

~Carey~ (_dying game_). Strike, Master Dale!

~Roger.~ Nay, I cannot kill in cold blood.

(_He throws down his sword._ Lord Carey _exhibits considerable
emotion at this, and decides to turn over an entirely new
leaf._)

_Enter two soldiers._

~Carey.~ Arrest that man! (Roger _is seized again._) Mistress Dorothy,
it is for you to say what shall be done with the prisoner.

~Dorothy~ (_standing up if she was sitting down, and sitting down if she
was standing up_). Ah, give him to me, my lord!

~Carey~ (_joining the hands of Roger and Dorothy_). I trust to you,
sweet mistress, to see that the prisoner does not escape again.

(Dorothy _and_ Roger _embrace each other, if they can do it
without causing a scandal in the neighbourhood, and the curtain
goes down._)

XLI. "A SLIGHT MISUNDERSTANDING"

_The scene is a drawing-room (in which the men are allowed to smoke--or a smoking-room in which the women are allowed to draw--it doesn't much matter) in the house of somebody or other in the country._ George Turnbull _and his old College friend_, Henry Peterson, _are confiding in each other, as old friends will, over their whiskies and cigars. It is about three o'clock in the afternoon._

~George~ (_dreamily, helping himself to a stiff soda_). Henry, do you
remember that evening at Christ Church College, five years ago,
when we opened our hearts to each other?...

~Henry~ (_lighting a cigar and hiding it in a fern-pot_). That moonlight
evening on the Backs, George, when I had failed in my
Matriculation examination?

~George.~ Yes; and we promised that when either of us fell in love the
other should be the first to hear of it? (_Rising solemnly._)
Henry, the moment has come. (_With shining eyes._) I am in love.

~Henry~ (_jumping up and grasping him by both hands_). George! My dear
old George! (_In a voice broken with emotion._) Bless you.
George!

(_He pats him thoughtfully on the back three times, nods his
own head twice, gives him a final grip of the hand, and returns
to his chair._)

~George~ (_more moved by this than he cares to show_). Thank you.
Henry. (_Hoarsely._) You're a good fellow.

~Henry~ (_airily, with a typically British desire to conceal his
emotion_). Who is the lucky little lady?

~George~ (_taking out a picture postcard of the British Museum and
kissing it passionately_). Isobel Barley!

(_If_ Henry _is not careful he will probably give a start of
surprise here, with the idea of suggesting to the audience that
he_ (1) _knows something about the lady's past, or_ (2) _is in
love with her himself. He is, however, thinking of a different
play. We shall come to that one in a moment._)

~Henry~ (_in a slightly dashing manner_). Little Isobel? Lucky dog!

~George.~ I wish I could think so. (_Sighs._) But I have yet to approach
her, and she may be another's. (_Fiercely._) Heavens, Henry, if
she should be another's!

_Enter_ Isobel.

~Isobel~ (_brightly_). So I've run you to earth at last. Now what have
you got to say for yourselves?

~Henry~ (_like a man_). By Jove! (_Looking at his watch._) I had no
idea--is it really--poor old Joe--waiting----

(_Dashes out tactfully in a state of incoherence._)

~George~ (_rising and leading_ Isobel _to the front of the stage_).
Miss Barley, now that we are alone I have something I want to
say to you.

~Isobel~ (_looking at her watch_). Well, you must be quick. Because I'm
engaged.

(_George drops her hand and staggers away from her._)

~Isobel.~ Why, what's the matter?

~George~ (_to the audience, in a voice expressing the very deeps of
emotion_). Engaged! She is engaged! I am too late!

(_He sinks into a chair, and covers his face with his hands._)

~Isobel~ (_surprised_). Mr. Turnbull! What has happened?

~George~ (_waving her away with one hand_). Go! Leave me! I can bear
this best alone. (_Exit Isobel._) Merciful heavens, she is
plighted to another.

_Enter_ Henry.

~Henry~ (_eagerly_). Well, old man?

~George~ (_raising a face white with misery--that is to say, if he has
remembered to put the French chalk in the palms of his hands_).
Henry, I am too late! She is another's!

~Henry~ (_in surprise_). Whose?

~George~ (_with dignity_). I did not ask her. It is nothing to me.
Good-bye, Henry. Be kind to her.

~Henry.~ Why, where are you going?

~George~ (_firmly_). To the Rocky Mountains. I shall shoot some bears.
Grizzly ones. It may be that thus I shall forget my grief.

~Henry~ (_after a pause_). Perhaps you are right, George. What shall I
tell--her?

~George.~ Tell her--nothing. But should anything (_feeling casually in
his pockets_) happen to me--if (_going over them again quickly_)
I do not come back, then (_searching them all, including the
waist coat ones, in desperate haste_) give her, give her, give
her (_triumphantly bringing his handkerchief out of the last
pocket_) this, and say that my last thought was of her.
Good-bye, my old friend. Good-bye.

(_Exit to Rocky Mountains._)

_Enter_ Isobel.

~Isobel.~ Why, where's Mr. Turnbull?

~Henry~ (_sadly_). He's gone.

~Isobel.~ Gone? Where?

~Henry.~ To the Rocky Mountains. To shoot bears. (_Feeling that some
further explanation is needed._) Grizzly ones.

~Isobel.~ But he was _here_ a moment ago.

~Henry.~ Yes, he's only _just_ gone.

~Isobel.~ Why didn't he say good-bye? (_Eagerly._) But perhaps he left a
message for me? (_Henry shakes his head._) Nothing? (_Henry bows
silently and leaves the room._) Oh! (_She gives a cry and throws
herself on the sofa._) And I loved him! George, George, why
didn't you speak?

_Enter_ George _hurriedly. He is fully dressed for a shooting
expedition in the Rocky Mountains, and carries a rifle under
his arm._

* * * * *

~George~ (_to the audience_). I have just come back for my
pocket-handkerchief. I must have dropped it in here somewhere.
(_He begins to search for it, and in the ordinary course of
things comes upon_ Isobel _on the sofa. He puts his rifle down
carefully on a table, with the muzzle pointing at the prompter
rather than at the audience, and staggers back._) Merciful
heavens! Isobel! Dead! (_He falls on his knees beside the
sofa._) My love, speak to me!

~Isobel~ (_softly_). George!

~George.~ She is alive! Isobel!

~Isobel.~ Don't go, George!

~George.~ My dear, I love you! But when I heard that you were another's,
honour compelled me----

~Isobel~ (_sitting up quickly_). What do you mean by another's?

~George.~ You said you were engaged!

~Isobel~ (_suddenly realising how the dreadful misunderstanding arose
which nearly wrecked two lives_). But I only meant I was engaged
to play tennis with Lady Carbrook!

~George.~ What a fool I have been! (_He hurries on before the audience
can assent._) Then, Isobel, you _will_ be mine?

~Isobel.~ Yes, George. And you won't go and shoot nasty bears, will you,
dear? Not even grizzly ones?

~George~ (_taking her in his arms_). Never, darling. That was only
(_turning to the audience with the air of one who is making his
best point_) ~A slight misunderstanding.~

CURTAIN.

XLII. "MISS PRENDERGAST"

_As the curtain goes up two ladies are discovered in the morning-room of Honeysuckle Lodge engaged in work of a feminine nature._ Miss Alice Prendergast _is doing something delicate with a crochet-hook, but it is obvious that her thoughts are far away. She sighs at intervals and occasionally lays down her work and presses both hands to her heart. A sympathetic audience will have no difficulty in guessing that she is in love. On the other hand, her elder sister_, Miss Prendergast, _is completely wrapped up in a sock for one of the poorer classes, over which she frowns formidably. The sock, however, has no real bearing upon the plot, and she must not make too much of it._

~Alice~ (_hiding her emotions_). Did you have a pleasant dinner-party
last night, Jane?

~Jane~ (_to herself_). Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty. (_Looking
up._) Very pleasant indeed, Alice. The Blizzards were there, and
the Podbys, and the Slumphs. (_These people are not important
and should not be over-emphasised._) Mrs. Podby's maid has given
notice.

~Alice.~ Who took you in?

~Jane~ (_brightening up_). Such an interesting man, my dear. He talked
most agreeably about Art during dinner, and we renewed the
conversation in the drawing-room. We found that we agreed upon
all the main principles of Art, considered as such.

~Alice~ (_with a look in her eyes which shows that she is recalling a
tender memory_). When I was in Shropshire last week---- What was
your man's name?

~Jane~ (_with a warning glance at the audience_). You know how difficult
it is to catch names when one is introduced. I am certain he
never heard mine. (_As the plot depends partly upon this, she
pauses for it to sink in._) But I enquired about him afterwards,
and I find that he is a Mr.----

_Enter_ Mary, _the parlourmaid._

~Mary~ (handing letter). A letter for you, Miss.

~Jane~ (_taking it_). Thank you, Mary. (_Exit_ Mary _to work up her
next line._) A letter! I wonder who it is from! (_Reading the
envelope._) "Miss Prendergast, Honeysuckle Lodge." (_She opens
it with the air of one who has often received letters before,
but feels that this one may play an important part in her
life._) "Dear Miss Prendergast, I hope you will pardon the
presumption of what I am about to write to you, but whether you
pardon me or not, I ask you to listen to me. I know of no woman
for whose talents I have a greater admiration or for whose
qualities I have a more sincere affection than yourself. Since I
have known you, you have been the lodestar of my existence, the
fountain of my inspiration. I feel that, were your life joined
to mine, the joint path upon which we trod would be the path to
happiness, such as I have as yet hardly dared to dream of. In
short, dear Miss Prendergast, I ask you to marry me, and I will
come in person for my answer. Yours truly (_in a voice of
intense surprise_) Jas. Bootle!"

(_At the word "Bootle" a wave of warm colour rushes over Alice
and dyes her from neck to brow. If she is not an actress of
sufficient calibre to ensure this, she must do the best she can
by starting abruptly and putting her hand to her throat._)

~Alice~ (_aside, in a choking voice_). Mr. Bootle! In love with Jane!

~Jane.~ My dear! The man who took me down to dinner! Well!

~Alice~ (_picking up her work again and trying to be calm_). What will
you say?

~Jane~ (_rather pleased with herself_). Well, really--I--this is--Mr.
Bootle! Fancy!

~Alice~ (_starting up_). Was that a ring? (_She frowns at the prompter
and a bell is heard to ring._) It is Mr. Bootle! I know his
ring, I mean I know---- Dear, I think I will go and lie down. I
have a headache.

(_She looks miserably at the audience, closes her eyes, and
goes off with her handkerchief to her mouth, taking care not to
fall over the furniture._)

_Enter_ Mary, _followed by James Bootle._

~Mary.~ Mr. Bootle. (_Exit finally._)

~Jane.~ Good morning, Mr. Bootle.

~Bootle.~ I beg--I thought--why, of course! It's Miss--er--h'm, yes. How
do you do? Did you get back safely last night?

~Jane.~ Yes, thank you. (_Coyly._) I got your letter.

~Bootle.~ My letter? (_Sees his letter on the table. Furiously._) You
opened my letter!

~Jane~ (_mistaking his fury for passion_). Yes, James. And (_looking
down on the ground_) the answer is "Yes."

~Bootle~ (_realising the situation_). By George! (_Aside._) I have
proposed to the wrong lady. Tchck!

~Jane.~ You may kiss me, James.

~Bootle.~ Have you a sister?

~Jane~ (_missing the connection_). Yes, I have a younger sister, Alice.
(_Coldly._) But I hardly see----

~Bootle~ (_beginning to understand how he made the mistake_). A younger
sister! Then you are Miss Prendergast? And my letter--Ah!

_Enter_ Alice.

~Alice.~ You are wanted, Jane, a moment.

~Jane.~ Will you excuse me, Mr. Bootle?

(_Exit._)

~Bootle~ (_to Alice, as she follows her sister out_). Don't go!

~Alice~ (_wanly, if she knows how_). Am I to stay and congratulate you?

~Bootle.~ Alice! (_They approach the footlights, while_ Jane, _having
finished her business, comes in unobserved and watches from the
back._) It is all a mistake! I didn't know your Christian
name--I didn't know you had a sister. The letter I addressed to
Miss Prendergast I meant for Miss Alice Prendergast.

~Alice.~ James! My love! But what can we do?

~Bootle~ (_gloomily_). Nothing. As a man of honour I cannot withdraw. So
two lives are ruined!

~Alice.~ You are right, James. Jane must never know. Good-bye!

(_They give each other a farewell embrace._)

~Jane~ (_aside_). They love. (_Fiercely._) But he is mine; I will hold
him to his promise! (_Picking up a photograph of Alice as a
small child from an occasional table._) Little Alice! And I
promised to take care of her--to protect her from the cruel
world. Baby Alice! (_She puts her handkerchief to her eyes._)
No! I will not spoil two lives! (_Aloud._) Why good-bye, Alice?

(Bootle _and_ Alice, _who have been embracing all this time,
unless they can think of something else to do, break away in
surprise._)

~Alice.~ Jane--we--I----

~Jane~ (_calmly_). Dear Alice! I understand perfectly. Mr. Bootle said
in his letter to you that he was coming for his answer, and I
see what answer you have given him. (_To_ Bootle.) You remember
I told you it would be "Yes." I know my little sister, you see.

~Bootle~ (_tactlessly_). But--you told me I could kiss you!

~Jane~ (_smiling_). And I tell you again now. I believe it is usual for
men to kiss their sisters-in-law? (_She offers her cheek._
Bootle, _whose day it is, salutes her respectfully._) And now
(_gaily_) perhaps I had better leave you young people alone!

(_Exit, with a backward look at the audience expressive of the
fact that she has been wearing the mask._)

~Bootle.~ Alice, then you are mine, after all!

~Alice.~ James! (_They k---- No, perhaps better not. There has been
quite enough for one evening._) And to think that she knew all
the time. Now I am quite, quite happy. And James--you _will_
remember in future that I am Miss _Alice_ Prendergast?

~Bootle~ (_gaily_). My dear, I shall only be able to remember that you
are The Future Mrs. Bootle!

CURTAIN.

XLIII. "AT DEAD OF NIGHT"

_The stage is in semi-darkness as_ Dick Trayle _throws open the window from outside, puts his knee on the sill, and falls carefully into the drawing-room of Beeste Hall. He is dressed in a knickerbocker suit with arrows on it (such as can always be borrowed from a friend), and, to judge from the noises which he emits, is not in the best of training. The lights go on suddenly; and he should seize this moment to stagger to the door and turn on the switch. This done he sinks into the nearest chair and closes his eyes._

_If he has been dancing very late the night before, he may drop into a peaceful sleep; in which case the play ends here. Otherwise, no sooner are his eyes closed than he opens them with a sudden start and looks round in terror._

~Dick~ (_striking the keynote at once_). No, no! Let me out--I am
innocent! (_He gives a gasp of relief as he realises the
situation._) Free! It is true, then! I have escaped! I dreamed
that I was back in prison again! (_He shudders and helps
himself to a large whisky-and-soda, which he swallows at a
gulp._) That's better! Now I feel a new man--the man I was
three years ago. Three years! It has been a lifetime!
(_Pathetically to the audience._) Where is Millicent now? (_The
audience guesses that she is in the making-up room, but musn't
say so._) Alas! (_He falls into a reverie, from which he is
suddenly wakened by a noise outside. He starts, and then creeps
rapidly to the switch, arriving there at the moment when the
lights go out. Then he goes swiftly behind the window curtain.
The lights go up again as_ Jasper Beeste _comes in with a
revolver in one hand and a bull's-eye lantern of apparently
enormous candle power in the other._)

~Jasper~ (_in immaculate evening dress_). I thought I heard a noise, so
I slipped on some old things hurriedly and came down.
(_Fingering his perfectly-tied tie._) But there seems to be
nobody here. (_Turns round suddenly to the window._) Ha, who's
there? Hands up, blow you (_he ought to swear rather badly here,
really_) hands up or I fire!

(_The stage is suddenly plunged into darkness, there is the
noise of a struggle, and the lights go on to reveal_ Jasper _by
the door covering_ Dick _with his revolver._)

~Jasper.~ Let's have a little light on you. (_Brutally._) Now then, my
man, what have you got to say for yourself? Ha! An escaped
convict, eh?

~Dick~ (_to himself, in amazement_). Jasper Beeste!

~Jasper.~ So you know my name?

~Dick~ (_in the tones of a man whose whole life has been blighted by the
machinations of a false friend_). Yes, Jasper Beeste, I know
your name. For two years I have said it to myself every night,
when I prayed Heaven that I should meet you again.

~Jasper.~ Again? (_Uneasily._) We have met before?

~Dick~ (_slowly_). We have met before, Jasper Beeste. Since then I have
lived a lifetime of misery. You may well fail to recognise me.

_Enter_ Millicent Wilsdon_--in a dressing gown, with her hair
over her shoulders, if the county will stand it._

~Millicent~ (_to Jasper_). I couldn't sleep--I heard a
noise--I--(_suddenly seeing the other_) Dick! (_She trembles._)

~Dick.~ Millicent! (_He trembles too._)

~Jasper.~ Trayle! (_So does he._)

~Dick~ (_bitterly_). You shrink from me, Millicent. (_With strong common
sense._) What is an escaped convict to the beautiful Miss
Wilsdon?

~Millicent.~ Dick--I--you--when you were sentenced----

~Dick.~ When I was sentenced--the evidence was black against me, I
admit--I wrote and released you from your engagement. You are
married now?

~Millicent~ (_throwing herself on a sofa_). Oh, Dick!

~Jasper~ (_recovering himself_). Enough of this. Miss Wilsdon is going
to marry me to-morrow.

~Dick.~ To marry _you_! (_He strides over to sofa and pulls Millicent to
her feet._) Millicent, look me in the eyes! Do you love him?
(_She turns away._) Say "Yes" and I will go back quietly to my
prison. (_She raises her eyes to his._) Ha! I thought so! You
don't love him! Now then I can speak.

~Jasper~ (_advancing threateningly_). Yes, to your friends, the
warders. Millicent, ring the bell.

~Dick~ (_wresting the revolver from his grasp_). Ha, would you? Now
stand over there and listen to me. (_He arranges his audience,_
Millicent _on a sofa on the right, Jasper, biting his finger
nails, on the left._) Three years ago Lady Wilsdon's diamond
necklace was stolen. My flat was searched and the necklace was
found in my hatbox. Although I protested my innocence I was
tried, found guilty, and sentenced to ten years' penal
servitude, followed by fifteen years' police supervision.

~Millicent~ (_raising herself on the sofa_). Dick, you were innocent--I
know it. (_She flops back again._)

~Dick.~ I was. But how could I prove it? I went to prison. For a year
black despair gnawed at my heart. And then something happened.
The prisoner in the cell next to mine tried to communicate with
me by means of taps. We soon arranged a system and held
conversations together. One day he told me of a robbery in which
he and another man had been engaged--the robbery of a diamond
necklace.

~Jasper~ (_jauntily_). Well?

~Dick~ (_sternly_). A diamond necklace, Jasper Beeste, which the other
man hid in the hatbox of another man in order that he might woo
the other man's _fiancée_! (Millicent _shrieks._)

~Jasper~ (_blusteringly_). Bah!

~Dick~ (_quietly_). The man in the cell next to mine wants to meet this
gentleman again. It seems that he has some old scores to pay
off.

~Jasper~ (_sneeringly_). And where is he?

~Dick.~ Ah, where is he? (_He goes to the window and gives a low
whistle. A stranger in knickerbockers jumps in and advances with
a crab-like movement._) Good! here you are. Allow me to present
you to Mr. Jasper Beeste.

~Jasper~ (_in horror_). Two-toed Thomas! I am undone!

~Two-toed Thomas~ (_after a series of unintelligible snarls_). Say the
word, guv'nor, and I'll kill him. (_He prowls round_ Jasper
_thoughtfully._)

~Dick~ (_sternly_). Stand back! Now, Jasper Beeste, what have you to
say?

~Jasper~ (_hysterically_). I confess. I will sign anything. I will go to
prison. Only keep that man off me.

~Dick~ (_going up to a bureau and writing aloud at incredible speed_).
"I, Jasper Beeste, of Beeste Hall, do hereby declare that I
stole Lady Wilsdon's diamond necklace and hid it in the hatbox
of Richard Trayle; and I further declare that the said Richard
Trayle is innocent of any complicity in the affair. (_Advancing
with the paper and a fountain pen._) Sign, please."

(_Jasper signs. At this moment two warders burst into the
room._)

~First Warder.~ There they are!

(_He seizes_ Dick. Two-toed Thomas _leaps from the window, pursued by
the second Warder_. Millicent _picks up the confession and
advances dramatically._)

~Millicent.~ Do not touch that man! Read this!

(_She hands him the confession with an air of superb pride._)

~First Warder~ (_reading_). Jasper Beeste! (_Slipping a pair of
handcuffs on_ Jasper.) You come along with me, my man. We've
had our suspicions of you for some time. (_To_ Millicent, _with
a nod at_ Dick). You'll look after that gentleman, miss?

~Millicent.~ Of course! Why, he's engaged to me. Aren't you, Dick?

~Dick.~ This time, Millicent, for ever!

CURTAIN.

XLIV. "THE LOST HEIRESS"

_The Scene is laid outside a village inn in that county of curious dialects, Loamshire. The inn is easily indicated by a round table bearing two mugs of liquid, while a fallen log emphasises the rural nature of the scene._ Gaffer Jarge _and_ Gaffer Willyum _are seated at the table, surrounded by a fringe of whisker_, Jarge _being slightly more of a gaffer than_ Willyum.

~Jarge~ (_who missed his dinner through nervousness and has been
ordered to sustain himself with soup--as he puts down the
steaming mug_). Eh, bor but this be rare beer. So it be.

~Willyum~ (_who had too much dinner and is now draining his liquid
paraffin_). You be right, Gaffer Jarge. Her be main rare beer.
(_He feels up his sleeve, but thinking better of it, wipes his
mouth with the back of his hand._) Main rare beer, zo her be.
(_Gagging._) Zure-lie.

~Jarge.~ Did I ever tell 'ee, bor, about t' new squoire o' these
parts--him wot cum hum yesterday from furren lands? Gaffer
Henry wor a-telling me.

~Willyum~ (_privately bored_). Thee didst tell 'un, lad, sartain sure
thee didst. And Gaffer Henry, he didst tell 'un too. But tell
'un again. It du me good to hear 'un, zo it du. Zure-lie.

~Jarge.~ A rackun it be a main queer tale, queerer nor any them writing
chaps tell about. It wor like this. (_Dropping into English, in
his hurry to get his long speech over before he forgets it._)
The old Squire had a daughter who disappeared when she was three
weeks old, eighteen years ago. It was always thought she was
stolen by somebody, and the Squire would have it that she was
still alive. When he died a year ago he left the estate and all
his money to a distant cousin in Australia, with the condition
that if he did not discover the missing baby within twelve
months everything was to go to the hospitals. (_Remembering his
smock and whiskers with a start._) And here du be the last day,
zo it be, and t' Squoire's daughter, her ain't found.

~Willyum~ (_puffing at a new and empty clay pipe_). Zure-lie. (Jarge, _a
trifle jealous of_ Willyum's _gag, pulls out a similar pipe, but
smokes it with the bowl upside down to show his independence_.)
T' Squire's darter (Jarge _frowns_)--her bain't (Jarge _wishes
he had thought of "bain't"_)--her bain't found. (_There is a
dramatic pause, only broken by the prompter._) Her ud be little
Rachel's age now, bor?

~Jarge~ (_reflectively_). Ay, ay. A main queer lass little Rachel du be.
Her bain't like one of us.

~Willyum.~ Her do be that fond of zoap and water. (_Laughter._)

~Jarge~ (_leaving nothing to chance_). Happen she might be a real grand
lady by birth, bor.

_Enter_ Rachel, _beautifully dressed in the sort of costume in
which one would go to a fancy-dress ball as a village maiden_.

~Rachel~ (_in the most expensive accent_). Now, Uncle George (_shaking
a finger at him_), didn't you promise me you'd go straight
home? It would serve you right if I never tied your tie for you
again. (_She smiles brightly at him._)

~Jarge~ (_slapping his thigh in ecstasy_). Eh, lass! yer du keep us old
uns in order. (_He bursts into a falsetto chuckle, loses the
note, blushes and buries his head in his mug._)

~Willyum~ (_rising_). Us best be gettin' down along, Jarge, a rackun.

~Jarge.~ Ay, bor, time us chaps was moving. Don't 'e be long, lass.
(_Exeunt, limping heavily._)