Chapter V: Act IV: SCENE:—A grass plat with trees in background (2)

B. (_Laughs._) There you are wrong, for I smashed it to bits.

DR. F. (_Starting._) What’s that you say? My fine machine ruined? I’ll have damages, Mr. Boyler.

B. Damages! I shall sue you for $10,000 damages.

DR. F. Do it, sir, do it! It’ll make my fortune. It will advertise the greatest cure of the age. Nothing like a law suit for advertising purposes. Wont you oblige me by breaking something else? Just upset those shelves, wont you? Throw my instrument case out of the window.

B. I’ll not do it. I wont gratify you. A gentleman can find other ways of avenging an insult. And then there’s my wig, too.

DR. F. Where?

B. Where? Do you doubt my word? (_Takes off hat and exposes shiny bald head._) Do you see that?

DR. F. I see the head-piece but I don’t see any wig.

B. (_Emphatically._) No, sir, you don’t see any wig. Your crazy Chinaman snatched it off my head and exposed me to the indignity of going home barehead in the public street.

DR. F. You shouldn’t go out barehead, you may catch cold; I’ll not be responsible if you disobey orders.

B. And whose fault would it be?

DR. F. Yours, of course.

B. Why, hang your assurance, Dr. Fluke.

DR. F. I disapprove of your indiscretion.

B. (_Excitedly._) Fluke, I don’t think I ever saw quite such monumental effrontery as yours. That wig cost me one hundred and fifty dollars, one of the very best make by the celebrated Toupee.

DR. F. Oh, we’ll not haggle about trifles. I’ll credit it on the bill for the electric machine. That cost five hundred dollars.

B. (_Gesticulating._) Credit it on the bill! That’s cool, why confound your insolence! I’ve a mind to cane you on the spot.

DR. F. But you can’t, you see. You have no cane. You are cured.

B. (_With a roar._) Oh, this man will put me crazy if I stay here much longer. You’ll hear from me again, Dr. Fluke. You are a quack. (_Bolts toward door as_—)

_ENTER NORAH, L., with tray, milk jug, sugar bowl, spoons and plate of crackers. B. runs against her and sends things flying as he exits._

NORAH. Well, did yez iver see such a cyclone! (_Commences picking up things around the stage._)

_ENTER MIKE, L., carrying big tin tea-pot full of hot tea._

MIKE. Begorrah, it was lucky I was carryin’ the tay pot or there’d been a Noah’s flood o’ tay.

NORAH. Must I get more crame, Docthor?

MIKE. It’s aisy to pick that up with a spoon.

_MRS. F. and MISS S. appear timidly at door, L._

DR. F. Bother the cream. It’s the tea I want. Put the things on the table. Now I’ll get him to come out.

MRS. F. Henry, do you think he’ll hurt you?

MISS S. The idea! Poor abused thing!

DR. F. Clear out, you women. Do you want to frighten him? (_Exeunt MRS. F. and MISS S._) Mike, go in the operating room to be ready for emergencies. (_MIKE enters D. F. and peeps out from time to time, as do the two ladies, L._) Norah, you be ready to serve the tea. I’ll drink some to make believe. Be cool, don’t lose your head.

NORAH. (_Arranging tea things._) Yis, sor, but I can’t guarantee to kape me head if that ould cyclone blows in again.

DR. F. (_Knocks at office door._) Patsy, come out please. It’s nearly dinner time. (_Voice indistinctly inside._) What’s that? Yes, I’m all alone, that is, Norah is here, too. (_Door opens cautiously. PATSY looks out, then comes out enveloped in doctor’s ulster and muffled to the ears with doctor’s neckcloth. Wig frowzed till he looks like a fright. As he appears, heads at the other door disappear suddenly._)

DR. F. (_Starting back._) Why Patsy, are you cold? I feel decidedly too warm.

PATSY. I think I took a bit o’ cold in the cars, I’m subject to sore throat.

NORAH. (_Aside._) Crazy as a June bug.

DR. F. Chin Sum, do you like tea?

PATSY. My name isn’t Chin Sum; just Patrick O’Wang, if you please.

DR. F. What is the _O_ for, Patrick?

PATSY. The _O_ shows that I’m a son of me father.

DR. F. We have tea served. Sometimes we take a light refreshment an hour or so before dinner. Patsy, do you like tea?

PATSY. (_Aside._) Tea! (_With wink._) I’m onto their scheme. I’ll take a drop, weak if you please, one lump of sugar.

DR. F. (_Is at L. of table, seats himself facing front._) Norah, place a chair. Be seated, Patsy. You must be tired.

PATSY. Your honor I couldn’t sit in your presence. (P. _is at R. of table._)

DR. F. Very well, as you please. Norah, pour the tea. Give me a small cup. For a cold it should be drunk copiously. You had better take several cups, Patsy.

PATSY. Very well, sir, I like tea myself. (_DR. F. chuckles to himself. NORAH, rear of table, hands doctor a small cup then a large one to PATSY. Latter has a large hot-water bag under his ulster with rubber tube and small funnel, all found in office. The collar of the ulster must be very high and stand well forward. The funnel is held by the left hand partially enveloped in a large silk handkerchief. Under pretense of coddling his throat PATSY keeps his left hand up under his chin to keep the funnel concealed. As he drinks he turns away to R. from the doctor, back to audience, pours tea down funnel. As he hands cup back to NORAH he thrusts his left hand beneath the ulster, the top button of which is unbuttoned. Repeat with each cup._)

DR. F. (_Sipping tea and nibbling a cracker._) How do you like the tea, Patsy?

PATSY. (_Smacking his lips._) It’s capital tea, doctor.

DR. F. Norah, fill his cup. He wants several cups to break his cold. Then I’ll put you to bed, Patsy, and give you a good sweat.

PATSY. All right, sir. (_Drinks as before._)

DR. F. (_Aside._) It’s working! Obedient already.

NORAH. Will yez have some more tay, docthor?

DR. F. (_Impatiently._) No, fill Patsy’s cup. Don’t you see it’s empty. (_PATSY drinks._) How do you feel now?

PATSY. Better already, doctor.

DR. F. Have another! There’s nothing like tea. Why, it will cure every ill that flesh is heir to. Norah, fill his cup.

NORAH. I’m pourin’ as fast as I can, sir. What a dale o’ tea he do hold.

PATSY. (_Handing back cup._) Very nice tea, Norah.

NORAH. I could do a dale betther with plenty o’ tay and more time.

DR. F. Norah, why don’t you fill his cup instead of talking. (_During this drinking the people at the door enter and look on with increasing astonishment._) How do you feel now, Patsy?

PATSY. Much better, sir.

DR. F. Head clearer?

PATSY. Well, it’s not as thick as putty an’ it’s not as clear as a June mornin’.

DR. F. Try a few more cups, keep it up. Norah, don’t you see his cup is empty. Pour him another.

NORAH. The mon’ll explode purty soon a drinkin’. He’s swellin’ already. (_Patsy takes cup._)

DR. F. Hold your tongue. The charm’s working finely.

NORAH. Faith it’s time, the tay pot’s impty.

DR. F. (_Jumping up surprised._) Empty! Why girl it holds a gallon!

NORAH. An’ he’s drunk it all. The poor bye must have the stomach of an osterich or a dodo.

DR. F. Patsy, do you mean to say that you have drank a gallon of tea?

PATSY. Faith, I think it’s nearer a barrel.

DR. F. And how do you feel?

PATSY. Like an irrigation canal! (_During these last speeches MRS. F., MISS S. and MIKE gather round back of table, L._)

MRS. F. Doctor Fluke, you’ll kill that man with your experiments.

MISS S. Poor dear man!

DR. F. Silence, ladies. This is a most extraordinary case! (_PATSY stands perfectly still, facing them, left hand to throat as before. Doctor takes him by the shoulder and turns him round. P. does not resist but makes a very wry face._) A remarkable case. Why, I’ve hypnotized him.

MIKE. Begob, I think he’s paralyzed!

MRS. F. What makes the horrid creature act so? He’s got a wild look. (_PATSY rolls his eyes. Women retreat toward door._)

NORAH. I think he’s drownin’, I do.

DR. F. (_Severely._) Patsy, why don’t you speak, what ails you?

PATSY. A bit o’ queerness here. (_Rubs stomach with right hand._)

DR. F. How’s your head?

PATSY. Me head’s all right. It’s me stomach.

DR. F. Do you still imagine you are an Irishman?

PATSY. I am, sir, Irish to the bone. (_Leans forward as if pain in stomach. Rubs stomach with right hand and squirms. All this time he has been holding his throat with left hand and concealing the funnel._)

MRS. F. Says he’s Irish. He’s crazy, Henry. I told you so. He’ll murder us all. (_Movement of all but doctor toward doors as before._)

NORAH. I give notice, Mrs. Fluke. I’ll not live in the house with a crazy mon.

MIKE. Nayther will I. I give up me job. It will be hurtin’ the profession to mix with loonytics an’ Chinese.

DR. F. (_Irritated._) Hold your tongue, Mike. This is a most extraordinary case!

MIKE. Indade it is! First he’s a haythen Chinee. Then he takes a drop too much an’ goes wild an’ pulls the clothes aff other people and says he’s an Irishman, bad luck to him. Another dram’ll turn him into a Dago, I belave. I quits to-day, doctor. (_During this time PATSY’S uneasiness is increasing; finally he begins to prance round. Movement toward doors as before._)

DR. F. Where is your pain, Patsy?

PATSY. (_Groans._) Me stomach feels all queer like.

DR. F. (_Puts hand on P.’S stomach, starts._) And no wonder. Why, it’s hot as fire! And distended like a balloon!

MIKE. (_Nods to ladies, with wise look._) He’s dishtended!

DR. F. Mike, get the stomach pump in the office. Norah, a basin, quick! (_MIKE runs for pump. PATSY makes for door, L. Ladies scream and disappear._)

PATSY. Faith, I’m on fire!

DR. F. (_Seizes him._) We’ll fix you in a minute.

PATSY. Aye, doctor, you’ve fixed me already.

DR. F. (_Holding to PATSY who struggles toward door L._) Quick, Mike! (_MIKE reappears with pump._)

PATSY. You’ll never put that thing down my throat. (_Renews attempt to escape. FLUKE grabs at his throat and catches rubber tube. Ulster comes open. Pulls out bag of hot water and all gaze in astonishment._)

MIKE. By the powers, you’ve pulled the sthomick clane out av’ ’im. (_Pause._) Is that what it looks like? I niver seed one before.

MRS. F. (_In door._) Oh horrors!

MIKE. Hadn’t yez better put it back, docthor? He may nade it.

DR. F. (_Is so astonished that he holds the bag by the tube for a few seconds. Drops it in disgust._) What does this mean, you rascal?

PATSY. (_Determinedly._) It means you can’t fill me up with tea and turn me back into a Chinaman. They did that trick in Hong Kong!

DR. F. (_Crossly._) What are you now? Irish or Chinese?

PATSY. Irish forever.

MISS S. (_Sentimentally._) Dear me! I’m so disappointed. I did hope we had got a real Chinaman.

DR. F. But confound you man, I hired you for a Chinaman. A bargain’s a bargain.

PATSY. That bargain is off.

MIKE. (_Throws down pump._) Then I’m aff, too. Two Irishman in wan house is wan too many.

PATSY. Keep your place, Mike, I can do better. (_All dress stage, women L., men R._) I’m in America now, the land of opportunities. I’m goin’ into politics. Me ambition is to be an alderman and die beloved and respected by all.

MIKE. Begorrah, the ambition of it!

DR. F. Very well, Patsy. Since you are going to have influence let us part friends. (_They shake hands._)

MIKE. Inflooence! Faith, I’ll niver vote a shplit ticket, half Irish half Chinay.

DR. F. Patsy, you have had a strange history.

PATSY. I’ll recount it if you please, doctor.

“Patsy O’Wang,” _Song_. _Air “Pat Malloy.”_

Me father was a Hooligan, me mother was Chinay
And I was born in Hong Kong town ten thousand miles away.
Me father was a sojer in the tenth artilleree,
He took me to the barracks there in Hong Kong by the sea.
Me christian name was Patsy and O’Wang me name Chinay;
An’ while they all took toddy I drank nothin’ but green tay.
One day I brewed the punch meself an’ then I tried the same:
Hooray! it touched a vital spot, it lit the Irish flame.

True son of ould Hibernia, I struck for higher pay,
I swung it like a gentleman, I drank no more green tay.
But all good luck must have an end, there comes adversitee,
They sent us to Ameriky ten thousand miles by sea.
We sailed and sailed the ragin’ main forever and a day,
The boundin’ ocean made us sick, they dosed us with green tay.
For twenty hours or more I lay, that poison did me rack:
I rose a haythen Chinaman, a queue hung down me back.

Me almond eyes were set askew, me queue twirled round me pate,
They called me Chin, I made the duff and boiled the Captain’s mate.
A fool for luck the proverb says, a fool O’Wang must be,
For now I’m turned true Irishman, bad cess to all Chinee.
And in this free Ameriky I’ll have a word to say
I’m goin’ into politics, I’ll drink no more green tay.
And for the moral of this tale I’m sure it’s very plain:
When tipple stirs your blood too much, you’d better just abstain.

_R._ _L._

MIKE, DR. F., PATSY., MRS. F., MISS S., NORAH.

CURTAIN.

REJECTED

OR
THE TRIBULATIONS OF AUTHORSHIP

A FARCE

BY T. S. DENISON

_Author of_
Odds with the Enemy, Initiating a Granger, Wanted, a Correspondent, A
Family Strike, Seth Greenback, Louva, the Pauper, Hans Von Smash,
Borrowing Trouble, Two Ghosts in White, The Pull-Back, Country Justice,
The Assessor, The Sparkling Cup, Our Country, Irish Linen
Peddler, The School Ma’am, Kansas Immigrants, An Only Daughter,
Too Much of a Good Thing, Under the Laurels, Hard Cider,
The Danger Signal, Wide Enough for Two, Pets of Society,
Is the Editor In? The New Woman, Patsy O’Wang, Rejected,
Only Cold Tea, Madam P’s Beauty Parlors, Topp’s
Twins, A First-Class Hotel, It’s all in the Pay-Streak,
The Cobbler, A Dude in a Cyclone, Friday Dialogues.

_Also the Novels,
The Man Behind, An Iron Crown, etc._

CHICAGO:
T. S. DENISON, PUBLISHER,
163 RANDOLPH STREET.

REJECTED.

COPYRIGHT, 1895, BY T. S. DENISON.

CAST OF CHARACTERS.

MR. GREATHEAD, of Greathead & Wright, Publishers.
MR. POWERS, a tired “reader” for G. & W.
MR. ARTHUR WELBY, a turned-down author.
MR. RALPH HYDE-ARLINGTON, a poet. Author of “The Dead Canary,” and
other poems.
MRS. UPPERDYKE FADD, a society novelist.
SUSAN ANN BROWN, author of “Winds that Sough in the Night.”
MISS BODMAN, stenographer for G. & W.
WILLIAM, office boy.

_Time of playing, forty minutes._

HINTS ON COSTUMES AND PLAYING.

Mr. Greathead, dignified business man, very natty business suit, silk tile, etc. Powers, plainly dressed, tired, soured man, but not boorish or coarse in any respect. Welby, rustic manners and dress but rather presentable. Hyde-Arlington, should be unusual, either very tall and ungainly or very stout and prosy looking, hair badly mussed, linen soiled, some buttons missing from coat, shoes with very best shine to contrast with seedy appearance. Droll and good natured. Mrs. Fadd, in latest style of street dress, jewels; puts on airs. Susan Ann Brown, plainly but well dressed, brusque, business like, decisive character. Miss Bodman, neat dress, suitable for office.

STAGE DIRECTIONS.

_R._ means right of the stage _C._, center; _R. C._, right center; _L._, left; _1 E._, first entrance; _U. E._, upper entrance, etc.; _D. F._, door in flat or back of the stage. The actor is supposed to be facing the audience.

REJECTED.

SCENE—_Office of GREATHEAD & WRIGHT, Publishers. Discovered
as curtain rises, MR. POWERS a “reader” at desk L., and MISS
BODMAN, stenographer, working writing machine R. P. has large
pile of MSS. before him. He moves nervously and knocks off
leaves that scatter round floor. Rises impatiently._

POWERS. (_Talking to himself aloud._) This is simply killing. It would wear out a cast-iron man. (_Commences picking up sheets._)

MISS B. (_Glancing round._) He’s in a bad humor this morning. Some poor author will suffer for it. (_To P._) Found anything good, Mr. Powers?

POWERS. Such books! Such inanity. Are all the fools in the country turning authors?

MISS B. (_Laughing._) Why, Mr. Powers, you forget you are an author yourself.

P. No, Miss Bodman, I do not forget it. Here I am, a man of genius, capable of winning the admiration of two hemispheres, who has in fact surprised the civilized world already, compelled to earn my bread by delving among the rubbish of a literary muck-heap.

MISS B. Why don’t you quit that and let your own genius loose?

P. Humph! A book like my “Countess Margo, or A Romance of two Castles,” has no chance of winning in this money-grubbing day. People don’t know poetry, romance, pathos, and sympathy when they see it. Genius is extinguished amid the meretricious glitterings of fad literature.

MISS B. Fie, Mr. Powers, I really believe you are jealous of Mrs. Upperdyke Fadd, whose last novel “Sweet Jingles Jangled” set everybody wild.

P. Miss Bodman, I hope I shall never be guilty of jealousy of Mrs. Fadd. Why, my book, “A Romance of Two Castles,” is a prose idyl. It is as different from Mrs. Fadd’s “Sweet Jingles Jangled” as Confucius is different from Brigham Young.

MISS B. Oh, what a comparison! I do admire your command of language!

P. Ah, thank you. You are a woman of appreciation, but the world—bah the world—(_Puts MSS. back on table._)

MISS B. What have you found there to cross you?

P. What have I found? The same old thing—rubbish from the four quarters of the earth; drivel, nine tenths of it absolute, unqualified idiocy.

MISS B. Why, Mr. Powers, you are unusually sarcastic to-day.

P. Haven’t I cause? Here I, the author of “A Romance of Two Castles,” am expected to read for Greathead & Wright, publishers, from two to five books per day—and oh such stuff. I’m expected to decide the fate of a book, subject to the final decision of Mr. Greathead. And I get a scoring if I reject a book that afterward succeeds with some other publisher.

MISS B. For instance, Gen. Radwell’s great book.

P. Miss Bodman, that isn’t a pleasant subject. How should I know that Gen. Radwell’s book would be the greatest hit for a half century? Mr. Greathead stormed, and I believe if it hadn’t been for Mr. Wright I should not to-day be delving in this mountain of verbiage as confidential reader and literary adviser for the great publishing house of Greathead & Wright. (_Slams down MSS. on table beside MISS B.’S desk, R. Rings bell._) I’ll tell Figgs to return that, it is all rot!

MISS B. Why, Mr. Powers, _you_ are positively using slang!

P. I beg pardon, Miss Bodman, but I just couldn’t help it this time. _It is rot._

MISS B. Why, whose book is it?

P. It’s another interminable manuscript from Arthur Welby. That man is a menace to society. He ought to be incarcerated. He keeps several novels on the go all the time. They have been rejected by every publisher on the continent, I believe. _He_ calls himself an author.

MISS B. But pardon me. He has published _one_ book.

P. Oh yes, a book’s a book although there’s nothing in it.

MISS B. But there is something in that one. It made me weep.

P. Yes, and it made his publisher weep too. Had to sell it for old paper at one cent a pound. (_Rings bell again._) Where on earth is that boy!

MISS B. Well, I don’t care, I liked Welby’s book.

P. Oh, some people will like anything. (_MISS B. stares._) I mean, some sloppy critic called Welby the American Dumas and that ruined him. Instead of making his books smooth and—

MISS. B. And stupid!

P. No, in good form, flowing and soothing, he crams them full of stirring scenes in imitation of the old school. If I had to bring out Dumas with his sensationalism, and Dickens with his exaggerations—well they wouldn’t be brought out, that’s certain. (_Jabs bell viciously._) Where is that boy? Asleep again I suppose.

_ENTER office boy, R._

P. Here William, tell Figgs to return this manuscript by express, author’s expense.

W. Yes, sir!

P. Welby’s postage bills will ruin him. William, muss it a little, so he’ll think it has been read. Be careful now. You got chewing gum between the sheets of one book and the author wrote to Mr. Greathead about it.

W. Will a few thumb prints do?

P. Goodness, no! _I_ don’t thumb print my books.

W. Mr. Snap does.

P. Snap! The magazine and the book departments are managed differently. Turn up a corner here and there and displace a sheet occasionally so that when wrapped they will crease. Tell Figgs about that. (_Boy fumbling with MSS. knocks it off table and the sheets fly in every direction. In attempting to catch MSS. he overturns the dish of water used with letter press and it rolls on floor wetting some of sheets._)

MISS. B. (_Springing aside._) Good gracious, William!

P. Just like a boy! A boy’s an animal! You’ve made a pretty mess of things.

W. I’m only mussin’ it, sir. (_They gather up MSS., MISS. B. wiping water from skirts._)

P. Some of it is wet, it must be carefully dried.

MISS. B. I’m afraid it’ll blur badly.

P. Well, he at least cannot complain that it has never been opened. One author actually had the audacity to write that his book had never been opened.

MISS B. Had it?

P. I believe not. That joke was on Snap. They botch things in the magazine department. I am careful to open everything. No need to read it.

MISS B. How _do_ you decide on the merits without reading?

P. Easy enough. There is a sort of recognized literary clique. If a book has the countersign it is read; if it comes from an outsider it is returned at once with thanks, etc. Greathead & Wright, in fact all publishers, seek people with a reputation.

MISS B. Dear me, how does an outsider get in then?

P. He doesn’t get in.

MISS B. But how can an author get a reputation till he has published a book?

P. That’s his affair. He can’t surely expect to publish till he has the reputation.

_ENTER SUSAN ANN BROWN, R. Her manner is brusque in this scene and she talks down all opposition._

SUSAN. Is this the office of Greathead & Wright, Publishers?

P. (_Bowing, comes down C._) It is. What can I do for you, madam?

SUSAN. Mr. Greathead in?

P. Your name?

SUSAN. Susan Ann Brown. Is Mr. Greathead in?

P. Not at present, it’s a little early.

SUSAN. Wright in?

P. (_Astonished at her manner._) He is out of the city, madam. Can’t I do something for you? Your business?

SUSAN. (_With air of contempt for his position._) I don’t think you can. I called on very important business!

P. I am here to attend to business!

SUSAN. I can’t talk to clerks! I want to see one of the firm.

P. If it is an order for books, the counting room is just across the hall.

SUSAN. (_With toss of head._) It isn’t an order. I am an author. Have a novel, “Winds that Sough in the Night,” 1,100 pages.

P. Madam, it is my business to take charge of manuscripts. I—

SUSAN. (_Emphatically._) No, you don’t. I’ve heard of your ways. Nobody but the firm will read my book.

P. But that is impossible. Our plan—

SUSAN. Is to give manuscripts to some clerk to be fumbled over. As if a ten dollar clerk was the arbiter of literature; or may be you send it out to some society woman whose husband has failed in business, as if that had fitted her to decide anything.

P. But madam, if you will allow me, we consider our readers competent.

SUSAN. And _I_ think (_talks fast and emphatically but distinctly_) an author knows something about a book too, after toiling at it for months. Humph, do you suppose I’ve been living so long for nothing and writing all my life, too? Your plan, indeed! My book “Winds that Sough in the Night” deals with _Theosophy_. You would give that to some man who thinks Theosophy all a humbug. He’d laugh at it and I’d be out my postage. If my book was an exposé of Theosophy, you would give it to some man who believed in the thing and he’d turn it down for spite. Author out again—say, when’ll Greathead be in?

P. I should say inside half an hour.

SUSAN. Which had I better see, Mr. Greathead or Mr. Wright?

P. (_Resignedly._) Either will do.

SUSAN. Then I’ll see Greathead first.

P. Have you a letter of introduction, madam?

SUSAN. Don’t need any. I introduce myself. If Greathead doesn’t come around to my views I’ll see Wright. If he is not convinced, I’ll get the two together and tell ’em what they are missing if they reject my novel. Why, it is equal to Uncle Tom’s Cabin and it is longer than “Robert El Smere.”

P. (_Getting impatient._) Miss Brown, excuse me, I am very busy, will you leave a card?

SUSAN. No, I’ll be back in half an hour.

P. But what shall I say?

SUSAN. Nothing. I’ll do the talking. I was a book agent for five years.

P. Oh!

SUSAN. And I’ve been in New York before! Don’t forget that. And I’ve sold Greathead’s books. I guess I’m not afraid of him. (_Exit, R._)

MISS B. (_Drawing long breath._) Did you ever!

P. Regular cyclone! Electric motor, quick action.

MISS B. What will Mr. Greathead say to her?

P. Trust him. He was a life insurance agent before he was a publisher.

_ENTER MR. GREATHEAD, R._

MR. G. Good morning, Powers. Good morning, Miss Bodman.

P. }
} Good morning, Mr. Greathead.
MISS B. }

MR. G. Mr. Powers, has the printer sent over press proofs of Mrs. Upperdyke Fadd’s novel “Miss Ducie’s Mistake?”

P. They are on your desk, sir.

MR. G. (_Going toward private office, D. F._) Mr. Powers, if that man Welby calls, positively, I can not see him. I suspect he is after me. It is in very bad taste the way he is hounding publishers.

P. Very, sir. I understand that Mr. Scooper of Scooper & Puff came pretty near ejecting him from their office yesterday.

MR. G. That would do for Scooper & Puff but not for Greathead & Wright. We aim to treat all authors with the utmost courtesy. It is business, you see.

P. Exactly, I’ll attend to him. I have already examined his book.

MR. G. What, already? It was only left late last evening you know.

P. I did not read it _all_. Same old thing. Harrowing scenes, sensational and low types of people.

MR. G. There’s something in Welby. I confess his books interest me.

P. Yes, he persists in following the old style and strives to make his books interesting instead of easy, polished, soothing. In short, he wholly ignores good form.

MR. G. I had hopes for him once.

P. I had none. He insists in crowding his books with incidents. Admires Dumas.

P. Just so, a hopeless case! (_Exit G., D. F._)

P. Now, Miss Bodman, let me dictate the letters to Welby and Ralph Hyde-Arlington. I’d send the printed form: “We have carefully read your valuable MS. and beg to say that our reader does not advise us to undertake its publication, etc. Thanks for esteemed favor,” etc.

MISS B. And all that, taffy rejection of a MS. does not imply literary deficiency, etc.

P. I’d give that to all of them straight, but apparently Mr. Greathead has promised these two pretenders that their MSS. shall have special attention. I think Welby’s got it, too. (_Laughs._)

MISS B. Mr. Welby would like a line as to the _reason_ his MS. is found unavailable, in case it is returned. Poor man! he seemed to have a presentiment of refusal.

P. Yes, apparently that is the only sane point left in Welby. He has presentiments. He knows he is going to get it in the neck.

MISS B. Really, Mr. Powers, your language is shocking to-day.

P. I can’t help it. Just think! In the last three days some score of rejected authors have been insisting on reasons, and I can’t give reasons. Mr. Greathead has forbidden it.

MISS B. But don’t you think an author is entitled to some consideration where his own hard labor is concerned?

P. Great Scott! If I tried to satisfy them all I’d be in an insane asylum before a month. They manage that better in the magazine department. Mr. Wright is a man of business. He has given orders to stop all authors in the vestibule, take their books away from them and show them out.

_ENTER WILLIAM, R., carrying enormous armful of MSS. in packages and envelopes. Some fall to floor. Puts them on P.’s desk. A roll remains on floor._

P. (_Groans._) Look at that pile, one mail!

WILLIAM. (_Aside._) That’ll make the old man sweat. (_Starts out and stumbles over roll, falls sprawling._)

P. Look at your carelessness! Pick that up. The dunce has rolled it. The magazine department refuses to look at anything that is rolled. But I am a drudge. I _have_ to do it. Greathead is too easy.

MISS B. But our letters, Mr. Powers,—

P. (_Groans._) I’ll make them short. (_Dictates._) “Mr. Arthur Welby, Mount Hope, Ill.—You had better move to mount Despair—”

MISS B. Do I take all that?

P. No, of course not. I’m talking now.

MISS B. I see.

P. There are precious few authors anywhere in America, and as for the West and especially Chicago—pah!

MISS B. I suppose the best can come only from Europe.

P. Decidedly.

MISS B. America was not big enough to produce “A Romance of Two Castles.”

P. Miss Bodman, sarcasm is wasted in this office. If you do not like my book—once is sufficient to tell me. (_Spitefully._) Of course, if you like Arthur Welby’s novel, “The Man from Mattoon,” you couldn’t like mine. Go on please, you have the address.

MISS B. (_Tartly._) I’m waiting to go on. (_Reads._) “Mr. Arthur Welby, Mt. Hope, Ill.”

P. Dear Sir—We have read carefully the MSS. of your very interesting story—

MISS B. What a fib!

P. Miss Bodman, you will please not interrupt—“The Governor’s Daughter.” We regret that it is not exactly suited to our present needs. Thanking you for the opportunity of reading your very original book we are, Very respectfully, Greathead & Wright. Now for that irrepressible poet, Mr. Ralph Hyde-Arlington.

MISS B. I hope you are not going to reject him.

P. I should say rather. Why not?

MISS B. Some of his poems are just lovely.

P. Stuff! Nothing but jingle!

MISS B. Quite the contrary. His “Lines to a Dead Canary” are full of pathos and sentiment.

P. Well, I admit that Hyde-Arlington’s lines have a certain go about them suited to these times when ideas are superfluous in literature.

MISS B. (_With sentiment._) What is your ideal of him, Mr. Powers.

P. Hum, I have no time to form ideals.

MISS B. His name is quite romantic, Ralph Hyde-Arlington.

P. Yes, it looks well on a title page.

MISS B. I think he must be tall and handsome, with dreamy eyes and dark curling locks. His sentiment is _so_ tender. He must be an Apollo.

P. Possibly. I hope we shan’t have to verify that. He’s in the city now.

MISS B. I hope he’ll call.

P. (_Emphatically._) I hope he will not. You know I dread the sight of an author as I dread small pox. Now for his letter.

_ENTER WILLIAM, suddenly, R._

WILLIAM. Mr. Welby’s here again. He’s kind o’ excited. (_P. jumps up. Thrusts W.’S letter into boy’s hand._)

P. Mail that immediately, William. (_To MISS B._) Tell Welby we’ve written. Say anything. Get rid of him. (_Exit hastily, L._)

_ENTER WELBY, R._

W. I beg pardon, Miss, I just called to say that I’ll be in town three or four days yet. My address is Fifth Avenue Hotel.

MISS B. Yes, sir, I’ll note that.

W. (_Hesitating._) My book was to have immediate attention. I suppose it is in hand to-day. (_Boy at door grins, holds letter, MISS B. nods to him._)

MISS B. I think that it is—that is—oh, I remember. The house has written you.

W. (_Excitedly._) Oh, so soon. Then they must want an interview. In that case I am at their service. I’ll wait now.

MISS B. (_Perplexed._) Oh, no—I meant (_winks at W. again_) that is you had better see the letter.

_ENTER RALPH, R._

RALPH. Is this the office of Greathead & Wright, Publishers?

MISS B. Yes, sir, the counting room is just across the hall.

RALPH. The counting room is not what I want. I seek an interview with the firm.

MISS B. That is impossible. Mr. Wright has gone to Boston and Mr. Greathead has been very busy of late with authors.

RALPH. Then Greathead is my man, I am an author.

MISS B. (_Surprised._) In that case I’ll leave your card on his desk.

RALPH. I have no card. Poets can’t afford cards. Just say Ralph Hyde-Arlington.

MISS B. (_Starts, drops note book._) Oh! You are Mr. Ralph Hyde-Arlington!

RALPH. (_Bowing._) I am, Miss, at your service, Ralph Hyde-Arlington, author of “The Dead Canary and Other Poems.”

WELBY. (_Picking up note book._) Allow me, miss!

MISS B. Goodness me!

WELBY. Are you ill, Miss Bodman?

MISS B. No, thank you! Just a momentary dizziness.

RALPH. How my appearance affects her! (_Looks proud._)

MISS B. It’s gone now. Allow me Mr. Arthur Welby, novelist, to introduce Mr. Ralph Hyde-Arlington, poet. (_They shake hands down C._)

WELBY. Ah! this is a pleasure, Mr. Hyde-Arlington. My wife likes the “Dead Canary” very much.

RALPH. (_Bowing._) Thank you! Thank you!

WELBY. In fact it is her favorite poem. By the way, of course you’ve read my novel, “The Man from Mattoon.”

RALPH. (_Confused._) No, I haven’t. I am reserving that pleasure. It is inexcusable of me to have put off so long, for it is a work of genius. (_W. bows._) But you see I’m a poor man and poetry doesn’t pay. We’ve quite a family too—nine children now.

MISS B. (_Exclaiming suddenly._) Oh, goodness—I beg pardon, gentlemen. (_Goes up to her type-writing machine._)

W. Really, I fear she is ill.

RALPH. (_Aside to W._) It is our presence that affects her.

W. (_Starting._) No.

RALPH. Sure!

W. (_To MISS B._) Do you feel better?

MISS B. I am all right now, thank you. (_Rings bell._) Gentlemen, I’ll have you shown to the reception room where you can converse undisturbed.

W. (_To RALPH._) I’ll send you a copy of, “The Man from Mattoon.”

RALPH. Thanks, I’ll send you a “Dead Canary.”

_ENTER WILLIAM, R._

MISS. B. William, show these gentlemen into reception room. And ask Mr. Robinson the bookkeeper, to step here a moment. (_Exeunt, R._) Well, I never! That man the poet, Ralph Hyde-Arlington. He looks like a junk dealer, and married and nine children! Horrors! I thought Lollie June Tibbie must be a willowy school girl, but she proves to be forty and weighs 180. Oh, the surprises of literature! Arlington’s face would stop a clock.

_RE-ENTER WILLIAM, R._

WILLIAM. Robinson says he just wont take any more poets out to lunch.

MISS B. Why?

WILLIAM. He went out with four yesterday, an’ to-day he’s nearly dead with dyspepsy, or whatever ye call it.

MISS B. Let the firm pay his doctor bill. I’m not here to get rid of people.

WILLIAM. He’s been takin’ pepsicum all day an’ says he just wont do it fur nobody. (_Exit W., R._)

_ENTER MR. G. and P. from D. F._

P. (_Anxiously._) Have they gone?

MISS B. No, they are in the reception room.

MR. G. Powers, I’ll leave it to you. I simply can’t see Mr. Welby again. This is the fifth time we have turned him down.

P. Miss Bodman has mailed him a letter, and—by the way, where did you send that letter?

MISS B. Why to the Fifth Avenue hotel of course.

P. Oh, reckless young woman! now you have done it. He’ll get that letter and be back here in fifteen minutes, wanting _reasons_. The letter should have gone to Mount Despair, Illinois.

MISS B. You mean _Mount Hope_.

P. Yes, of course. Why didn’t you send it to Mount Hope?

MISS B. Because you gave me his card with Fifth Avenue Hotel address.

MR. G. We’ll have the bookkeeper take him to lunch.

MISS B. Robinson refuses. Says he is already dying of indigestion.

MR. G. Then it devolves on you, Powers.

P. Mr. Greathead, I have heart trouble. Send for Snap.

MR. G. (_Laughs._) I’ll put both of them in on Snap. That’ll be a good joke, eh Powers?

P. Oh very funny, sir. Snap played me that trick once.

MR. G. By the way, Miss Bodman, you had better take your lunch.

MISS B. Yes, sir. (_Exit B. R._)

MR. G. Powers, what do you think of Mr. Wilbur B. Chapter-Chapter’s new novel?

P. What can you expect from Chicago?

MR. G. But Chicago has her 400 now.

P. They _think_ they have.

MR. G. That amounts to the same thing. They will buy Mr. Chapter-Chapter’s book solely because he is in the 400.

P. Then you will sell it chiefly on the binding?

MR. G. Certainly! The most successful books nowadays owe part of their success to the binder, just as the stage carpenter builds a play.

P. I think you are right, they have plenty of money in Chicago—and pork.

MR. G. Powers, you are prejudiced against the West. We must cater to them.

P. Very well, sir. Chapter-Chapter’s book is good enough for a caterer. There’s nothing in it.

MR. G. That makes no difference. Ideas make literature but paper will make books.

P. And it lacks the smooth, gum drop style of Mrs. Fadd’s “Sweet Jingles Jangled.”

MR. G. (_Laughs._) Gum-drops! Powers, you are rather severe on Mrs. Fadd. We can’t expect to equal her great book more than once in a decade. The only point to be considered is this: Is Chapter-Chapter’s book in good form?

P. Oh, the best. Why, he led the ball given in honor of Princess Eulalia.

MR. G. That fact alone is a capital start. We’ll state it in the preface.

P. And he dedicated the Joss House erected by the Century Club to the adoration of the “Heavenly Twins.”

MR. G. Enough! We will publish Chapter-Chapter’s book.

P. We should have it endorsed by the Supreme Council of the New York Pow Wow.

MR. G. That is very _easy_. The secretary will write us a “Letter.”

_ENTER WILLIAM, R._

WILLIAM. Mr. Greathead, Mrs. Upperdyke Fadd has called.

MR. G. (_Pleased._) Show her in, William. Powers, do your best. She likes compliment and she’s the greatest writer of the time.

P. You mean _seller_, Mr. Greathead.

MR. G. Yes, yes, but do try to worship her a little, business you know.

_ENTER MRS. FADD, R._

MR. G. (_Effusively._) My dear Mrs. Fadd, this is indeed a pleasure. (_Places chair, C._)

P. (_Bowing._) Yes, unfortunately we see so little of authors, those wonderful people who make the world laugh or weep at their will.

MR. G. (_Tapping P.’S shoulder._) Very neat! I couldn’t have said it so well.

MRS. F. (_Dropping in chair._) You are very kind gentlemen. But I’m here on business. How are the books selling?

MR. G. The success of your book is simply phenomenal. The sales of “Sweet Jingles Jangled” marks an era in the book business. Presses running day and night. The name of Mrs. Upperdyke Fadd is on every tongue, club talk, society talk, street car talk—why I overheard one newsboy ask another: “Tim wot the dickens did that Mrs. Upperdyke Fadd do?” (_All laugh._)

MRS. F. Yes, they do talk about me. (_Laughs._) Penalty of fame! And I am bored to death with letters from everywhere on earth about goodness knows what all, but mostly wanting subscriptions to something or other.

MR. G. The penalty of greatness, madam!

MRS. F. The only thing that I shall really push, however, is the new Infirmary for Superannuated Lap-dogs. One must concentrate nowadays. They’ve made me a director in that. Mrs. Wilton Schuyler Vanderzumboom is president. It is an enterprise undertaken exclusively by the most fashionable society. They are breaking their necks in the scramble to get in.

P. Who, the lap-dogs?

MRS. F. Oh dear, no, the ladies. How absurd!

MR. G. That’s only a little joke of Powers’. (_Gives P. a warning look._) It is a most commendable thing—

MRS. F. Apparently the day is past when a jest has any relation to a witticism.

MR. G. No, no, you will have your joke too, Mrs. Fadd. I mean the hospital.

MRS. F. _Infirmary_, Mr. Greathead! One is expected to do something and there are so many causes worthy of help. I hesitated between the Humane Society and the Infirmary for Superannuated Lap-dogs. Then I thought I’d better limit myself.

MR. G. By the way, Mrs. Fadd, I hope you won’t let anything interfere with your contract with Greathead & Wright. Two novels per month, you know, is the agreement.

MRS. F. Pshaw! I could make it four, I really believe, I write so very easily.

MR. G. By the way, Mr. Powers, that reminds me that we ought to have Mrs. Fadd interviewed again. She hasn’t been interviewed for nearly a month. Suppose we do it now and send slips to the papers at once.

P. Miss Bodman is not here.

MR. G. Couldn’t you manage to take it?

P. Possibly, yes. (_Gets writing pad and seats himself at desk._)

MR. G. The public is very much interested in celebrities just now. Napoleon you know, and Pillby. The politician held sway a long time but now the other people are falling into line. When the public hears of success, they want to know all about its possessor. The public idolize success. Now the papers are publishing portraits of dashing Board of Trade men, brilliant, brainy pork-packers, solid real estate men, smooth oil refiners, expansive gas operators.

P. I have seen a write-up of a philanthropic operator in fire sales, ten-cent counter goods, etc.; made his million of course. This is a progressive age.

MR. G. Now, Mrs. Fadd, be kind enough to answer:

Q. What kind of paper do you write on?

A. Cream laid, note size.

P. Jersey cream?

MR. G. Powers, you are getting so absent-minded. This is an interview of a literary celebrity.

Q. What sort of chair do you sit in?

A. Cane bottomed.

Q. Straight back or curved?

A. Slightly curved.

Q. You write easily?

A. Oh very! Why, it’s just dead easy. Goodness me! What did the old-fashioned author do with his time, I’d like to know. We read that they wrote and scratched out and groaned and sweat; why I can’t understand it. I drop the sheets on floor with my left hand, (_MR. G. “Got that Powers? With her left hand.”_) like clock work, a sheet every five minutes, twelve sheets an hour. Six thousand words per day.

MR. G. Just think of it. A most prolific pen.

P. Yes, the female pen is often very prolific.

Q. Do you have moods, Mrs. Fadd?

MRS. F. Why, as to grammar—

MR. G. I mean the other kind of moods.

A. _Moods!_ no indeed, if I had moods the public would discern them. I set myself a standard of uniformity and compel myself to attain it. When I wrote “Sweet Jingles Jangled” I set myself to please. Labored efforts never please. I said there shouldn’t be an idea in the book, and there isn’t. The mistake of the old authors was in thinking the public wanted ideas. It does not want to be bored with ideas. It wants smooth, flowing, soothing—what shall I say?

P. Stuff.

MRS. F. No, there is a better word. (_Thinks._) Dear me—for the present we’ll say stuff, that may be read any where at any time without the possibility of exciting thought or provoking tiresome discussion. That’s why the public likes Mrs. Fadd. It knows Mrs. Fadd is both safe and entertaining.

Q. Mrs. Fadd do you revise much?

A. Oh, never! I consider revision the rock on which many authors have foundered. The moment you begin to revise you break in upon that flowing smoothness which the public likes, and then your stuff doesn’t appear fresh. If you revise, your work is sure to show it, and that the public resents, says you are straining after effect. Why, we read of one of the old authors who rode round town for an entire day in a half demented condition, in a cab, to the great alarm of the driver. At last throwing open the door, he jumped wildly into the street, at the risk of his neck, exclaiming: “I’ve got it! I’ve got it!” The cabman greatly relieved thought he alluded to the fare and replied! “All right, sir! Seven hours, one dollar an hour.” (_All laugh._) The author angrily replied: “You fool, I’m talking about a word I wanted. At last I’ve got it.” Now is it any wonder that authors who drove round in cabs looking for words were always in indigent circumstances?

P. A dictionary would be cheaper.

MR. G. Decidedly! Now as to your personal life, Mrs. Fadd, the public insists on knowing those things.

MRS. F. I’m sure I don’t object to telling.

Q. Do you take cream in your coffee?

A. At breakfast, not at dinner.

Q. Sugar?

A. Yes.

Q. How many lumps?

A. Two at breakfast, one at dinner.

MR. G. Note that Powers; curious eccentricity in the matter of sugar. Expand that a little.

Q. Whose soap do you use?

A. Quince’s.

Q. If you only took a cigarette occasionally it would add piquancy you know; royalty does it, duchesses and all the _bizarre_ people.

MRS. F. Oh, I _do_ smoke a little but you really must not put that in, I—

_ENTER brusquely SUSAN ANN BROWN, R._

SUSAN. Is this Mr. Greathead?

MRS. F. (_Jumping up._) Oh dear! What if she heard! She may think I smoke a pipe. Goodness me! (_Runs out L._)

SUSAN. Is this Mr. Greathead?

MR. G. It is madam, at your service.

SUSAN. I am Susan Ann Brown, author of “Winds that Sough in the Night,” the greatest novel of the day, 1,100 pages, 300,000 words.

MR. G. To be sure. I’ll introduce you to Mr. Powers our “Reader.” He will examine your book.

SUSAN. I want Mr. Greathead to read it.

MR. G. That is simply impossible. Have an engagement. Mr. Powers is next to me.

SUSAN. I guess the best way is for me to call again. I’ll read it to you myself.

MR. G. Eleven hundred pages! Excuse me, madam, I have an urgent engagement (_looks at watch_). Past time now! Here, Powers, attend to the lady. (_Rushes out L._)

SUSAN. (_To P._) So you are next to him. If _you_ decide you must first hear every line, no skipping. I’ll see to that myself.

P. (_Sits at his desk and commences to fumble MSS., out of humor._) My dear madam, our plan—

SUSAN. And my plan is to do nothing half way.

P. But, Miss Brown, I really never could listen well. My ear I think—

SUSAN. I’ve a strong voice. I guess my way’s best. I’m a good reader. (_Pulls up chair beside him to his surprise, sits, opens MS._)

P. (_Groans._) But madam, this isn’t regular.

SUSAN. I’ve heard all about your putting off authors. Now I’m here and I’m going to be heard.

P. Good Lord, madam—

SUSAN. Just keep cool now. If you once hear “Winds that Sough in the Night” you’ll want it. (_Reads._) “One evening, some thirty years ago, a solitary horseman was seen winding his way over the bare, snow-clad hills as the red December sun was slowly sinking in the western horizon. As he rode along he was immersed in—”

P. (_Frantically._) The river, I hope.

SUSAN. We should get on better if you did not anticipate, Powers.

P. Anticipate! (_Jumps and rings bell. Instantly gong sounds outside. SUSAN jumps up in alarm, drops leaf of MS._)

SUSAN. What was that? (_Gong again very loud._)

P. Fire, madam, the place is on fire! Escape for your life

SUSAN. Merciful heaven, and if my precious book should be burned. Why, my book is a legacy for the ages. (_Rushes wildly out R. hugging MS._)

P. (_Laughs._) That’s our last resort in self-defense. Now may be I can do some work. (_Goes to desk and takes up MS._)

_RE-ENTER WELBY, R._

W. I got that letter, Mr. Powers. I hardly expected that.

P. They never do expect it.

W. What are your reasons for rejecting my great book, “The Governor’s Daughter?”

P. Because we did not want it.

W. Sir, you are insulting.

P. Very well, abuse me if you choose. I’m only an employé. I have to be polite.

W. But has an author no rights? Must he go on forever like the Wandering Jew and never be told anything? If I were your tailor you would tell me what was the matter.

P. It costs more to put a book to press than it does a coat.

W. I could possibly fix up the book or write one that would please you.

P. I’m very sorry, Mr. Welby, but I’m only part of a vast machine and we can’t give reasons for everything we do.

W. But Mr. Greathead practically promised me an interview.

P. Then see him.

W. How can I see him when he’s never visible?

P. I’ll call him. (_Raps, D. F._)

_ENTER G._

MR. G. (_Starts back, surprised._) Ah, is it you, Mr. Welby?

W. Yes. May I ask something about my book?

MR. G. Why, really it’s against our rules but, Powers, suppose you take Mr. Welby out to lunch and talk with him.

W. I much prefer to see you, sir. I agree not to bore you.

MR. G. (_Gets hat._) Then suppose you do me the honor of lunching with me at the Club.

W. With pleasure. (_Exeunt, R._)

P. (_Dropping in chair._) I shall have softening of the brain, I know it, I feel it coming on.

_ENTER RALPH, R._

RALPH. Mr. Greathead in yet?

P. No.

RALPH. I’ve been waiting in the reception room two hours.

P. I’m very sorry.

RALPH. Where is he? I’ll follow him all over New York.

P. (_Wearily._) Gone to lunch with Mr. Welby.

RALPH. Welby, ha! Welby is taking advantage of me. Why didn’t I invite Mr. Greathead to lunch with me. (_Runs fingers through hair, assumes dignified air which is very comical._) May be I’m not so well dressed as Welby, but clothes have nothing to do with literature.

P. But they do with books.

RALPH. A fine distinction. Mrs. Fadd wears good clothes. Mr. Powers, while we are all alone, suppose I just read you a few poems from my new volume, “The Pith Soldier, and Other Poems?” They far surpass the “Dead Canary.” You’ll want them.

P. Mr. Hyde-Arlington, we never do that. It’s against the rules.

RALPH. I mean just in an informal way between ourselves. You know the success attained by my “Dead Canary.”

P. Impossible, my dear sir. The building may take fire.

RALPH. (_Starting._) Fire! What’s that you said?

P. I mean—go on sir. (R. _begins unwrapping package._)

P. (_Aside._) I’ll try the fire alarm. (_Before he can ring bell_)—

_ENTER, R. hastily, SUSAN._

SUSAN. Young man, that was a false alarm. There wasn’t any fire.

RALPH. Fire! No, my poetry is not as hot as Mrs. Wheelwright’s.

SUSAN. (_Ignores R._) I lost a page of my book. I couldn’t lose the least bit of it for the world. It is my heart’s blood, drop by drop—oh, there it is! (_Picks page under chair._) Oh, how I’ve worked on that book, I’ve burned for hours the midnight oil with aching head and ceaseless toil. There! I didn’t mean to make poetry.

RALPH. (_Sarcastically._) You haven’t made any.

SUSAN. (_With withering glance._) Who are you, I’d like to know?

RALPH. I am Ralph Hyde-Arlington, poet, author of “The Dead Canary, and Other Poems.”

SUSAN. And I am Susan Ann Brown, novelist, author of “Winds that Sough in the Night.”

RALPH. Excuse me, madam, but you have interrupted us. I was about to read my poems to Mr. Powers.

SUSAN. Excuse _me_. I was here first. (_POWERS in glee watches dispute, rubs hands, then quietly gets hat and steals out L._)