Chapter II: The Technic of the One-Act Play (9)

[MOLLIE _helps herself to vegetables and then dishes out a portion
which she hands to_ HILDA, _who in turn places the dish beside_
BOB. _When both are served_ HILDA _stands for a moment back of the
table. She clasps and unclasps her hands in a nervous manner, seems
about to speak, but as_ BOB _and_ MOLLIE _pay no attention to her
she slowly and reluctantly turns, and exits left_. MOLLIE _takes
one or two bites of the meat and then gives a quick glance at_ BOB.
_He is busy chewing at his meat, and_ MOLLIE _quietly lays down her
knife and fork and turns to the vegetables_.

BOB. [_Chewing desperately on his meat._] Tenderloin, I believe?

MOLLIE. [_Sweetly._] Yes, dear.

BOB. [_Imitating_ MOLLIE _a moment back_.] H'mm! [_He takes one or two more hard bites._] Mollie, I have an idea.

MOLLIE. I'm relieved.

BOB. [_Savagely._] Yes, you will be when you hear it. When we get that builder's name from Fanny Russell, we'll tell him that instead of a garage, which we don't need, he can build a special telephone booth off the kitchen. Then while Hilda serves the dinner----

[BOB _stops short, as_ HILDA _bursts in abruptly, left, and comes
to the table_.

HILDA. Aixcuse me, Meeses Aispenhayne, I am so excited.

MOLLIE. [_Anxiously._] Is anything wrong, Hilda?

HILDA. [_Explosively._] Meeses Aispenhayne, Meester Leendquist he say you want to move to Highland Park.

[BOB _and_ MOLLIE _simultaneously drop their knives and forks and
look at_ HILDA _in astonishment and wonder_.

MOLLIE. What?

BOB. Who?

HILDA. [_Repeats very rapidly._] Meester Leendquist, he say you look for house on North Shore!

MOLLIE. [_Utterly overcome at_ HILDA'S _knowledge and at a loss for words of denial_.] We move to the North Shore? How ridiculous! Hilda, where did you get such an idea? [_Turns to_ ROBERT.] Robert, did you ever hear anything so laughable? [_She forces a strained laugh._] Ha! Ha! Ha! [ROBERT _has been looking at_ HILDA _in dumb wonder. At_ MOLLIE'S _question he turns to her in startled surprise. He starts to answer, gulps, swallows hard, and then coughs violently. Very sharply, after waiting a moment for_ BOB _to answer_.] Robert Espenhayne, will you stop that coughing and answer me!

BOB. [_Between coughs, and drinking a glass of water._] Egh! Egh! Excuse me! Something, eh! egh! stuck in my throat.

MOLLIE. [_Turning to_ HILDA.] Some day we might want to move north, Hilda, but not now! Oh, no, not now!

BOB. Who told you that, Hilda?

HILDA. Meester Leendquist.

MOLLIE. [_Puzzled._] Who is Mr. Lindquist?

HILDA. [_Surprised._] Meester Leendquist--[_Pauses, a trifle embarrassed._] Meester Leendquist ees young man who just speak to me on telephone. He come to see me every Saturday.

BOB. Oh, Mr. Lindquist, the--the--Ter----

MOLLIE. [_Interrupting frantically, and waving her hands at_ BOB.] Yes, yes, of course. You know--Mr. Lindquist! [BOB _catches himself just in time and_ MOLLIE _settles back with a sigh of relief, then turns to_ HILDA _with a puzzled air_.] But where did Mr. Lindquist get such an idea?

HILDA. Mrs. Russell tell heem so.

MOLLIE. [_Now entirely bewildered._] What Mrs. Russell?

HILDA. Meeses Russell--your friend.

MOLLIE. [_More and more at sea._] Mrs. Edwin Russell, who comes to see me--every now and then?

HILDA. Yes.

MOLLIE. But how does Mrs. Russell know Mr. Lindquist and why should she tell Mr. Lindquist that we expected to move to the North Shore?

HILDA. Meester Leendquist, he build Meeses Russell's house. That ees hees business. He build houses on North Shore and he sell them and rent them.

[BOB _and_ MOLLIE _look at each other and at_ HILDA, _in wonder and
astonishment as the situation slowly filters into their brains. A
long pause._]

BOB. [_In awe and astonishment._] You mean that Mr. Lindquist, the young man who comes to see you every--every--every now and then--is the same man who put up the Russell house?

HILDA. Yes, Meester Aispenhayne.

BOB. [_Slowly._] And when Mrs. Espenhayne [_points to_ MOLLIE] wrote to Mrs. Russell [_jerks his thumb to indicate the north_], Mrs. Russell told Mr. Lindquist [_jerks his thumb in opposite direction_] and Mr. Lindquist telephoned to you?

[_Points to_ HILDA.

HILDA. Yes, Meester Aispenhayne. [_Nodding._

BOB. [_Very thoughtfully and slowly._] H'mm! [_Then slowly resuming his meal and speaking in mock seriousness, in subtle jest at_ MOLLIE, _and imitating her tone of a moment or two back_.] But of course, you understand, Hilda, we don't want to move to the North Shore now! Oh, no, not now!

HILDA. [_Somewhat crestfallen._] Yes, Meester Aispenhayne.

BOB. [_Reflectively._] But, of course, if Mr. Lindquist builds houses, we might look. Yes, we might look.

HILDA. [_In growing confidence and enthusiasm._] Yes, Meester Aispenhayne, and he build such beautiful houses and so cheap. He do so much heemself. Hees father was carpenter and he work hees way through Uneeversity of Mennesota and study architecture and then he go to Uneeversity of Eelenois and study landscape gardening and now he been in business for heemself sex years. And oh, Meeses Aispenhayne, you must see hees own home! You will love eet, eet ees so beautiful. A little house, far back from the road. You can hardly see eet for the trees and the shrubs, and een the summer the roses grow all around eet. Eet is just like the picture book!

MOLLIE. [_In the most perfunctory tone, utterly without interest or enthusiasm._] How charming! [_Pauses thoughtfully, then turns to_ HILDA, _anxiously_.] Then I suppose, Hilda, if we should decide to move up to the North Shore you would go with us?

HILDA. [_Hesitatingly._] Yes, Meeses Aispenhayne. [_Pauses._] But I theenk I must tell you thees spring Meester Leendquist and I aixpect to get married. Meester Leendquist's business ees very good. [_With a quick smile and a glance from one to the other._] You know, I am partner with heem. I put all my money een Meester Leendquist's business too.

[MOLLIE _and_ BOB _gaze at each other in complete resignation and
surrender_.

BOB. [_Quite seriously after a long pause._] Hilda, I don't know whether we will move north or not, but the next time Mr. Lindquist comes here I want you to introduce me to him. I'd like to know him. You ought to be very proud of a man like that.

HILDA. [_Radiant with pleasure._] Thank you, Meester Aispenhayne.

MOLLIE. Yes, indeed, Hilda, Mr. Espenhayne has often said what a fine young man Mr. Lindquist seems to be. We want to meet him, and Mr. Espenhayne and I will talk about the house, and then we will speak to Mr. Lindquist. [_Then weakly._] Of course, we didn't expect to move north for a long time, but, of course, if you expect to get married, and Mr. Lindquist builds houses---- [_Her voice dies out. Long pause._

HILDA. Thank you, Meeses Aispenhayne, I tell Mr. Leendquist.

[HILDA _stands at the table a moment longer, then slowly turns and
moves toward door, left_. BOB _and_ MOLLIE _watch her and as she
moves away from the table_ BOB _turns to_ MOLLIE. _At this moment_
HILDA _stops, turns suddenly and returns to the table_.

HILDA. Oh, Meeses Aispenhayne, I forget one theeng!

MOLLIE. What now, Hilda?

HILDA. Meester Leendquist say eef you and Meester Aispenhayne want to look at property on North Shore, I shall let heem know and he meet you at station weeth hees automobile.

CURTAIN

A DOLLAR

BY

DAVID PINSKI

_A Dollar_ is reprinted by special permission of David Pinski and of B. W. Huebach, New York City, the publisher of David Pinski's _Ten Plays_, from which this play is taken. All rights reserved. For permission to perform address the publisher.

DAVID PINSKI

David Pinski, perhaps the most notable dramatist of the Yiddish Theatre, was born of Jewish parentage April 5, 1872, in Mohilev, on the Dnieper, White Russia. Because his parents had rabbinical aspirations for him he was well educated in Hebrew studies (Bible and Talmud) by his fourteenth year, when he moved to Moscow, where he was further trained in classical and secular studies. In 1891 he planned to study medicine in Vienna, but soon returned to Warsaw, where he began his literary work as a short-story writer. In 1896 he took up the study of philosophy and literature, and in 1899 wrote his first plays. In 1899 he came to New York City, where he is now editor of the Jewish daily, _Die Zeit_. In 1911 he revisited Germany to see a production of his well-known comedy, _The Treasure_, by Max Reinhart.

Mr. Pinski is zealous in his interests in literature, drama, socialism, and Zionism. Drama is to him an interpretation of life, and a guide and leader, as were the words of the old poets and prophets. "The dramatic technique," says he, "changes with each plot, as each plot brings with it its own technique. One thing, however, must be common to all the different forms of the dramatic technique--avoidance of tediousness."

Mr. Pinski has written a goodly number of plays, most of which are on Yiddish themes. _Forgotten Souls_, _The Stranger_, _Sufferings_, _The Treasure_, _The Phonograph_, and _A Dollar_ may be mentioned. Most of his plays have been produced many times; _The Stranger_ played the third season in Moscow.

"I wrote _A Dollar_," says he, "in the summer of 1913, when I was hard pressed financially. I relieved myself of my feelings by a hearty laugh at the almighty dollar and the race for it. Just as I did many summers before, in 1906, when I entertained myself by ridiculing the mad money joy in the bigger comedy, _The Treasure_."

PERSONS

The Characters are given in the order of their appearance.

THE COMEDIAN
THE VILLAIN
THE TRAGEDIAN
ACTOR _who plays_ "OLD MAN" _rôle_
THE HEROINE
THE INGENUE
ACTRESS _who plays_ "OLD WOMAN" _rôle_
THE STRANGER

A DOLLAR

_A cross-roads at the edge of a forest. One road extends from left
to right; the other crosses the first diagonally, disappearing into
the forest. The roadside is bordered with grass. On the right, at
the crossing, stands a sign-post, to which are nailed two boards,
giving directions and distances._

_The afternoon of a summer day. A troupe of stranded strolling
players enters from the left. They are ragged and weary. The_
COMEDIAN _walks first, holding a valise in each hand, followed by
the_ VILLAIN _carrying over his arms two huge bundles wrapped in
bed-sheets. Immediately behind these the_ TRAGEDIAN _and the_ "OLD
MAN" _carrying together a large, heavy trunk_.

COMEDIAN. [_Stepping toward the sign-post, reading the directions on the boards, and explaining to the approaching fellow-actors._] That way [_pointing to right and swinging the valise to indicate the direction_] is thirty miles. This way [_pointing to left_] is forty-five--and that way it is thirty-six. Now choose for yourself the town that you'll never reach to-day. The nearest way for us is back to where we came from, whence we were escorted with the most splendid catcalls that ever crowned our histrionic successes.

VILLAIN. [_Exhausted._] Who will lend me a hand to wipe off my perspiration? It has a nasty way of streaming into my mouth.

COMEDIAN. Stand on your head, then, and let your perspiration water a more fruitful soil.

VILLAIN. Oh!

[_He drops his arms, the bundles fall down. He then sinks down onto
one of them and wipes off the perspiration, moving his hand wearily
over his face. The_ TRAGEDIAN _and the_ "OLD MAN" _approach the
post and read the signs_.

TRAGEDIAN. [_In a deep, dramatic voice._] It's hopeless! It's hopeless! [_He lets go his end of the trunk._

"OLD MAN." [_Lets go his end of the trunk._] Mm. Another stop.

[TRAGEDIAN _sits himself down on the trunk in a tragico-heroic
pose, knees wide apart, right elbow on right knee, left hand on
left leg, head slightly bent toward the right_. COMEDIAN _puts down
the valises and rolls a cigarette_. The "OLD MAN" _also sits down
upon the trunk, head sunk upon his breast_.

VILLAIN. Thirty miles to the nearest town! Thirty miles!

COMEDIAN. It's an outrage how far people move their towns away from us.

VILLAIN. We won't strike a town until the day after to-morrow.

COMEDIAN. Hurrah! That's luck for you! There's yet a day-after-to-morrow for us.

VILLAIN. And the old women are still far behind us. Crawling!

"OLD MAN." They want the vote and they can't even walk.

COMEDIAN. We won't give them votes, that's settled. Down with votes for women!

VILLAIN. It seems the devil himself can't take you! Neither your tongue nor your feet ever get tired. You get on my nerves. Sit down and shut up for a moment.

COMEDIAN. _Me?_ Ha--ha! I'm going back there to the lady of my heart. I'll meet her and fetch her hither in my arms.

[_He spits on his hands, turns up his sleeves, and strides rapidly
off toward the left._

VILLAIN. Clown!

"OLD MAN." How can he laugh and play his pranks even now? We haven't a cent to our souls, our supply of food is running low and our shoes are dilapidated.

TRAGEDIAN. [_With an outburst._] Stop it! No reckoning! The number of our sins is great and the tale of our misfortunes is even greater. Holy Father! Our flasks are empty; I'd give what is left of our soles [_displaying his ragged shoes_] for just a smell of whiskey.

[_From the left is heard the laughter of a woman. Enter the_
COMEDIAN _carrying in his arms the_ HEROINE, _who has her hands
around his neck and holds a satchel in both hands behind his back_.

COMEDIAN. [_Letting his burden down upon the grass._] Sit down, my love, and rest up. We go no further to-day. Your feet, your tender little feet must ache you. How unhappy that makes me! At the first opportunity I shall buy you an automobile.

HEROINE. And in the meantime you may carry me oftener.

COMEDIAN. The beast of burden hears and obeys.

[_Enter the_ INGENUE _and the_ "OLD WOMAN," _each carrying a small
satchel_.

INGENUE. [_Weary and pouting._] Ah! No one carried _me_.

[_She sits on the grass to the right of the_ HEROINE.

VILLAIN. We have only one ass with us.

[COMEDIAN _stretches himself out at the feet of the_ HEROINE _and
emits the bray of a donkey_. "OLD WOMAN" _sits down on the grass to
the left of the_ HEROINE.

"OLD WOMAN." And are we to pass the night here?

"OLD MAN." No, we shall stop at "Hotel Neverwas."

COMEDIAN. Don't you like our night's lodgings? [_Turning over toward the_ "OLD WOMAN."] See, the bed is broad and wide, and certainly without vermin. Just feel the high grass. Such a soft bed you never slept in. And you shall have a cover embroidered with the moon and stars, a cover such as no royal bride ever possessed.

"OLD WOMAN." You're laughing, and I feel like crying.

COMEDIAN. Crying? You should be ashamed of the sun which favors you with its setting splendor. Look, and be inspired!

VILLAIN. Yes, look and expire.

COMEDIAN. Look, and shout with ecstasy!

"OLD MAN." Look, and burst!

[INGENUE _starts sobbing_. TRAGEDIAN _laughs heavily_.

COMEDIAN. [_Turning over to the_ INGENUE.] What! You are crying? Aren't you ashamed of yourself?

INGENUE. I'm sad.

"OLD WOMAN." [_Sniffling._] I can't stand it any longer.

HEROINE. Stop it! Or I'll start bawling, too.

[COMEDIAN _springs to his knees and looks quickly from one woman to
the other_.

VILLAIN. Ha--ha! Cheer them up, clown!

COMEDIAN. [_Jumps up abruptly without the aid of his hands._] Ladies and gentlemen, I have it! [_In a measured and singing voice._] Ladies and gentlemen, I have it!

HEROINE. What have you?

COMEDIAN. Cheerfulness.

VILLAIN. Go bury yourself, clown.

TRAGEDIAN. [_As before._] Ho-ho-ho!

"OLD MAN." P-o-o-h!

[_The women weep all the louder._

COMEDIAN. I have--a bottle of whiskey!

[_General commotion. The women stop crying and look up to the_
COMEDIAN _in amazement; the_ TRAGEDIAN _straightens himself out and
casts a surprised look at the_ COMEDIAN; the "OLD MAN," _rubbing
his hands, jumps to his feet; the_ VILLAIN _looks suspiciously at
the_ COMEDIAN.

TRAGEDIAN. A bottle of whiskey?

"OLD MAN." He-he-he--A bottle of whiskey.

VILLAIN. Hum--whiskey.

COMEDIAN. You bet! A bottle of whiskey, hidden and preserved for such moments as this, a moment of masculine depression and feminine tears.

[_Taking the flask from his hip pocket. The expression on the faces
of all changes from hope to disappointment._

VILLAIN. You call that a bottle. I call it a flask.

TRAGEDIAN. [_Explosively._] A thimble!

"OLD MAN." A dropper!

"OLD WOMAN." For seven of us! Oh!

COMEDIAN. [_Letting the flash sparkle in the sun._] But it's whiskey, my children. [_Opening the flask and smelling it._] U--u--u--m! That's whiskey for you. The saloonkeeper from whom I hooked it will become a teetotaler from sheer despair.

[TRAGEDIAN _rising heavily and slowly proceeding toward the flask_.
VILLAIN _still skeptical and rising as if unwilling. The_ "OLD MAN"
_chuckling and rubbing his hands. The_ "OLD WOMAN" _getting up
indifferently and moving apathetically toward the flask. The_
HEROINE _and_ INGENUE _hold each other by the hand and take ballet
steps in waltz time. All approach the_ COMEDIAN _with necks eagerly
stretched out and smell the flask, which the_ COMEDIAN _holds
firmly in both hands_.

TRAGEDIAN. Ho--ho--ho--Fine!

"OLD MAN." He--he--Small quantity, but excellent quality!

VILLAIN. Seems to be good whiskey.

HEROINE. [_Dancing and singing._] My comedian, my comedian. His head is in the right place. But why didn't you nab a larger bottle?

COMEDIAN. My beloved one, I had to take in consideration both the quality of the whiskey and the size of my pocket.

"OLD WOMAN." If only there's enough of it to go round.

INGENUE. Oh, I'm feeling sad again.

COMEDIAN. Cheer up, there will be enough for us all. Cheer up. Here, smell it again.

[_They smell again and cheerfulness reappears. They join hands and
dance and sing, forming a circle, the_ COMEDIAN _applauding_.

COMEDIAN. Good! If you are so cheered after a mere smell of it, what won't you feel like after a drink. Wait, I'll join you. [_He hides the whiskey flask in his pocket._] I'll show you a new roundel which we will perform in our next presentation of Hamlet, to the great edification of our esteemed audience. [_Kicking the_ VILLAIN'S _bundles out of the way_.] The place is clear, now for dance and play. Join hands and form a circle, but you, Villain, stay on the outside of it. You are to try to get in and we dance and are not to let you in, without getting out of step. Understand? Now then!

[_The circle is formed in the following order_--COMEDIAN, HEROINE,
TRAGEDIAN, "OLD WOMAN," "OLD MAN," INGENUE.

COMEDIAN. [_Singing._]

To be or not to be, that is the question.
That is the question, that is the question.
He who would enter in,
Climb he must over us,
If over he cannot,
He must get under us.

REFRAIN

Tra-la-la, tra-la-la,
Over us, under us.
Tra-la-la, tra-la-la,
Under us, over us.
Now we are jolly, jolly are we.

[_The_ COMEDIAN _sings the refrain alone at first and the others
repeat it together with him_.

COMEDIAN.

To be or not to be, that is the question,
That is the question, that is the question.
In life to win success,
Elbow your way through,
Jostle the next one,
Else _you_ will be jostled.

REFRAIN

[_Same as before._]

[_On the last word of the refrain they flop as if dumbfounded, and
stand transfixed, with eyes directed on one spot inside of the
ring. The_ VILLAIN _leans over the arms of the_ COMEDIAN _and the_
HEROINE; _gradually the circle draws closer till their heads almost
touch. They attempt to free their handy but each holds on to the
other and all seven whisper in great astonishment._

ALL. A dollar!

[_The circle opens up again, they look each at the other and shout
in wonder._

ALL. A dollar!

[_Once more they close in and the struggle to free their hands
grows wilder; the_ VILLAIN _tries to climb over and then under the
hands into the circle and stretches out his hand toward the dollar,
but instinctively he is stopped by the couple he tries to pass
between, even when he is not seen but only felt. Again all lean
their heads over the dollar, quite lost in the contemplation of it,
and whispering, enraptured._

ALL. A dollar!

[_Separating once again they look at each other with exultation and
at the same time try to free their hands, once more exclaiming in
ecstasy._

ALL. A dollar!

[_Then the struggle to get free grows wilder and wilder. The hand
that is perchance freed is quickly grasped again by the one who
held it._

INGENUE. [_In pain._] Oh, my hands, my hands! You'll break them. Let go of my hands!

"OLD WOMAN." If you don't let go of my hands I'll bite.

[_Attempting to bite the hands of the_ TRAGEDIAN _and the_ "OLD
MAN," _while they try to prevent it_.

"OLD MAN." [_Trying to free his hands from the hold of the_ HEROINE _and the_ "OLD WOMAN."] Let go of me. [_Pulling at both his hands._] These women's hands that--seem so frail, just look at them now.

HEROINE. [_To_ COMEDIAN.] But you let go my hands.

COMEDIAN. I think it's you who are holding fast to mine.

HEROINE. Why should I be holding you? If you pick up the dollar, what is yours is mine, you know.

COMEDIAN. Then let go of my hand and I'll pick it up.

HEROINE. No, I'd rather pick it up myself.

COMEDIAN. I expected something like that from you.

HEROINE. [_Angrily._] Let go of my hands, that's all.

COMEDIAN. Ha-ha-ha--It's a huge joke. [_In a tone of command._] Be quiet. [_They become still._] We must contemplate the dollar with religious reverence. [_Commotion._] Keep quiet, I say! A dollar is spread out before us. A real dollar in the midst of our circle, and everything within us draws us toward it, draws us on irresistibly. Be quiet! Remember you are before the Ruler, before the Almighty. On your knees before him and pray. On your knees.

[_Sinks down on his knees and drags with him the_ HEROINE _and_
INGENUE. "OLD MAN" _dropping on his knees and dragging the_ "OLD
WOMAN" _with him_.

"OLD MAN." He-he-he!

TRAGEDIAN. Ho-ho-ho, clown!

COMEDIAN. [_To_ TRAGEDIAN.] You are not worthy of the serious mask you wear. You don't appreciate true Divine Majesty. On your knees, or you'll get no whiskey. [TRAGEDIAN _sinks heavily on his knees_.] O holy dollar, O almighty ruler of the universe, before thee we kneel in the dust and send toward thee our most tearful and heartfelt prayers. Our hands are bound, but our hearts strive toward thee and our souls yearn for thee. O great king of kings, thou who bringest together those who are separated, and separatest those who are near, thou who----

[_The_ VILLAIN, _who is standing aside, takes a full jump, clears
the_ INGENUE _and grasps the dollar. All let go of one another and
fall upon him, shouting, screaming, pushing, and fighting. Finally
the_ VILLAIN _manages to free himself, holding the dollar in his
right fist. The others follow him with clenched fists, glaring
eyes, and foaming mouths, wildly shouting._

ALL. The dollar! The dollar! The dollar! Return the dollar!

VILLAIN. [_Retreating._] You can't take it away from me; it's mine. It was lying under my bundle.

ALL. Give up the dollar! Give up the dollar!

VILLAIN. [_In great rage._] No, no. [_A moment during which the opposing sides look at each other in hatred. Quietly but with malice._] Moreover, whom should I give it to? To you--you--you--you?

COMEDIAN. Ha-ha-ha-ha! He is right, the dollar is his. He has it, therefore it is his. Ha-ha-ha-ha, and I wanted to crawl on my knees toward the dollar and pick it up with my teeth. Ha-ha-ha-ha, but he got ahead of me. Ha-ha-ha-ha.

HEROINE. [_Whispering in rage._] That's because you would not let go of me.

COMEDIAN. Ha-ha-ha-ha!

TRAGEDIAN. [_Shaking his fist in the face of the_ VILLAIN.] Heaven and hell, I feel like crushing you!

[_He steps aside toward the trunk and sits down in his former
pose._ INGENUE, _lying down on the grass, starts to cry_.

COMEDIAN. Ha-ha-ha! Now we will drink, and the first drink is the Villain's.

[_His proposition is accepted in gloom; the_ INGENUE, _however,
stops crying; the_ "OLD MAN" _and the_ "OLD WOMAN" _have been
standing by the_ VILLAIN _looking at the dollar in his hand as if
waiting for the proper moment to snatch it from, him. Finally the_
"OLD WOMAN" _makes a contemptuous gesture and both turn aside from
the_ VILLAIN. _The latter, left in peace, smooths out the dollar,
with a serious expression on his face. The_ COMEDIAN _hands him a
small glass of whiskey_.

COMEDIAN. Drink, lucky one.

[_The_ VILLAIN, _shutting the dollar in his fist, takes the whiskey
glass gravely and quickly drinks the contents, returning the glass.
He then starts to smooth and caress the dollar again. The_
COMEDIAN, _still laughing, passes the whiskey glass from one to the
other of the company, who drink sullenly. The whiskey fails to
cheer them. After drinking, the_ INGENUE _begins to sob again. The_
HEROINE, _who is served last, throws the empty whiskey glass toward
the_ COMEDIAN.

COMEDIAN. Good shot. Now I'll drink up all that's left in the bottle.

[_He puts the flask to his lips and drinks. The_ HEROINE _tries to
knock it away from him, but he skilfully evades her. The_ VILLAIN
_continues to smooth and caress the dollar_.

VILLAIN. Ha-ha-ha!... [_Singing and dancing._

He who would enter in,
_Jump_ he must over us.

Ho-ho-ho! O Holy Dollar! O Almighty Ruler of the World!... O King of Kings! Ha-ha-ha!... Don't you all think if I have the dollar and you have it not that I partake a bit of its majesty? That means that I am now a part of its majesty. That means that I am the Almighty Dollar's plenipotentiary, and therefore I am the Almighty Ruler himself. On your knees before me!... He-he-he!...

COMEDIAN. [_After throwing away the empty flask, lies down on the grass._] Well roared, lion, but you forgot to hide your jack-ass's ears.

VILLAIN. It is one's consciousness of power. He-he-he. I know and you know that if I have the money I have the say. Remember, none of you has a cent to his name. The whiskey is gone. [_Picking up the flask and examining it._

COMEDIAN. I did my job well. Drank it to the last drop.

VILLAIN. Yes, to the last drop. This evening you shall have bread and sausage. Very small portions, too, for to-morrow is another day. [INGENUE _sobbing more frequently_.] Not till the day after to-morrow shall we reach town, and that doesn't mean that you get anything to eat there, either, but I--I--I--he-he-he. O Holy Dollar, Almighty Dollar! [_Gravely._] He who does my bidding shall not be without food.

COMEDIAN. [_With wide-open eyes._] What? Ha-ha-ha!

[INGENUE _gets up and throws herself on the_ VILLAIN'S _bosom_.

INGENUE. Oh, my dear beloved one.

VILLAIN. Ha-ha, my power already makes itself felt.

HEROINE. [_Pushing the_ INGENUE _away_.] Let go of him, you. He sought my love for a long time and now he shall have it.

COMEDIAN. What? You!

HEROINE. [_To_ COMEDIAN.] I hate you, traitor. [_To the_ VILLAIN.] I have always loved--genius. You are now the wisest of the wise. I adore you.

VILLAIN. [_Holding_ INGENUE _in one arm_.] Come into my other arm.

[HEROINE, _throwing herself into his arms, kissing and embracing
him_.

COMEDIAN. [_Half rising on his knees._] Stop, I protest. [_Throwing himself on the grass._] "O frailty, thy name is woman."

"OLD WOMAN." [_Approaching the_ VILLAIN _from behind and embracing him_.] Find a little spot on your bosom for me. I play the "Old Woman," but you know I'm not really old.

VILLAIN. Now I have all of power and all of love.

COMEDIAN. Don't call it love. Call it servility.

VILLAIN. [_Freeing himself from the women._] But now I have something more important to carry out. My vassals--I mean you all--I have decided we will not stay here over night. We will proceed further.

WOMEN. How so?

VILLAIN. We go forward to-night.

COMEDIAN. You have so decided?

VILLAIN. I have so decided, and that in itself should be enough for you; but due to an old habit I shall explain to you why I have so decided.

COMEDIAN. Keep your explanation to yourself and better not disturb my contemplation of the sunset.

VILLAIN. I'll put you down on the blacklist. It will go ill with you for your speeches against me. Now, then, _without_ an explanation, we will go--and at once. [_Nobody stirs._] Very well, then, I go alone.

WOMEN. No, no.

VILLAIN. What do you mean?

INGENUE. I go with you.

HEROINE. And I.

"OLD WOMAN." And I.

VILLAIN. Your loyalty gratifies me very much.

"OLD MAN." [_Who is sitting apathetically upon the trunk._] What the deuce is urging you to go?

VILLAIN. I wanted to explain to you, but now no more. I owe you no explanations. I have decided--I wish to go, and that is sufficient.

COMEDIAN. He plays his comedy wonderfully. Would you ever have suspected that there was so much wit in his cabbage head?

WOMEN. [_Making love to the_ VILLAIN.] Oh, you darling.

TRAGEDIAN. [_Majestically._] I wouldn't give him even a single glance.

VILLAIN. Still another on the blacklist. I'll tell you this much--I have decided----

COMEDIAN. Ha-ha-ha! How long will you keep this up?

VILLAIN. We start at once, but if I am to pay for your food I will not carry any baggage. You shall divide my bundles among you and of course those who are on the blacklist will get the heaviest share. You heard me. Now move on. I'm going now. We will proceed to the nearest town, which is thirty miles away. Now, then, I am off.

COMEDIAN. Bon voyage.

VILLAIN. And with me fares His Majesty the Dollar and your meals for to-morrow.

WOMEN. We are coming, we are coming.

"OLD MAN." I'll go along.

TRAGEDIAN. [_To the_ VILLAIN.] You're a scoundrel and a mean fellow.

VILLAIN. I am no fellow of yours. I am master and bread-giver.

TRAGEDIAN. I'll crush you in a moment.

VILLAIN. What? You threaten me! Let's go.

[_Turns to right. The women take their satchels and follow him._

"OLD MAN." [_To the_ TRAGEDIAN.] Get up and take the trunk. We will settle the score with him some other time. It is he who has the dollar now.

TRAGEDIAN. [_Rising and shaking his fist._] I'll get him yet.

[_He takes his side of the trunk._

VILLAIN. [_To_ TRAGEDIAN.] First put one of my bundles on your back.

TRAGEDIAN. [_In rage._] One of your bundles on my back?

VILLAIN. Oh, for all I care you can put it on your head, or between your teeth.

"OLD MAN." We will put the bundle on the trunk.

COMEDIAN. [_Sitting up._] Look here, are you joking or are you in earnest?

VILLAIN. [_Contemptuously._] I never joke.

COMEDIAN. Then you are in earnest?

VILLAIN. I'll make no explanations.

COMEDIAN. Do you really think that because you have the dollar----

VILLAIN. The holy dollar, the almighty dollar, the king of kings.

COMEDIAN. [_Continuing._] That therefore you are the master----

VILLAIN. Bread-giver and provider.

COMEDIAN. And that we must----

VILLAIN. Do what I bid you to.

COMEDIAN. So you are in earnest?

VILLAIN. You must get up, take the baggage and follow me.

COMEDIAN. [_Rising._] Then I declare a revolution.

VILLAIN. What? A revolution!

COMEDIAN. A bloody one, if need be.

TRAGEDIAN. [_Dropping his end of the trunk and advancing with a bellicose attitude toward the_ VILLAIN.] And I shall be the first to let your blood, you scoundrel.

VILLAIN. If that's the case I have nothing to say to you. Those who wish, come along.

COMEDIAN. [_Getting in his way._] No, you shall not go until you give up the dollar.

VILLAIN. Ha-ha. It is to laugh!

COMEDIAN. The dollar, please, or----

VILLAIN. He-he-he!

COMEDIAN. Then let there be blood. [_Turns up his sleeves._

TRAGEDIAN. [_Taking off his coat._] Ah! Blood, blood!

"OLD MAN." [_Dropping his end of the trunk._] I'm not going to keep out of a fight.

WOMEN. [_Dropping his satchels._] Nor we. Nor we.

VILLAIN. [_Shouting._] To whom shall I give up the dollar? You--you--you--you?

COMEDIAN. This argument will not work any more. You are to give the dollar up to all of us. At the first opportunity we'll get change and divide it into equal parts.

WOMEN. Hurrah, hurrah! Divide it, divide it!

COMEDIAN. [_To_ VILLAIN.] And I will even be so good as to give you a share.

TRAGEDIAN. I'd rather give him a sound thrashing.

COMEDIAN. It shall be as I say. Give up the dollar.

HEROINE. [_Throwing herself on the_ COMEDIAN'S _breast_.] My comedian! My comedian!

INGENUE. [_To the_ VILLAIN.] I'm sick of you. Give up the dollar.

COMEDIAN. [_Pushing the_ HEROINE _aside_.] You better step aside or else you may get the punch I aim at the master and bread-giver. [_To the_ VILLAIN.] Come up with the dollar!

TRAGEDIAN. Give up the dollar to him, do you hear?

ALL. The dollar, the dollar!

VILLAIN. I'll tear it to pieces.

COMEDIAN. Then we shall tear out what little hair you have left on your head. The dollar, quick!

[_They surround the_ VILLAIN; _the women pull his hair; the_
TRAGEDIAN _grabs him by the collar and shakes him; the_ "OLD MAN"
_strikes him on his bald pate; the_ COMEDIAN _struggles with him
and finally grasps the dollar_.

COMEDIAN. [_Holding up the dollar._] I have it!

[_The women dance and sing._

VILLAIN. Bandits! Thieves!

TRAGEDIAN. Silence, or I'll shut your mouth.

[_Goes back to the trunk and assumes his heroic pose._

COMEDIAN. [_Putting the dollar into his pocket._] That's what I call a successful and a bloodless revolution, except for a little fright and heart palpitation on the part of the late master and bread-giver. Listen, some one is coming. Perhaps he'll be able to change the dollar and then we can divide it at once.

"OLD MAN." I am puzzled how we can change it into equal parts.

[_Starts to calculate with the_ INGENUE _and the_ "OLD WOMAN."

HEROINE. [_Tenderly attentive to the_ COMEDIAN.] You are angry with me, but I was only playing with him so as to wheedle the dollar out of him.

COMEDIAN. And now you want to trick me out of my share of it.

"OLD MAN." It is impossible to divide it into equal parts. It is absolutely impossible. If it were ninety-eight cents or one hundred and five cents or----

[_The_ STRANGER _enters from the right, perceives the company,
greets it, and continues his way to left_. COMEDIAN _stops him_.

COMEDIAN. I beg your pardon, sir; perhaps you have change of a dollar in dimes, nickels, and pennies.

[_Showing the dollar. The_ "OLD MAN" _and women step forward_.

STRANGER. [_Getting slightly nervous, starts somewhat, makes a quick movement for his pistol-pocket, looks at the_ COMEDIAN _and the others and says slowly_.] Change of a dollar? [_Moving from the circle to left._] I believe I have.

WOMEN. Hurrah!

STRANGER. [_Turns so that no one is behind him and pulls his revolver._] Hands up!

COMEDIAN. [_In a gentle tone of voice._] My dear sir, we are altogether peaceful folk.

STRANGER. [_Takes the dollar from the_ COMEDIAN'S _hand and walks backwards to left with the pistol pointed at the group_.] Good-night, everybody.

[_He disappears, the actors remain dumb with fear, with their hands
up, mouths wide open, and staring into space._

COMEDIAN. [_Finally breaks out into thunderous laughter._] Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!

CURTAIN

THE DIABOLICAL CIRCLE

BY

BEULAH BORNSTEAD

_The Diabolical Circle_ is reprinted by special permission of Professor Franz Rickaby, in whose course in dramatic composition (English 36) in the University of North Dakota this play was written. For permission to perform, address Professor Franz Rickaby, University of North Dakota, University, North Dakota.

BEULAH BORNSTEAD

Beulah Bornstead, one of the promising young playwrights of the Northwest, was born in Grand Forks, North Dakota, May 5, 1896. She has had her academic training at the University of North Dakota, from which she received her B.A. in 1921. At present Miss Bornstead is principal of the Cavalier High School, North Dakota. Before attempting drama she tried her hand at journalism and at short-story writing.

Miss Bornstead was introduced into playwriting by Professor Franz Rickaby, in whose course in dramatic composition at the University of North Dakota _The Diabolical Circle_ was written. In speaking of this play Miss Bornstead writes: "_The Diabolical Circle_ is the first play I have ever written. I never enjoyed doing anything so much in my life. The characters were so real to me that if I had bumped into one going round the corner I should not have been surprised in the least. BETTY and CHARLES and ADONIJAH and even COTTON MATHER himself worked that play out. All the humble author did was to set it down on paper." _The Diabolical Circle_ was produced May 5, 1921, by the Dakota Playmakers in their Little Theatre at the University of North Dakota.

_The Diabolical Circle_ is one of the best contemporary plays dealing with American historical material. Its characterization is one of its noteworthy elements.

CHARACTERS

COTTON MATHER
BETTY, _his daughter_
ADONIJAH WIGGLESWORTH, _a suitor, and_ COTTON'S _choice_
CHARLES MANNING, _likewise a suitor, but_ BETTY'S _choice_
THE CLOCK

THE DIABOLICAL CIRCLE

SCENE: _The living-room in the Mather home in Boston._

TIME: _About 1700, an evening in early autumn._

_The stage represents the living-room of the Mather home. A large
colonial fireplace is seen down-stage left, within which stand huge
brass andirons. To one side hangs the bellows, with the tongs near
by, while above, underneath the mantelpiece, is suspended an old
flint-lock rifle. On both ends of the mantel are brass
candlesticks, and hanging directly above is an old-fashioned
portrait of Betty's mother. There are two doors, one leading into
the hall at centre left, the other, communicating with the rest of
the house, up-stage right. A straight high-backed settee is
down-stage right, while in the centre back towers an old
grandfather's clock.[K] To the left of the clock is the window,
cross-barred and draped with flowered chintz. An old-fashioned
table occupies the corner between the window and the hall door.
Here and there are various straight-backed chairs of Dutch origin.
Rag rugs cover the floor._

_As the curtain rises_ COTTON MATHER _is seated in a large armchair
by the fire, with_ BETTY _on a stool at his feet, with her
knitting_.

COTTON, _his hair already touched with the whitening frost of many
a severe New England winter, is grave and sedate. Very much
exercised with the perils of this life, and serenely contemplative
of the life to come, he takes himself and the world about him very
seriously._

_Not so with_ MISTRESS BETTY. _Outwardly demure, yet inwardly
rebellious against the straitened conventions of the times, she
dimples over with roguish merriment upon the slightest
provocation._

_As we first see them_ COTTON _is giving_ BETTY _some timely
advice_.

COTTON. But you must understand that marriage, my daughter, is a most reverend and serious matter which should be approached in a manner fittingly considerate of its grave responsibility.

BETTY. [_Thoughtfully._] Truly reverend and most serious, father [_looking up roguishly_], but I like not so much of the grave about it.

COTTON. [_Continuing._] I fear thou lookest upon the matter too lightly. It is not seemly to treat such a momentous occasion thus flippantly.

BETTY. [_Protesting._] Nay, father, why consider it at all? Marriage is yet a great way off. Mayhap I shall never leave thee.

COTTON. Thou little thinkest that I may be suddenly called on to leave _thee_. The Good Word cautions us to boast not ourselves of the morrow, for we know not what a day may bring forth.

BETTY. [_Dropping her knitting._] Father, thou art not feeling well. Perhaps----

COTTON. Nay, child, be not alarmed. 'Tis but a most necessary lesson to be learned and laid up in the heart. I will not always be with thee and I would like to be comfortably assured of thy future welfare before I go.

BETTY. [_Picking her knitting up._] Be comfortably assured, then, I prithee; I have no fears.

COTTON. [_Bringing his arm down forcibly on the arm of the chair._] Aye! There it is. Thou hast no fears. Would that thou had'st some! [_Looks up at the portrait._] Had thy prudent and virtuous mother only lived to point the way, I might be spared this anxiety; but, beset by diverse difficulties in establishing the kingdom of God in this country, and sorely harassed by many hardships and by evil men, I fear me I have not propounded to thee much that I ought.

BETTY. In what then is mine education lacking? Have I not all that is fitting and proper for a maiden to know?

COTTON. [_Perplexed._] I know not. I have done my best, but thou hast not the proper attitude of mind befitting a maiden about to enter the married estate.

BETTY. [_Protesting._] Nay, but I am not about to enter the married estate.

COTTON. It is time.

BETTY. [_Mockingly pleading._] Entreat me not to leave thee, father, nor forsake thee; for whither thou goest I will go, and whither----

COTTON. [_Interrupting sternly._] Betty! It ill befitteth a daughter of mine to quote the Scriptures with such seeming irreverence.--I would not be parted from thee, yet I would that thou wert promised to some godly and upright soul that would guide thee yet more surely in the paths of righteousness. There be many such.

BETTY. Yea, too many.

COTTON. What meanest thou?

BETTY. One were one too many when I would have none.

COTTON. [_Shaking his head._] Ah. Betty, Betty! When wilt thou be serious? There is a goodly youth among the friends surrounding thee whom I have often marked, both on account of his godly demeanor and simple wisdom.

BETTY. [_Nodding._] Yea, simple.

COTTON. I speak of Adonijah Wigglesworth, a most estimable young gentleman, an acquaintance whom thou would'st do well to cultivate.

BETTY. Yea, cultivate.

COTTON. What thinkest thou?

BETTY. A sod too dense for any ploughshare. My wit would break in the turning.

COTTON. His is a strong nature, born to drive and not be driven. There is not such another, nay, not in the whole of Boston.

BETTY. Nay. I have lately heard there be many such!

COTTON. [_Testily._] Mayhap thou wouldst name a few.

BETTY. [_Musingly, holds up her left hand with fingers outspread._] Aye, that I can. [_Checks off one on the little finger._] There be Marcus Ainslee----

COTTON. A goodly youth that hath an eye for books.

BETTY. One eye, sayest thou? Nay, four; and since I am neither morocco bound nor edged with gilt, let us consign him to the shelf wherein he findeth fullest compensation.

COTTON. How now? A man of action, then, should appeal to thy brash tastes. What sayest thou to Jeremiah Wadsworth?

BETTY. Too brash and rash for me [_checking off that candidate on the next finger_], and I'll have none of him. There's Percy Wayne.

COTTON. Of the bluest blood in Boston.

BETTY. Yet that be not everything [_checks off another finger_]--and Jonas Appleby----

COTTON. He hath an eye to worldly goods----

BETTY. [_Quickly._] Especially the larder. To marry him would be an everlasting round between the tankard and the kettle. [_Checks him off._] Nay, let me look yet farther--James Endicott. [_Checking._]

COTTON. Aye, there might be a lad for thee; birth, breeding, a well-favored countenance, and most agreeable.

BETTY. Yea, most agreeable--unto himself. 'Twere a pity to disturb such unanimity. Therefore, let us pass on. Take Charles Manning, an you please----

COTTON. It pleaseth me not! I know the ilk; his father before him a devoted servant of the devil and King Charles. With others of his kind he hath brought dissension among the young men of Harvard, many of whom are dedicated to the service of the Lord, with his wicked apparel and ungodly fashion of wearing long hair after the manner of Russians and barbarous Indians. Many there be with him brought up in such pride as doth in no ways become the service of the Lord. The devil himself hath laid hold on our young men, so that they do evaporate senseless, useless, noisy impertinency wherever they may be; and now it has e'en got out in the pulpits of the land, to the great grief and fear of many godly hearts.

[_He starts to his feet and paces the floor._

BETTY. [_Standing upright._] But Charles----

COTTON. [_Interrupting._] Mention not that scapegrace in my hearing.

BETTY. [_Still persisting._] But, father, truly thou knowest not----

COTTON. [_Almost savagely, while_ BETTY _retreats to a safe distance_.] Name him not. I will not have it. Compared with Adonijah he is a reed shaken in the winds, whereas Adonijah resembleth a tree planted by the river of waters.

BETTY. [_Who has been looking out of the window._] Converse of the devil and thou wilt behold his horns. Even now he approacheth the knocker.

[_The knocker sounds._

COTTON. [_Sternly._] Betake thyself to thine own chamber with thine unseemly tongue, which so ill befitteth a maid.

[BETTY _is very demure, with head slightly bent and downcast eyes;
but the moment_ COTTON _turns she glances roguishly after his
retreating form; then while her glance revolves about the room, she
starts slightly as her gaze falls upon the clock. A smile of
mischievous delight flits over her countenance as she tiptoes in_
COTTON'S _wake until the clock is reached_. COTTON, _unsuspecting,
meanwhile, proceeds to do his duty as host, with never a backward
glance. While he is out in the hall_ BETTY, _with a lingering smile
of triumph, climbs into the clock and cautiously peeks forth as her
father opens the door and ushers in_ ADONIJAH, _whereupon the door
softly closes_.

ADONIJAH. Good-morrow, reverend sir.

COTTON. Enter, and doubly welcome.

ADONIJAH. I would inquire whether thy daughter Betty is within.

COTTON. We were but speaking of thee as thy knock sounded. Betty will be here presently; she hath but retired for the moment. Remove thy wraps and make thyself in comfort.

[ADONIJAH _is a lean, lank, lantern-jawed individual, clad in the
conventional sober gray of the Puritan, with high-crowned hat, and
a fur tippet wound about his neck up to his ears. He removes the
hat and tippet and hands them to_ COTTON, _who carefully places
them upon the table; meanwhile_ ADONIJAH _looks appraisingly about
him and judiciously selects the armchair by the fire. He pauses a
moment to rub his hands before the blaze, and then gingerly relaxes
into the depths of the armchair, as though fearful his comfort
would give way ere fully attained._ COTTON _places a chair on the
other side of_ ADONIJAH _and is seated_.

COTTON. And how is it with thee since I have seen thee last?

ADONIJAH. My business prospereth [_mournfully_], but not so finely as it might well do.

[_The clock strikes four, but is unnoticed by the two men._

COTTON. Thou hast suffered some great loss?

ADONIJAH. But yes--and no--this matter of lending money hath many and grievous complications, not the least of which is the duplicity of the borrower. I but insist on the thirty pounds to the hundred as my due recompense, and when I demand it they respond not, but let my kindness lie under the clods of ingratitude. [_Straightening up, and speaking with conviction._] They shall come before the council. I will have what is mine own.

COTTON. [_Righteously._] And it is not unbecoming of thee to demand it. I wist not what the present generation is coming to.

ADONIJAH. They have no sense of the value of money. They know not how to demean themselves properly in due proportion to their worldly goods, as the Lord hath prospered them. There be many that have nothing and do hold their heads above us that be worthy of our possessions.

COTTON. The wicked stand in slippery places. It will not always be thus. Judgment shall come upon them.

ADONIJAH. Aye, let them fall. I for one have upheld them too far. They squander their means in riotous living, and walk not in the ways of their fathers.

COTTON. There be many such--many such--but thou, my lad, thou art not one of the multitude. As I have often observed to my Betty, thou standest out as a most upright and God-fearing young man.

ADONIJAH. [_Brimming over with self-satisfaction._] That have I ever sought to be.

COTTON. An example that others would do well to imitate.

ADONIJAH. [_All puffed up._] Nay, others value it not. They be envious of my good fortune.

COTTON. A most prudent young man! Nay, be not so over-blushingly timid. Thou'rt too modest.

ADONIJAH. [_His face falling._] But Betty--doth she regard me thus?

COTTON. The ways of a maid are past finding out; but despair not. I think she hath thee much to heart, but, as the perverse heart of woman dictateth, behaveth much to the contrary.

ADONIJAH. [_Brightening up as one with new hopes._] Thou thinkest----

COTTON. [_Interrupting._] Nay, lad, I am sure of it. Betty was ever a dutiful daughter.

[_All unseen_, BETTY _peeks out mischievously_.

ADONIJAH. But I mistrust me her heart is elsewhere.

COTTON. Thou referr'st to young Manning without doubt. It can never be. 'Tis but a passing fancy.

ADONIJAH. Nay, but I fear Charles thinketh not so. I have been told in secret [_leaning forward confidentially_] by one that hath every opportunity to know, that he hath enjoined Goodman Shrewsbury to send for--[_impressively_] a ring!

COTTON. [_Angered._] A ring, sayest thou?

ADONIJAH. [_Nodding._] Aye, even so.

COTTON. But he hath not signified such intention here to me.

ADONIJAH. Then there are no grounds for his rash presumption?

COTTON. Humph! Grounds! For a ring! Aye, there'll be no diabolical circle here for the devil to daunce in. I will question Betty thereon. [_Rises._] Do thou remain here and I will send her to thee. Oh, that he should offer daughter of mine a ring!

[COTTON _leaves the room_. ADONIJAH _leans back in his chair in
supreme contentment at the turn affairs have taken. The clamorous
knocker arouses him from his reverie. He gazes stupidly around. The
continued imperious tattoo on the knocker finally brings him to his
feet. He goes into the hall and opens the door. His voice is
heard._

ADONIJAH. [_Frostily._] Good-afternoon, Sir Charles, mine host is absent.

CHARLES. [_Stepping in._] My mission has rather to do with Mistress Betty. Is she in?

ADONIJAH. [_Closing the hall door, and turning to_ CHARLES, _replies in grandiose hauteur_.] Mistress Betty is otherwise engaged, I would have thee know.

CHARLES. Engaged? [_Bowing._] Your humble servant, I trust, hath the supreme pleasure of that engagement.

[_He glances inquiringly about the room, and places the hat on the
table beside that of_ ADONIJAH. _The two hats are as different as
the two men_: ADONIJAH'S _prim, Puritanic, severe_; CHARLES'S
_three-cornered, with a flowing plume_.

[CHARLES _is a handsome chap of goodly proportions, with a
straightforward air and a pleasant smile. He is dressed more after
the fashion of the cavaliers of Virginia, and wears a long wig with
flowing curls. The two men size each other up._

ADONIJAH. [_Meaningly._] Her father will shortly arrive.

CHARLES. [_Impatiently striding forth._] Devil take her father. 'Tis Mistress Betty I would see. Where is she?

[CHARLES _continues pacing the floor_. ADONIJAH, _shocked beyond
measure, turns his back on the offending_ CHARLES, _and with folded
arms and bowed head stands aside in profound meditation. The clock
door slowly opens and_ BETTY _cautiously peeks out_. CHARLES _stops
short and is about to begin a decided demonstration, when_ BETTY,
_with a warning glance toward_ ADONIJAH, _checks him with upraised
hand. The clock door closes and_ CHARLES _subsides into the
armchair with a comprehending grin of delight_. ADONIJAH _slowly
turns and faces_ CHARLES _with a melancholy air_.

CHARLES. Prithee, why so sad?

[_The grin becomes a chuckle._

ADONIJAH. I do discern no cause for such unrighteous merriment.

CHARLES. 'Tis none the less for all of that. I take life as I find it, and for that matter so do they all, even thou. The difference be in the finding. [_Whistles._

ADONIJAH. [_Uneasily._] It is time her father did arrive.

CHARLES. Where then hath he been?

ADONIJAH. He but went in search of Betty.

CHARLES. Ah, then we'll wait.

[_He whistles, while_ ADONIJAH _moves uneasily about the room,
glancing every now and then at this disturbing element of his
peace, as if he would send him to kingdom come, if he only could_.

ADONIJAH. [_After considerable toleration._] Waiting may avail thee naught.

CHARLES. And thee? Nevertheless we'll wait. [_Whistles._

ADONIJAH. [_Takes another turn or two and fetches up a counterfeit sigh._] Methinks, her father's quest be fruitless.

CHARLES. [_Starting up._] Ah, then, let us go.

[ADONIJAH., _visibly relieved, sits down in the chair opposite_.

CHARLES. [_Amused._] Nay? [_Sits down and relaxes._] Ah, then, we'll wait. [_Whistles._

ADONIJAH. [_Troubled._] 'Tis certain Mistress Betty be not here.

CHARLES. Nay, if she be not here, then I am neither here nor there. I would wager ten pounds to a farthing she be revealed in time if she but will it. Wilt take me up?

ADONIJAH. It be not seemly so to stake thy fortune on a woman's whim.

CHARLES. [_Laughs._] Thou'rt right on it. If she will, say I, for if she will she won't, and if she won't she will.

ADONIJAH. False jargon! A woman has no will but e'en her father's as a maid, her husband's later still.

[_Enter_ COTTON, _who stops short on seeing_ CHARLES, _rallies
quickly, and proceeds_.

COTTON. [_Stiffly._] Good-day to you, sir.

CHARLES. [_Bowing; he has risen._] And to you, sire.