Chapter II: The Technic of the One-Act Play (3)

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

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

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

[_Settles himself to go to sleep again._

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[_She misunderstands and cries out._

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FORMER RICH CITIZEN. Send for him, boy.

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

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

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

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

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

IMP. Well, what do you think of that!

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

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

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

"MY DEAR IMP:

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

Yours in disgust, THE JUDGE."

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

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

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

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

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

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

CURTAIN FALLS

SAM AVERAGE

BY

PERCY MACKAYE

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

_Special Notice_

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

PERCY MACKAYE

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

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

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

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

CHARACTERS

ANDREW
JOEL
ELLEN
SAM AVERAGE

SAM AVERAGE[D]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ANDREW. [_Looks up eagerly._] What?

JOEL. Cuts sharp, for Thanksgivin'.

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

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

ANDREW. Life.

JOEL. Shucks!

ANDREW. [_To himself._] Living!

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

ANDREW. No. What are you doing?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

JOEL. 'Fraid? Bosh!

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

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

ANDREW. Your sister--my wife.

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

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

JOEL. What you mean?

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

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

JOEL. One of _her_ curls?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ANDREW. My Nell!

ELLEN. Nearly a year----

ANDREW. Now, at last!

ELLEN. Hold me close, Andy.

ANDREW. You're better?

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

ANDREW. Is he grown much?

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

ANDREW. I know, I know.

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

ANDREW. I know, dear.

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

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

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

JOEL. [_Approaching._] Hello, Sis!

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

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

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

ANDREW. I can guess.

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

ANDREW. [_Gently._] I guessed that.

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

ANDREW. [_Murmurs._] My God!

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

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

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

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

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

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

JOEL. Time enough.

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

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

ELLEN. [_With deep quiet._] Blasphemously?

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

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

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

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

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

ELLEN. I am to tell him----

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

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

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

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

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

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

ANDREW. Why should they play before daybreak?

ELLEN. Andy----

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

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

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

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

THE FIGURE. God save the smart folks!

JOEL. [_To_ ANDREW.] He's on to us. Pickle him quiet, or it's court martial! [_Showing a long knife._] Shall I give him this?

ANDREW. [_Taking it from him._] No. _I_ will.

ELLEN. [_Seizing his arm._] Andrew!

ANDREW. Let go.

[THE FIGURE, _descending into the intrenchment, approaches with
face muffled_. JOEL _draws_ ELLEN _away_. ANDREW _moves toward_ THE
FIGURE _slowly_. _They meet and pause._

ANDREW. You're a spy!

[_With a quick flash,_ ANDREW _raises the knife to strike, but
pauses, staring_. THE FIGURE, _throwing up one arm to ward the
blow, reveals--through the parted cloak--a glint of stars in the
firelight_.[E]

THE FIGURE. Steady, boys; I'm one of ye. The sergeant told me to drop round.

JOEL. Oh, the sergeant! That's all right, then.

ANDREW. [_Dropping the knife._] Who are you?

THE FIGURE. Who be _I_? My name, ye mean? My name's Average--Sam Average. Univarsal Sam, some o' my prophetic friends calls me.

ANDREW. What are you doing here--now?

THE FIGURE. Oh, tendin' to business.

JOEL. Tendin' to _other_ folks' business, eh?

THE FIGURE. [_With a touch of weariness._] Ye-es; reckon that _is_ my business. Some other folks is me.

JOEL. [_Grimacing to_ ELLEN.] Cracked!

THE FIGURE. [_To_ ANDREW.] You're a mite back'ard in wages, ain't ye?

ANDREW. Nine months. What of that?

THE FIGURE. That's what I dropped round for. Seems like when a man's endoored and fit, like you have, for his country, and calc'lates he'll quit, he ought to be takin' a little suthin' hom' for Thanksgivin'. So I fetched round your pay.

ANDREW. My pay! You?

THE FIGURE. Yes; I'm the paymaster.

ELLEN. [_Coming forward, eagerly._] Andy! The money, is it?

THE FIGURE. [_Bows with a grave, old-fashioned stateliness._] Your sarvent, ma'am!

ANDREW. [_Speaking low._] Keep back, Nell. [_To_ THE FIGURE.] You--you were saying----

THE FIGURE. I were about to say how gold bein' scarce down to the Treasury, I fetched ye some s'curities instead; some national I.O.U.'s, as ye might say. [_He takes out an old powder-horn, and rattles it quietly._] That's them. [_Pouring from the horn into his palm some glistening, golden grains._] Here they be.

ELLEN. [_Peering, with_ JOEL.] Gold, Andy!

JOEL. [_With a snigger._] Gold--nothin'! That's corn--just Injun corn. Ha!

THE FIGURE. [_Bowing gravely._] It's the quality, ma'am, what counts, as ye might say.

JOEL. [_Behind his hand._] His top-loft leaks!

THE FIGURE. These here karnels, now, were give' me down Plymouth way, in Massachusetts, the fust Thanksgivin' seems like I can remember. 'Twa'n't long after the famine we had thar. Me bein' some hungry, the red-folks fetched a hull-lot o' this round, with the compliments of their capting--what were his name now?--Massasoit. This here's the last handful on't left. Thought ye might like some, bein' Thanksgivin'.

JOEL. [_In a low voice, to_ ELLEN.] His screws are droppin' out. Come and pack. We've got to mark time and skip.

THE FIGURE. [_Without looking at_ JOEL.] Eight or ten minutes still to spare, boys. The sergeant said--wait till ye hear his jew's-harp playin' of that new war tune, _The Star-Spangled Banner_. Then ye'll know the coast's clear.

JOEL. Gad, that's right, I remember now.

[_He draws_ ELLEN _away to the knapsack, which they begin to pack_.
ANDREW _has never removed his eyes from the tall form in the
cloak_.

[_Now, as_ THE FIGURE _pours back the yellow grains from his palm
into the powder-horn, he speaks, hesitatingly_.

ANDREW. I think--I'd like some.

THE FIGURE. Some o' what?

ANDREW. Those--my pay.

THE FIGURE. [_Cheerfully._] So. _Would_ ye? [_Handing him the horn._] Reckon that's enough?

ANDREW. [_Not taking it._] That's what I want to make sure of--first.

THE FIGURE. Oh! So ye're hesitatin'!

ANDREW. Yes; but I want you to help me decide. Pardon me, sir. You're a stranger, yet somehow I feel I may ask your help. You've come just in time.

THE FIGURE. Queer I should a-dropped round jest now, wa'n't it? S'posin' we take a turn.

[_Together they walk toward the embankment. By the knapsack_ ELLEN
_finds the little frame_.

ELLEN. [_To herself._] My picture!

[_She looks toward_ ANDREW _affectionately_. JOEL, _lifting the
knapsack, beckons to her_.

JOEL. There's more stuff over here.

[_He goes off, right_; ELLEN _follows him_.

ANDREW. [_To_ THE FIGURE.] I should like the judgment of your experience, sir. I can't quite see your face, yet you appear to be one who has had a great deal of experience.

THE FIGURE. Why, consid'able some.

ANDREW. Did you--happen to fight in the late war for independence?

THE FIGURE. Happen to? [_Laughing quietly._] N-no, not fight; ye see--I was paymaster.

ANDREW. But you went through the war?

THE FIGURE. Ye-es, oh, yes; I went through it. I took out my fust reg'lar papers down to Philadelphie, in '76, seems like 'twas the fourth day o' July. But I was paymaster afore that.

ANDREW. Tell me: I've heard it said there were deserters even in those days, even from the roll-call of Washington. Is it true?

THE FIGURE. True, boy? Have ye ever watched a prairie-fire rollin' toward ye, billowin' with flame and smoke, and seed all the midget cowerin' prairie-dogs scootin' for their holes? Wall, that's the way I watched Howe's army sweepin' crosst the Jarsey marshes, and seed the desartin' little patriots, with their chins over their shoulders, skedaddlin' home'ards.

ANDREW. What--the Americans!

THE FIGURE. All but a handful on 'em--them as weren't canines, ye might say, but men. _They_ set a back-fire goin' at Valley Forge. Most on 'em burnt their toes and fingers off, lightin' on't thar in the white frost, but they stuck it through and saved--wall, the prairie-dogs.

ANDREW. But they--those others. What reason did they give to God and their own souls for deserting?

THE FIGURE. To who?

ANDREW. To their consciences. What was their reason? It must have been a noble one in '76. _Their_ reason _then_; don't you see, I must have it. I must know what reason real heroes gave for their acts. You were there. You can tell me.

THE FIGURE. _Real_ heroes, eh? Look around ye, then. To-day's the heroic age, and the true brand o' hero is al'ays in the market. Look around ye!

ANDREW. What, here--in this war of jobsters, this petty campaign of monstrous boodle?

THE FIGURE. Thar we be!

ANDREW. Why, here are only a lot of cowardly half-men, like me--lovers of their own folks--their wives and babies at home. They'll make sacrifices for them. But real men like our fathers in '76: they looked in the beautiful face of Liberty, and sacrificed to _her_!

THE FIGURE. Our fathers, my boy, was jest as fond o' poetry as you be. They talked about the beautiful face o' Liberty same's you; but when the hom'made eyes and cheeks of their sweethearts and young uns took to cryin', they desarted their beautiful goddess and skun out hom'.

ANDREW. But there were some----

THE FIGURE. Thar was some as didn't--yes; and thar's some as don't to-day. Those be the folks on my pay-roll. Why, look a-here: I calc'late I wouldn't fetch much on the beauty counter. My talk ain't rhyme stuff, nor the Muse o' Grammar wa'n't my schoolma'am. Th' ain't painter nor clay-sculptor would pictur' me jest like I stand. For the axe has hewed me, and the plough has furrered; and the arnin' of gold by my own elbow-grease has give' me the shrewd eye at a bargain. I manure my crops this side o' Jordan, and as for t'other shore, I'd ruther swap jokes with the Lord than listen to his sarmons. And yet for the likes o' me, jest for to arn my wages--ha, the many, many boys and gals that's gone to their grave-beds, and when I a-closed their eyes, the love-light was shinin' thar.

ANDREW. [_Who has listened with awe._] What _are_ you? What _are_ you?

THE FIGURE. Me? I'm the paymaster.

ANDREW. I want to serve you--like those others.

THE FIGURE. Slow, slow, boy! Nobody sarves _me_.

ANDREW. But they died for you--the others.

THE FIGURE. No, 'twa'n't for me; 'twas for him as pays the wages; the one as works through me--the one higher up. I'm only the paymaster; kind of a needful makeshift--his obedient sarvant.

ANDREW. [_With increasing curiosity, seeks to peer in_ THE FIGURE'S _face_.] But the one up higher--who is he?

THE FIGURE. [_Turning his head away._] Would ye sarve him, think, if ye heerd his voice?

ANDREW. [_Ardently, drawing closer._] And saw his face!

[_Drawing his cowl lower and taking_ ANDREW'S _arm_, THE FIGURE
_leads him up on the embankment, where they stand together_.

THE FIGURE. Hark a-yonder!

ANDREW. [_Listening._] Is it thunder?

THE FIGURE. Have ye forgot?

ANDREW. The voice! I remember now--Niagara!

[_With awe_, ANDREW _looks toward_ THE FIGURE, _who stands shrouded
and still, facing the dawn. From far off comes a sound as of
falling waters, and with that--a deep murmurous voice, which seems
to issue from_ THE FIGURE'S _cowl_.

THE VOICE. I am the Voice that was heard of your fathers, and your fathers' fathers. Mightier--mightier, I shall be heard of your sons. I am the Million in whom the one is lost, and I am the One in whom the millions are saved. Their ears shall be shut to my thunders, their eyes to my blinding stars. In shallow streams they shall tap my life-blood for gold. With dregs of coal and of copper they shall pollute me. In the mystery of my mountains they shall assail me; in the majesty of my forests, strike me down; with engine and derrick and millstone, bind me their slave. Some for a lust, some for a love, shall desert me. One and one, for his own, shall fall away. Yet one and one and one shall return to me for life; the deserter and the destroyer shall re-create me. Primeval, their life-blood is mine. My pouring waters are passion, my lightnings are laughter of man. I am the One in whom the millions are saved, and I am the Million in whom the one is lost.

ANDREW. [_Yearningly, to_ THE FIGURE.] Your face!

[THE FIGURE _turns majestically away_. ANDREW _clings to him_.

ANDREW. Your face!

[_In the shadow of the flag_ THE FIGURE _unmuffles for an instant_.

[_Peering, dazzled_, ANDREW _staggers back, with a low cry, and,
covering his eyes, falls upon the embankment_.

[_From away, left, the thrumming of a jew's-harp is heard, playing
"The Star-Spangled Banner."_

[_From the right enter_ JOEL _and_ ELLEN.

[_Descending from the embankment_, THE FIGURE _stands apart_.

JOEL. Well, Colonel Average, time's up.

ELLEN. [_Seeing_ ANDREW'S _prostrate form, hastens to him_.] Andy! What's happened?

ANDREW. [_Rising slowly._] Come here. I'll whisper it.

[_He leads her beside the embankment, beyond which the dawn is
beginning to redden._

JOEL. Yonder's the sergeant's jew's-harp. That's our signal, Nell. So long, colonel.

THE FIGURE. [_Nodding._] So long, sonny.

ANDREW. [_Holding_ ELLEN'S _hands, passionately_.] You understand? You _do_?

ELLEN. [_Looking in his eyes._] I understand, dear.

[_They kiss each other._

JOEL. [_Calls low._] Come, you married turtles. The road's clear. Follow me now. Sneak.

[_Carrying his knapsack_, JOEL _climbs over the embankment and
disappears_.

[_The thrumming of the jew's-harp continues._

[ELLEN, _taking the strip of silk flag from her shoulders, ties it
to the standard_.

ANDREW. [_Faintly._] God bless you!

ELLEN. [_As they part hands._] Good-by!

[THE FIGURE _has remounted the embankment, where--in the distincter
glow of the red dawn--the gray folds of his cloak, hanging from his
shoulders, resemble the half-closed wings of an eagle, the beaked
cowl falling, as a kind of visor, before his face, concealing it_.

THE FIGURE. Come, little gal.

[ELLEN _goes to him, and hides her face in the great cloak. As she
does so, he draws from it a paper, writes on it, and hands it to_
ANDREW, _with the powder-horn_.

THE FIGURE. By the by, Andy, here's that s'curity. Them here's my initials; they're all what's needful. Jest file this in the right pigeonhole, and you'll draw your pay. Keep your upper lip, boy. I'll meet ye later, mebbe, at Lundy's Lane.

ANDREW. [_Wistfully._] You'll take her home?

THE FIGURE. Yes; reckon she'll housekeep for your uncle till you get back; won't ye, Nellie? Come, don't cry, little gal. We'll soon git 'quainted. 'Tain't the fust time sweethearts has called me _Uncle_.

[_Flinging back his great cloak, he throws one wing of it, with his
arm, about her shoulders, thus with half its reverse side draping
her with shining stripes and stars. By the same action his own
figure is made partly visible--the legs clad in the tight,
instep-strapped trousers (blue and white) of the Napoleonic era.
Holding the girl gently to him--while her face turns back toward_
ANDREW--_he leads her, silhouetted against the sunrise, along the
embankment, and disappears_.

[_Meantime, the thrumming twang of the jew's-harp grows sweeter,
mellower, modulated with harmonies that, filling now the air with
elusive strains of the American war-hymn, mingle with the faint
dawn-twitterings of birds._

[ANDREW _stares silently after the departed forms; then, slowly
coming down into the intrenchment, lifts from the ground his gun
and ramrod, leans on the gun, and--reading the paper in his hand by
the growing light--mutters it aloud_:

_U. S. A._

[_Smiling sternly, he crumples the paper in his fist, makes a wad
of it, and rams it into his gun-barrel._

HYACINTH HALVEY

BY

LADY AUGUSTA GREGORY

_Hyacinth Halvey_ is reprinted by special permission of G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York City, publishers of Lady Gregory's work in America. All rights reserved. For permission to perform, address the publisher.

LADY AUGUSTA GREGORY

Lady Augusta Gregory, one of the foremost figures in the Irish dramatic movement, was born at Roxborough, County Galway, Ireland, in 1859. "She was then a young woman," says one who has described her in her early married life, "very earnest, who divided her hair in the middle and wore it smooth on either side of a broad and handsome brow. Her eyes were always full of questions.... In her drawing-room were to be met men of assured reputation in literature and politics, and there was always the best reading of the times upon her tables." Lady Gregory has devoted her entire life to the cause of Irish literature. In 1911 she visited the United States and at a dinner given to her by _The Outlook_ in New York City she said:

"I will not cease from mental strife
Or let the sword fall from my hand
Till we have built Jerusalem
In--Ireland's--fair and lovely land."

Lady Gregory, with William Butler Yeats and John Millington Synge, has been the very life of the Irish drama. The literary association of these three has been highly fruitful. She helped to found the Irish National Theatre Society, and for a number of years has been the managing force of the celebrated Abbey Theatre in Dublin.

Lady Gregory's chief interest has been in peasant comedies and folk-plays. Her _Spreading the News_, _Hyacinth Halvey_, _The Rising of the Moon_, _The Workhouse Ward_, and _The Travelling Man_ are well-known contributions to contemporary drama.

It is a noteworthy fact that most of the plays of the Irish dramatic movement are one-act plays. Much of Irish life lends itself admirably to one-act treatment. _Hyacinth Halvey_ is one of Lady Gregory's best productions. This play contains a universal idea: reputation is in great measure a matter of "a password or an emotion." Hyacinth, having a good reputation thrust upon him, may do as he likes--his good name clings to him notwithstanding.

PERSONS

HYACINTH HALVEY
JAMES QUIRKE, _a butcher_
FARDY FARREL, _a telegraph boy_
SERGEANT CARDEN
MRS. DELANE, _postmistress at Cloon_
MISS JOYCE, _the priest's housekeeper_

HYACINTH HALVEY

SCENE: _Outside the post-office at the little town of Cloon._ MRS.
DELANE _at post-office door_. MR. QUIRKE _sitting on a chair at
butcher's door. A dead sheep hanging beside it, and a thrush in a
cage above._ FARDY FARRELL _playing on a mouth-organ. Train-whistle
heard._

MRS. DELANE. There is the four-o'clock train, Mr. Quirke.

MR. QUIRKE. Is it now, Mrs. Delane, and I not long after rising? It makes a man drowsy to be doing the half of his work in the night-time. Going about the country, looking for little stags of sheep, striving to knock a few shillings together. That contract for the soldiers gives me a great deal to attend to.

MRS. DELANE. I suppose so. It's hard enough on myself to be down ready for the mail-car in the morning, sorting letters in the half-dark. It's often I haven't time to look who are the letters from--or the cards.

MR. QUIRKE. It would be a pity you not to know any little news might be knocking about. If you did not have information of what is going on, who should have it? Was it you, ma'am, was telling me that the new sub-sanitary inspector would be arriving to-day?

MRS. DELANE. To-day it is he is coming, and it's likely he was in that train. There was a card about him to Sergeant Carden this morning.

MR. QUIRKE. A young chap from Carrow they were saying he was.

MRS. DELANE. So he is, one Hyacinth Halvey; and indeed if all that is said of him is true, or if a quarter of it is true, he will be a credit to this town.

MR. QUIRKE. Is that so?

MRS. DELANE. Testimonials he has by the score. To Father Gregan they were sent. Registered they were coming and going. Would you believe me telling you that they weighed up to three pounds?

MR. QUIRKE. There must be great bulk in them indeed.

MRS. DELANE. It is no wonder he to get the job. He must have a great character, so many persons to write for him as what there did.

FARDY. It would be a great thing to have a character like that.

MRS. DELANE. Indeed, I am thinking it will be long before you will get the like of it, Fardy Farrell.

FARDY. If I had the like of that of a character it is not here carrying messages I would be. It's in Noonan's Hotel I would be, driving cars.

MR. QUIRKE. Here is the priest's housekeeper coming.

MRS. DELANE. So she is; and there is the sergeant a little while after her.

[_Enter_ MISS JOYCE.

MRS. DELANE. Good evening to you, Miss Joyce. What way is his reverence to-day? Did he get any ease from the cough?

MISS JOYCE. He did not, indeed, Mrs. Delane. He has it sticking to him yet. Smothering he is in the night-time. The most thing he comes short in is the voice.

MRS. DELANE. I am sorry, now, to hear that. He should mind himself well.

MISS JOYCE. It's easy to say let him mind himself. What do you say to him going to the meeting to-night?

[SERGEANT _comes in_.

MISS JOYCE. It's for his reverence's "Freeman" I am come, Mrs. Delane.

MRS. DELANE. Here it is ready. I was just throwing an eye on it to see was there any news. Good evening, Sergeant.

SERGEANT. [_Holding up a placard._] I brought this notice, Mrs. Delane, the announcement of the meeting to be held to-night in the court-house. You might put it up here convenient to the window. I hope you are coming to it yourself?

MRS. DELANE. I will come, and welcome. I would do more than that for you, Sergeant.

SERGEANT. And you, Mr. Quirke.

MR. QUIRKE. I'll come, to be sure. I forget what's this the meeting is about.

SERGEANT. The Department of Agriculture is sending round a lecturer in furtherance of the moral development of the rural classes. [_Reads._] "A lecture will be given this evening in Cloon Court-House, illustrated by magic-lantern slides--" Those will not be in it; I am informed they were all broken in the first journey, the railway company taking them to be eggs. The subject of the lecture is "The Building of Character."

MRS. DELANE. Very nice, indeed, I knew a girl lost her character, and she washed her feet in a blessed well after, and it dried up on the minute.

SERGEANT. The arrangements have all been left to me, the archdeacon being away. He knows I have a good intellect for things of the sort. But the loss of those slides puts a man out. The thing people will not see it is not likely it is the thing they will believe. I saw what they call tableaux--standing pictures, you know--one time in Dundrum----

MRS. DELANE. Miss Joyce was saying Father Gregan is supporting you.

SERGEANT. I am accepting his assistance. No bigotry about me when there is a question of the welfare of any fellow creatures. Orange and green will stand together to-night, I, myself, and the station-master on the one side, your parish priest in the chair.

MISS JOYCE. If his reverence would mind me he would not quit the house to-night. He is no more fit to go speak at a meeting than [_pointing to the one hanging outside_ QUIRKE'S _door_] that sheep.

SERGEANT. I am willing to take the responsibility. He will have no speaking to do at all, unless it might be to bid them give the lecturer a hearing. The loss of those slides now is a great annoyance to me--and no time for anything. The lecturer will be coming by the next train.

MISS JOYCE. Who is this coming up the street, Mrs. Delane?

MRS. DELANE. I wouldn't doubt it to be the new sub-sanitary inspector. Was I telling you of the weight of the testimonials he got, Miss Joyce?

MISS JOYCE. Sure, I heard the curate reading them to his reverence. He must be a wonder for principles.

MRS. DELANE. Indeed, it is what I was saying to myself, he must be a very saintly young man.

[_Enter_ HYACINTH HALVEY. _He carries a small bag and a large
brown-paper parcel. He stops and nods bashfully._

HYACINTH. Good evening to you. I was bid to come to the post-office----

SERGEANT. I suppose you are Hyacinth Halvey? I had a letter about you from the resident magistrate.

HYACINTH. I heard he was writing. It was my mother got a friend he deals with to ask him.

SERGEANT. He gives you a very high character.

HYACINTH. It is very kind of him, indeed, and he not knowing me at all. But, indeed, all the neighbors were very friendly. Anything any one could do to help me they did it.

MRS. DELANE. I'll engage it is the testimonials you have in your parcel? I know the wrapping-paper, but they grew in bulk since I handled them.

HYACINTH. Indeed, I was getting them to the last. There was not one refused me. It is what my mother was saying, a good character is no burden.

FARDY. I would believe that, indeed.

SERGEANT. Let us have a look at the testimonials.

[HYACINTH HALVEY _opens a parcel, and a large number of envelopes
fall out_.

SERGEANT. [_Opening and reading one by one._] "He possesses the fire of the Gael, the strength of the Norman, the vigor of the Dane, the stolidity of the Saxon----"

HYACINTH. It was the chairman of the Poor Law Guardians wrote that.

SERGEANT. "A magnificent example to old and young----"

HYACINTH. That was the secretary of the De Wet Hurling Club----

SERGEANT. "A shining example of the value conferred by an eminently careful and high-class education----"

HYACINTH. That was the national schoolmaster.

SERGEANT. "Devoted to the highest ideals of his motherland to such an extent as is compatible with a hitherto non-parliamentary career----"

HYACINTH. That was the member for Carrow.

SERGEANT. "A splendid exponent of the purity of the race----"

HYACINTH. The editor of the "Carrow Champion."

SERGEANT. "Admirably adapted for the efficient discharge of all possible duties that may in future be laid upon him----"

HYACINTH. The new station-master.

SERGEANT. "A champion of every cause that can legitimately benefit his fellow creatures--" Why, look here, my man, you are the very one to come to our assistance to-night.

HYACINTH. I would be glad to do that. What way can I do it?

SERGEANT. You are a newcomer--your example would carry weight--you must stand up as a living proof of the beneficial effect of a high character, moral fibre, temperance--there is something about it here I am sure--(_Looks._) I am sure I saw "unparalleled temperance" in some place----

HYACINTH. It was my mother's cousin wrote that--I am no drinker, but I haven't the pledge taken----

SERGEANT. You might take it for the purpose.

MR. QUIRKE. [_Eagerly._] Here is an antitreating button. I was made a present of it by one of my customers--I'll give it to you [_sticks it in_ HYACINTH'S _coat_] and welcome.

SERGEANT. That is it. You can wear the button on the platform--or a bit of blue ribbon--hundreds will follow your example--I know the boys from the Workhouse will----

HYACINTH. I am in no way wishful to be an example----

SERGEANT. I will read extracts from the testimonials. "There he is," I will say, "an example of one in early life who by his own unaided efforts and his high character has obtained a profitable situation." [_Slaps his side._] I know what I'll do. I'll engage a few corner-boys from Noonan's bar, just as they are, greasy and sodden, to stand in a group--there will be the contrast--the sight will deter others from a similar fate--that's the way to do a tableau--I knew I could turn out a success.

HYACINTH. I wouldn't like to be a contrast----

SERGEANT. [_Puts testimonials in his pocket._] I will go now and engage those lads--sixpence each, and well worth it--nothing like an example for the rural classes.

[_Goes off_, HYACINTH _feebly trying to detain him_.

MRS. DELANE. A very nice man, indeed. A little high up in himself, maybe. I'm not one that blames the police. Sure they have their own bread to earn like every other one. And indeed it is often they will let a thing pass.

MR. QUIRKE. [_Gloomily._] Sometimes they will, and more times they will not.

MISS JOYCE. And where will you be finding a lodging, Mr. Halvey?

HYACINTH. I was going to ask that myself, ma'am. I don't know the town.

MISS JOYCE. I know of a good lodging, but it is only a very good man would be taken into it.

MRS. DELANE. Sure there could be no objection there to Mr. Halvey. There is no appearance on him but what is good, and the sergeant after taking him up the way he is doing.

MISS JOYCE. You will be near to the sergeant in the lodging I speak of. The house is convenient to the barracks.

HYACINTH. [_Doubtfully._] To the barracks?

MISS JOYCE. Alongside of it, and the barrack-yard behind. And that's not all. It is opposite to the priest's house.

HYACINTH. Opposite, is it?

MISS JOYCE. A very respectable place, indeed, and a very clean room you will get. I know it well. The curate can see into it from his window.

HYACINTH. Can he now?

FARDY. There was a good many, I am thinking, went into that lodging and left it after.

MISS JOYCE. [_Sharply._] It is a lodging you will never be let into or let stop in, Fardy. If they did go they were a good riddance.

FARDY. John Hart, the plumber, left it----

MISS JOYCE. If he did it was because he dared not pass the police coming in, as he used, with a rabbit he was after snaring in his hand.

FARDY. The schoolmaster himself left it.

MISS JOYCE. He needn't have left it if he hadn't taken to card-playing. What way could you say your prayers, and shadows shuffling and dealing before you on the blind?

HYACINTH. I think maybe I'd best look around a bit before I'll settle in a lodging----

MISS JOYCE. Not at all. You won't be wanting to pull down the blind.

MRS. DELANE. It is not likely _you_ will be snaring rabbits.

MISS JOYCE. Or bringing in a bottle and taking an odd glass the way James Kelly did.

MRS. DELANE. Or writing threatening notices, and the police taking a view of you from the rear.

MISS JOYCE. Or going to roadside dances, or running after good-for-nothing young girls----

HYACINTH. I give you my word I'm not so harmless as you think.

MRS. DELANE. Would you be putting a lie on these, Mr. Halvey? [_Touching testimonials._] I know well the way you will be spending the evenings, writing letters to your relations----

MISS JOYCE. Learning O'Growney's exercises----

MRS. DELANE. Sticking post-cards in an album for the convent bazaar.

MISS JOYCE. Reading the "Catholic Young Man"----

MRS. DELANE. Playing the melodies on a melodeon----

MISS JOYCE. Looking at the pictures in the "Lives of the Saints." I'll hurry on and engage the room for you.

HYACINTH. Wait. Wait a minute----

MISS JOYCE. No trouble at all. I told you it was just opposite. [_Goes._

MR. QUIRKE. I suppose I must go up-stairs and ready myself for the meeting. If it wasn't for the contract I have for the soldiers' barracks and the sergeant's good word, I wouldn't go anear it. [_Goes into shop._

MRS. DELANE. I should be making myself ready, too. I must be in good time to see you being made an example of, Mr. Halvey. It is I, myself, was the first to say it; you will be a credit to the town. [_Goes._

HYACINTH. [_In a tone of agony._] I wish I had never seen Cloon.

FARDY. What is on you?

HYACINTH. I wish I had never left Carrow. I wish I had been drowned the first day I thought of it, and I'd be better off.

FARDY. What is it ails you?

HYACINTH. I wouldn't for the best pound ever I had be in this place to-day.

FARDY. I don't know what you are talking about.

HYACINTH. To have left Carrow, if it was a poor place, where I had my comrades, and an odd spree, and a game of cards--and a coursing-match coming on, and I promised a new greyhound from the city of Cork. I'll die in this place, the way I am, I'll be too much closed in.

FARDY. Sure it mightn't be as bad as what you think.

HYACINTH. Will you tell me, I ask you, what way can I undo it?

FARDY. What is it you are wanting to undo?

HYACINTH. Will you tell me what way can I get rid of my character?

FARDY. To get rid of it, is it?

HYACINTH. That is what I said. Aren't you after hearing the great character they are after putting on me?

FARDY. That is a good thing to have.

HYACINTH. It is not. It's the worst in the world. If I hadn't it, I wouldn't be like a prize marigold at a show, with every person praising me.

FARDY. If I had it, I wouldn't be like a head in a barrel, with every person making hits at me.

HYACINTH. If I hadn't it, I wouldn't be shoved into a room with all the clergy watching me and the police in the back yard.

FARDY. If I had it, I wouldn't be but a message-carrier now, and a clapper scaring birds in the summer-time.

HYACINTH. If I hadn't it, I wouldn't be wearing this button and brought up for an example at the meeting.

FARDY. [_Whistles._] Maybe you're not so, what those papers make you out to be?

HYACINTH. How would I be what they make me out to be? Was there ever any person of that sort since the world was a world, unless it might be Saint Antony of Padua looking down from the chapel wall? If it is like that I was, isn't it in Mount Melleray I would be, or with the friars at Esker? Why would I be living in the world at all, or doing the world's work?

FARDY. [_Taking up parcel._] Who would think, now, there would be so much lies in a small place like Carrow?

HYACINTH. It was my mother's cousin did it. He said I was not reared for laboring--he gave me a new suit and bid me never to come back again. I daren't go back to face him--the neighbors knew my mother had a long family--bad luck to them the day they gave me these. [_Tears letters and scatters them._] I'm done with testimonials. They won't be here to bear witness against me.

FARDY. The sergeant thought them to be great. Sure he has the samples of them in his pocket. There's not one in the town but will know before morning that you are the next thing to an earthly saint.