Chapter I: Part 1

SEEKING HIS FORTUNE,
AND
OTHER DIALOGUES.

BY
HORATIO ALGER, JR.,
AND
O. AUGUSTA CHENEY.

LORING, Publisher,
COR. WASHINGTON AND BROMFIELD STREETS,
BOSTON.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by
A. K. LORING,
In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

To

MY FATHER AND MOTHER,

This Volume

IS DEDICATED, BY THEIR AFFECTIONATE DAUGHTER,

O. AUGUSTA CHENEY.

PREFACE.

Nearly all the dialogues in the present collection were originally contributed to a juvenile magazine in New York. Many of them have been used at exhibitions in different parts of the country, and met with a degree of favor which has led to their publication in this more permanent form. While intended for representation, it is hoped that readers may find them a source of entertainment.

It is proper to add that only the first dialogue belongs to me. The remainder are written by my sister, whose name appears with mine on the title-page. So far as these are concerned, my part has been merely that of an editor.

HORATIO ALGER, JR.

NEW YORK, May 1, 1875.

CONTENTS.

PAGE

SEEKING HIS FORTUNE 11

ONE WEEK AN EDITOR 27

KEEPING GENTEEL BOARDERS 37

MRS. SKINFLINT’S BARGAINS 57

MRS. GRUNDY’S TYRANNY 67

AUNT HANNAH’S VALENTINE 79

MR. BLISS’ VISION 95

HIGH LIFE BELOW STAIRS 105

BOARDING ON A FARM 115

TAMING A WIFE 127

JOHN SMITH’S TRIALS 139

AUNT RACHEL’S FRIGHT 149

THE HYPOCHONDRIAC CURED 161

AUNT PATIENCE’S EAR-TRUMPET 169

THE GHOSTLY VISITATION 183

PRACTICAL HUSBANDRY 193

MR. SMITH’S DAY AT HOME 207

THE COUNTRY COUSIN 217

TAKING POISON 231

DEACON ROBINSON’S PRESENT 237

MRS. MARDEN’S LESSON 249

THE MAGIC MIRROR 257

SEEKING HIS FORTUNE.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

DEA. ELNATHAN PETERS, a Farmer.
MRS. ALMIRA PETERS, his Wife.
JONATHAN PETERS, his Son.
THOMAS HAMPTON, a Commission Merchant.
SAMUEL JENKINS, his Clerk.

SCENE I.—_An old-fashioned kitchen. MRS. P. is paring apples,
R. DEA. P. nodding over a newspaper, L. JONATHAN, a tall,
countrified-looking specimen, sits moodily, C., with chair
tipped back, and his hands in his pockets._

JONATHAN. Well, marm, I’ve made up my mind I shan’t stay in Beanville any longer.

MRS. PETERS. Why, Jonathan, how you dew talk! What’s got into you?

J. I’ve got tired of Beanville, marm, that’s what’s the matter. I aint goin’ to stay here all my life, raisin’ cabbages, and hoin’ taters. I’m fit for somethin’ better.

DEA. PETERS (_rousing from his nap_). What’s the boy talkin’ about, mother?

J. I might as well tell you fust as last, dad. I’m goin’ to Bostown.

MRS. P. Massy sakes! Bostown’s a hundred miles off. What you goin’ there for?

J. To make my fortin.

DEA. P. ’Taint so easy as you think for, Jonathan. You’d a plaguy sight better stay round here and help me.

J. I can’t do nothin’ here, dad. I have to work till I get all tuckered out, just to make a livin’ and can’t never wear anything better than overalls. Now, if I was in the city, I could wear store clothes all the time, like that are fellow that boarded up to the tavern last summer.

MRS. P. I’m afraid, Jonathan, you’re gettin’ proud. You aint no call to be ashamed of wearin’ overalls. They’re what me and your father always wear.

DEA. P. (_slily_). Yes, mother, you _do_ wear the breeches sometimes.

MRS. P. (_in a deprecating tone_). Now, father, you’d orter be ashamed. You know I didn’t mean that. (_To_ JONATHAN.) I mean, Jonathan, your father and me aint ashamed of wearin’ workin’ clothes. I’m afraid you’re gettin’ proud, and pride’s a deadly sin.

J. Can’t help it, marm. When that feller passed me in the field last summer, he turned up his nose at me, and I aint goin’ to stand it. I’m as good as he is, any day.

MRS. P. So you be, Jonathan.

J. And I want, to dress as well. So I’ve made up my mind to go to Bostown, and go into business there.

DEA. P. What sort of business?

J. As to that, I aint partic’lar. Anything that I can make money by.

DEA. P. Perhaps you’ll lose it. They’re pooty sharp in Bostown, I’ve heard tell. Most likely you’d get cheated out of all you’ve got.

MRS. P. Yes, Jonathan, listen to what your dad says; he’s had more experience than you hev.

J. He don’t Know much about Bostown, anyway.

DEA. P. (_complacently_). Yes, Jonathan, I know a good deal about the city. I’ve been there three times. Fust time was just after me and your mother was married.

MRS. P. Thirty-one years ago.

DEA. P. Yes, Almiry, thirty-one year. Then again, I went down to sell a yoke of oxen for Squire Peabody.

J. That time you had your pocket picked, and had to borrow money to git home.

DEA. P. (_coughing_). Ahem! yes, I believe it was that time. Then again, I went seven year ago, and stayed to the Mechanics’ Fair. That are was a great sight.

J. Well, dad, I haint never been at all, and I’m goin’,—that’s all.

MRS. P. You aint nothin’ but a boy, Jonathan.

J. Aint I, though? I’m twenty-one year old, and taller’n father, and I weighed myself down to the store, yesterday, and weighed a hundred and eighty. I should think I was old enough and big enough to be trusted away from home.

MRS. P. The city is a wicked place, Jonathan. Who knows but you’d get to drinkin’ and swearin’?

J. There aint no danger of that, marm. I tasted some whiskey, the other day, down to Hiram Johnson’s, and it most turned my stummik. I shan’t drink anything stronger’n cider.

DEA. P. That’s right, my son. Cider’s good, for we know what it’s made of. Apples are healthy, and when a body’s tired, a mug of cider goes to the right spot.

MRS. P. (_doubtfully_). Yes, father, but you know Sam Wilson got drunk on cider one town meetin’ day, and smashed forty panes of glass in the meetin’-house.

DEA. P. Wal, wal, he drank more’n was good for him. But, Jonathan, to come back to your plans, have you thought what you shall do when you get to the city?

J. Why, dad, I calc’late there must be plenty of work to be did. I reckon I should like to tend in a store.

DEA. P. Lazy business, Jonathan.

J. That’s what I like it for, dad. I’ve had hard work enough, and I want to take it easy awhile. Maybe I shall go into business on my own hook, if I get a good chance. There aint no reason why I shouldn’t get rich as well as other folks.

MRS. P. (_hastily_). I hope, Jonathan, you aint goin’ to take that two hundred and fifty dollars out of the Savings Bank, that yer Aunt Betsey give you in her will.

J. Of course I be. How can a feller go into business without capital?

MRS. P. (_solemnly_). You’ll lose every red cent of it, take my word for it.

J. And earn five times as much more, marm; I guess I know how to make money as well as other folks.

MRS. P. Deacon, do say somethin’ to git him off this foolish plan. He’ll fail, sartain, an’ it’ll make his aunt rise from her grave, if he loses all the money that she earned by knittin’ an’ dryin’ apples.

DEA. P. (_reflectively_). I don’t know, Almiry, but the boy might as well try his luck, seein’ he’s sot on it. Perhaps he may do well, arter all.

J. (_delightedly_). That’s the talk, dad.

MRS. P. Well, I dunno. It seems to me mighty resky. However, if he must go, he’ll have to wait till I’ve knit him some winter stockings. He’s most out.

J. I kin buy some in Bostown, marm. They’ve got plenty there.

MRS. P. (_contemptuously_). And what are they worth I should like to know? Boughten stockin’s won’t stand any wear at all. Then, there’s your shirts; you aint got but three.

J. Well, there’s enuff; I kin wear one a week, an’ three’s enough to shift with.

DEA. P. You’ll have to be more partic’lar in the city. I’ve heard that some folks in the city wear as many as three clean shirts in a week.

MRS. P. They must be awful dirty to need changin’ so often. But I guess, Jonathan, you’d better have one more made.

J. Well, you kin send the shirt and the stockin’s to me by express. I’ve made up my mind to go next week.

MRS. P. An’ what’ll Mary Jane Parker say to that?

J. I don’t care.

MRS. P. I thought you were sweet on her only a little while ago.

J. Wal, she aint anything but a country gal. Maybe I shall find a good-lookin’ city gal that’s got the tin.

MRS. P. O Jonathan, I’m afeard you’re gittin’ vain. “Vanity of vanity! All is vanity!” says the Scripters. Mary Jane would make you a real capable wife. She can make butter an’ cheese equal to any gal in Beanville, an’ she made fifteen dollars, last summer, sellin’ eggs.

J. (_contemptuously_). What’s fifteen dollars?

MRS. P. The time may come when you’ll be glad to git fifteen dollars.

J. Now, marm, don’t go to discouragin’ a feller; I’m bound to be rich, and when I’ve made money enuff, I’m going to buy you a silk gownd.

MRS. P. Thank you, Jonathan; I allus thought I should like a new silk gownd. I aint had a new one for twenty year.

J. Well, marm, you shall have it jist as soon as I’ve made my pile.

MRS. P. Pile of what, for the land’s sake?

J. Made my fortin, I mean. And I’ll buy father a new Sunday go-to-meeting coat.

DEA. P. I guess you’ll want your money for other things, Jonathan. Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched.

J. Can I have the horse to-morrow, dad?

DEA. P. What for?

J. I’m goin’ over to the bank to get my money.

DEA. P. Yes, I reckon so.

MRS. P. You’d better go with him, father. He might git robbed on the way home. I shan’t feel safe with such a lot of money in the house.

J. Well, ’twon’t be in the house long.

(_Curtain falls._)

SCENE II.—_JONATHAN, in a blue suit with brass buttons, stands
R. C., waiting for the stage. Beside him is a blue chest
containing his worldly effects. DEACON and MRS. PETERS stand
near the door, R._

J. (_looking toward L._). I hear the stage, marm.

MRS. P. Yes, it’s just comin’ over the hill. Hadn’t you better change your mind, Jonathan, and stay to hum, arter all?

J. Not by a jug-full. No, marm, the dice is cast, and I’m bound to be somebody. No more diggin’ taters for me.

DEA. P. Well, Jonathan, I wish you all success, but I kinder have my misgivin’s.

MRS. P. Is the money safe, Jonathan?

J. Yes, marm, I’ve got it in my trowsers’ pocket.

MRS. P. Hadn’t you better leave part of it to hum? You might have your pockets picked, you know.

J. They won’t catch this child so easy. Don’t you be alarmed.

MRS. P. I declare I’ve forgotten them doughnuts.

DEA. P. (_looking toward L._). Stage is just at the corner.

MRS. P. They’ll wait a minute.

J. (_starting towards L._). Can’t wait, marm. I’ll buy some dinner at the tavern.

MRS. P. It’ll be wastin’ your money.

DEA. P. Never mind.

J. (_going slowly toward L._). Good-by.

DEA. P. AND MRS. P. Good-by. Be sure and write.

J. I’ll write just as soon as I get to the city.

(_Exit L._)

MRS. P. (_with her apron to her eyes_). It’s an awful resk, Deacon, Jonathan’s going away from home.

DEA. P. Cheer up, mother. He’s a man grown. He may make a fortune, after all.

(_Exeunt, R._)

(_JONATHAN returns L. for his chest._)

J. (_solus_). Good-by to Beanville. When I come back, I’ll make the folks stare. Mary Jane’ll have to look up another feller. I’m goin’ to look higher.

(_Exit L._)

(_Curtain falls._)

SCENE III.—_A small room in the fifth story of a Boston hotel.
JONATHAN, C., sits poring over the advertising columns of the
Boston Herald._

J. I had no idee there was so many houses in the world. Bostown’s a big place, to be sure. But I don’t see where they pastur’ all their cows. I didn’t see none in that big lot in front of the State House. I guess folks must have a power of money to live in such fine houses. The State House must have cost twice as much as our meetin’-house, and p’r’aps more. Anyway I’m bound to see if I can’t make my fortin here. The landlord told me I might find a chance for business in this paper. I guess I’ll look over it, and see what I can find. (_Reads the paper intently for a few minutes._) Why, here’s the very thing! Let me spell it out again. (_Reads aloud._)

“TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS A YEAR! Wanted, a young man with a small capital, to engage in a lucrative business, which is sure to pay him at least two thousand dollars a year. Call at once on Samuel Jenkins, 15 S—— street.”

J. (_jumping to his feet in excitement_). Where’s my hat? I say that’s an all-fired good chance! Two thousand dollars a year! Why, it takes away my breath, thinkin’ of it. Here I’ve been workin’ for dad for ten dollars a month, and that aint but a hundred and twenty dollars a year. Our minister don’t get but three hundred dollars and his house-rent. Guess he’ll hev to look up to me ef I git this chance. I must go right off, or some other feller’ll be ahead of me.

(_Puts on hat, and exit L. Curtain falls._)

SCENE IV.—_A small office. SAMUEL JENKINS sits R., in a
lounging attitude, smoking a cigar. A knock is heard L. He
jumps up hastily, and admits JONATHAN._

J. (_bashfully_). Be you Mr. Jenkins?

SAM. (_bowing_). I am, at your service.

J. I seen the advertisement what you writ in the papers, about wanting a partner,—

S. J. With a small capital?

J. Yes, with a small capital, and I thought I’d call and see if you’d take me.

S. J. (_aside_). The fellow’s just from the country. I must impress him a little. I wonder how much money he’s got. (_Aloud._) Well, as to that, I can’t say, positively. I must ask you a few questions. Have you lived in the city long?

J. Wal, no, I live to Beanville, when I’m ter hum.

S. J. (_reflectively_). Beanville! I don’t think I ever heard of the place.

J. Sho! I thought everybody’d heard of Beanville.

S. J. Then I suppose you have never been in business.

J. (_hesitatingly_). Wall, no, not exactly; but I tended in our store two days when the other feller was gone.

S. J. That is nothing;—but perhaps you could learn.

J. (_eagerly_). Oh, yes, I kin learn pooty quick, ef you’ll only try me.

S. J. Then about the capital. How much money have you got?

J. I hed two hundred and fifty dollars when I left hum, but I guess I’ll have to leave some to pay my board. I kin invest two hundred and twenty-five dollars.

S. J. (_aside_). That isn’t as much as I hoped, but I’m dead broke, and that’ll do to till I take in another flat.

J. (_anxiously_). Will that do?

S. J. Why, it isn’t as much as I expected; considering the large income which you will receive, it is very small.

J. I will come for less than two thousand, if you’ll only take me.

S. J. No, I will pay what I guaranteed. I suppose you have references.

J. I’ll write to our minister to send me a character.

S. J. Never mind. I have a knack at reading faces, and I can tell by yours that you are honest and industrious.

J. (_gratified_). Then you will take me?

S. J. Have you got the money with you?

J. Yes; shall I pay it now?

S. J. You might as well, and the partnership shall begin at once.

J. (_drawing out his pocket-book, and counting out some bills_). Two hundred, two hundred and ten, two hundred and twenty-five. I guess you’ll find it right.

S. J. (_looking over the bills carelessly_). Yes, quite correct. Stay, I will give you a receipt. What is your name? (_Writes._)

J. Jonathan Peters.

S. J. (_passes him receipt_). Mine is Jenkins. Success to the firm of Jenkins and Peters. I’ll see about a sign.

J. (_surprised_). Do you do it here? I don’t see nothin’ to sell.

S. J. Oh, it’s a commission business. I’ll attend to that, and you’ll do the writing. I suppose you can write a good hand.

J. Oh, yes, I’ve been to writin’ school two winters. I can’t write very fast.

S. J. Never mind, you’ll learn. Practice makes perfect. I think I’ll have you begin to-day. Do you see that book? (_Points to an old ledger on the desk._)

J. Yes.

S. J. Well, there’s a blank book. I want you to copy out of the ledger into the book, beginning at the first page.

J. All right. I kin do it.

S. J. Be very particular not to make any mistakes.

J. I’ll do my best.

S. J. (_taking his hat_). I’ve got to go round to the bank to deposit this money, and will be right back. See how much you can copy while I am gone.

J. Yes, I’ll work faithful.

(_Exit S. J., L._)

J. (_solus_). Well, aint that a streak of luck! Here I am, just come to the city, and earnin’ a salary of two thousand dollars a year. Won’t it make dad stare? I guess marm’ll be glad I come now. Wonder what Mary Jane’ll say? She’ll be mighty sorry I’ve gone and left her. But she aint fit for the wife of a merchant like me! I must write to dad to-night. I would now, only my time belongs to the firm. Two thousand dollars a year! Why, that’s six dollars a day, and more, almost as much a day as I used to git in a month. Guess I’ll buy a watch after I git my first month’s pay. Holloa, what’s that?

(_Enter THOMAS HEMPTON, R._)

H. (_looking at JONATHAN with surprise_). What are you doing here?

J. (_with dignity_). Tendin’ to business.

H. And how do you happen to be attending to business in my office?

J. Look here, mister, I guess you have made a little mistake. This aint your office. It’s mine and Jenkins’.

H. (_sarcastically_). Indeed! And I suppose that is your ledger that you have before you?

J. Of course it is.

H. Well, you’re a mighty cool customer, though you look rather green than otherwise. Perhaps you can tell me who this Jenkins is.

J. He’s the boss of this concern. That is, him and me are the two bosses.

H. Well, you’re about right there. You look more like bossies than anything else. If you ever lived in the country, as I should judge from your appearance you had, you will know what that means.

J. (_advancing in a threatening manner, and brandishing a ruler_). I say, stranger, quit that. None of your sarse, or I’ll break yer head.

H. (_with dignity_). Enough of this, young man. Put down that ruler. Now, tell me, have you given this man, Jenkins, any money?

J. Yes; two hundred and twenty-five dollars, and he’s took me into partnership.

H. When did you see him last?

J. He went out an hour ago.

H. You’ll never see him, I’m afraid, or your money either.

J. (_terrified_). What’s that, stranger?

H. In short, he’s swindled you. Jenkins is not his real name. He is a clerk of mine, of whom, for some time, I have had suspicions. He took advantage of a three days’ absence of mine in New York, to put an advertisement in the paper, which has taken you in. He’s got your money, and that will be the last we shall see of him, unless the police pick him up.

J. (_crying_). He’s carried off all my money. Boo! hoo! and I aint earnin’ two thousand dollars a year after all. Aunt Betsey’s money gone. Boo! hoo! What’ll marm say?

H. I’m afraid your money’s gone past recovery, but if you want to stay in the city, there’s a friend of mine wants a good, strong fellow in a grocery store. He will give you two dollars a day.

J. (_drying his tears_). Well, that’s pooty good. It’s a good deal more’n I kin make in the country. I’ll take it. (_Enter boy, R., with a note._)

H. (_opening it hastily_). Young man, here is good news. The police, having some suspicions of Jenkins, arrested him as he was on the point of leaving the city for New York, and he is now in custody. You will probably recover your money.

J. (_executing a double shuffle in his delight_). O crackey! my money safe. Now I shan’t be ashamed to write home. You won’t forget about that grocery place?

H. No, I will see my friend to-day, and I have no doubt he will take you. By the way, where are you boarding?

J. At the Blank House.

H. The board is pretty high there.

J. My room is high, anyway, in the fifth story but they charge me only three dollars a week.

H. Three dollars a day, you should say.

J. By gracious, you don’t mean it!

H. Certainly; some of the hotels charge four and five.

J. How do they expect a feller can eat three dollars’ worth of victuals in a day?

H. You’d better leave there at once. I’ll give you the address of a place where you can get boarded for six dollars a week, while you’ll be earning twelve.

J. We kin git board up to Beanville for two dollars a week.

H. Beanville and Boston are two different places, and differ greatly in some important respects. If you will wait here a few moments, I’ll go out and speak to my friend about this place that you want.

(_Exit R._)

J. (_solus_). Well, I wouldn’t ’a’ thought that Jenkins was such a tricky feller. I’d like to jist git hold of him once, and ef I wouldn’t give him a kick that would land him in the middle of next week, it’s because I’d lost the use of my foot, that’s all.

(_Curtain falls._)

ONE WEEK AN EDITOR.

CHARACTERS.

FERNANDO CLAPP, Editor pro tem.
EPHRAIM SIMPSON, a Country Farmer.
DR. JOHN JENKINS, Vender of Salve.
EUGENE SNOW, Printer’s “Devil.”
ARAMINTA ELLIS, a Sentimental Young Lady.
GEO. CRANE, a Mechanic.
DR. WM. RANDALL, Proprietor of Anti-Dyspepsia Pills.
HENRY PERKINS, a Fierce-looking Individual.

SCENE I.—_A country printing office. EDITOR pro tem. sitting R.
before a table C. covered with MSS. Piles of newspapers upon
the floor on either side of him. A pair of scissors in one hand
and a pen in the other. Enter EPHRAIM SIMPSON, L._

EPHRAIM SIMPSON. Is this the office of the “Petersville Post”?

EDITOR (_with some curiosity_). It is.

E. You are the editor, I reckon?

ED. You are right.

E. Well, you see my name is Ephraim Simpson, and I live over to Greenfield. I’ve been workin’ this summer hayin’, but I found it was too hard work, and I reckoned I’d come to you and see if you couldn’t give me a chance to edit a little.

ED. Why, you know it is quite a difficult thing to learn to edit a paper. It requires education, judgment, and a variety of other qualifications.

E. Oh, as to that, I guess I can satisfy you. I have tended school in our deestrict for four winters, and can read, write and cipher like a book.

ED. That is all very well, but you know one must be able to compose as well as write.

E. Oh, compositions you mean. Well, I have written them some. Don’t you want me to try my hand and show you what I kin do?

ED. I am not in particular need of an assistant just now, but perhaps you might as well sit down and try your hand at writing an editorial. (_EPHRAIM sits down, R._)

(_Enter, L., a rusty-looking individual, with a tin trunk under his arm._)

JOHN JENKINS. Are you the editor of the “Post”?

ED. I am.

J. J. Then, sir, allow me to present you with a box of my famous salve (_hands box to him_).

ED. Thank you.

J. J. Perhaps you’d be willing to insert this little paragraph about it. I wrote it off to save you trouble (_hands paper to editor_).

ED. (_reading aloud_). We have received from Dr. Jenkins a box of his Magnetic Salve, which is warranted to cure every description of cut or bruise in an incredibly short space of time. We know a boy who accidentally cut off one of his fingers. His mother being absent, he bethought himself of Dr. Jenkins’s salve, which she had bought the day previous. He applied it to the injured finger, and before night there was not even a scar to indicate where the wound had been.

ED. (_looking up_). You want me to insert this?

J. J. (_in an insinuating tone_). Yes, sir.

ED. But I don’t know the boy referred to.

J. J. My dear sir, aint you rather new in the business?

ED. (_indignantly_). Well, and what if I am?

J. J. (_smiling sarcastically_). I thought you were, or you’d understand that this is the way they always do things.

ED. We are a little more conscientious than editors generally. However, you assure me that the salve is good?

J. J. (_warmly_). Nothing better in the whole world, sir.

ED. And you think it would be safe to speak well of it?

J. J. Sir, you will be conferring a blessing on the community.

ED. Very well, I will write a little puff for you.

J. J. Thank you, sir.

(_Exit, L._)

PRINTER’S DEVIL (_entering, R._). More copy, sir.

ED. Here it is (_handing him a paper_).

(_Exit P. D._)

(_A knock is heard at the door, L._)

ED. Come in.

(_Enter young lady, L._)

YOUNG LADY. Please, sir, I am Araminta Ellis, the authoress of “Lines on a Faded Buttercup.”

ED. I am delighted to see you, Miss Ellis. Did the—the poem you speak of appear in the “Post”?

A. E. (_surprised at his ignorance_). No, sir, it was contributed to the “Weekly Bulletin.” I have never written anything for the “Post,” but should be willing to do so. What are your terms?

ED. (_blandly_). Three dollars a year.

A. E. I do not mean the subscription price of the paper, but how much do you pay your poetical contributors?

ED. We—ahem—that is, our friends are kind enough to make us a free gift of their productions in that line.

A. E. (_insinuatingly_). But don’t you pay for superior poetry? I have here a poem which I would like to see transferred to your columns (_passes manuscript to him_).

ED. (_taking the poem_). Seventy-seven stanzas! That would be too long for our columns. Couldn’t you shorten it?

A. E. Not without marring its symmetrical proportions. But I will write another and a shorter one soon, which will perhaps suit you better.

ED. Thank you, Miss Ellis. That will undoubtedly be better suited to our columns.

(_Exit A. E., L._)

(_Enter, L., GEORGE CRANE excitedly._)

GEORGE CRANE. Sir, don’t you regard it as a part of an editor’s duty to unmask villany and expose it to the world?

ED. Certainly, sir.

G. C. Then I should like to furnish you with some information respecting a neighbor of mine, named Henry Perkins. He is a hypocrite, sir! He professes a good deal, but secretly practises petty acts of meanness. I have every reason to believe that he beats his wife; and he has been suspected of robbing his neighbor’s hen-roosts. Just write an article touching him up, and I’ll subscribe to your paper for a year.

ED. (_cautiously_). Cash in advance?

G. C. (_promptly_). Yes.

ED. Very well, then. I’m your man.

(_G. C. hands ED. five-dollar bill, and receives two dollars
back as change. Exit G. C., L. Enter WILLIAM RANDALL, L._)

WILLIAM RANDALL. Is Mr. Clark in?

ED. No, sir; but as his substitute I shall be happy to serve you.

W. R. You must know, sir, that I have been laboring for some years past on the preparation of a remedy for dyspepsia. At length, after great labor and research, I have prepared a pill which I am sure will prove an infallible cure in the most obstinate cases. I have the pleasure, sir, of presenting you with a box of Dr. William Randall’s Anti-Dyspepsia Pills (_passes box to him_).

ED. Thank you.

DR. R. (_preparing to leave_). By the way, I suppose you will favor me with a notice?

ED. (_hesitating_). Ye-es.

(_Exit DR. R., L._)

(_ED. sits down to write. After a moment’s pause EPHRAIM SIMPSON, who has been writing (when not gazing at visitors), starts up._)

E. S. Well, Mister Editor, how’s that? (_handing him a paper._)

ED. (_reading aloud_). The hoss.—The hoss is a noble animal. He is also interestin’ and knows a good deal. Some folks get very much attached to their hosses. I knowed a Frenchman once, that thought so much of his hoss that he even went so far as to call his own mother a _mare_ as a pet name. Hosses are very interestin’ animals when they don’t rare up. Not havin’ any more to say on this subjick, I will stop.

ED. (_gravely_). That is very good; but, on the whole, I don’t think there is any need of an assistant just yet. If there should be a time when I stand in need of one, I will certainly _think of you_.

E. S. (_disappointed_). Then you haint got anything for me to do?

ED. Not just now.

E. S. Then I must go.

(_Exit E. S., L._)

(_Curtain falls._)

SCENE II.—_Printing office. ED., C., looking complacently at
a newspaper spread out to its full proportions on the table
before him._

ED. (_soliloquizing_). And this is the result of my first week’s labor as an editor. Excellent as my friend Clark has heretofore made the “Post,” I think he will acknowledge that I have made some improvements in it. (_Glances complacently down the page. His eye is suddenly arrested by a paragraph which startles him._) What! What’s this? (_Reads._)

“MR. FERNANDO CLAPP,—_Dear Sir_: I am instructed by your tailor
to present, for immediate payment, his bill amounting to
twenty-one dollars, eighteen cents and three-quarters. You are
requested to pay immediate attention to it, as otherwise the
law will take cognizance of your delinquency.

“TIMOTHY PETTIGREW, _Att’y at Law_.”

ED. (_furiously to P. D. entering R._). How did this get into the paper?

P. D. (_smiling_). You gave it out as copy, sir.

ED. When?

P. D. The first day you were here.

(_Exit P. D. as DR. RANDALL enters L. He is evidently very much
excited. He holds in his hand a copy of the “Post.”_)

DR. R. (_pointing to an item_). Did you write that?

ED. (_coolly_). Yes. I hope it suits you.

DR. R. Suits me! Confound your impudence! Suits me! What do you mean by that, sir?

ED. You seem angry—why, I am at a loss to guess.

DR. R. Sir, in noticing my medicine, you have insulted me.

ED. (_surprised_). In noticing your medicine! How?

DR. R. (_placing paper within two inches of ED.’S nose, he repeats_), “_He says it will cure the most obstinate case of dyspepsia. Perhaps it may._” I demand an explanation, sir.

ED. (_stepping back_). It is very easily given. I only intended to say, that personally I had no experience of the matter, and not being able to speak positively, I said “_perhaps_!”

DR. R. (_suspiciously_). Is that true?

ED. Certainly. But, if you wish, I will recall the statement in our next issue.

DR. R. That would be more satisfactory to me.

(_Exit, L._)

(_Enter, L., a fierce-looking individual._)

HENRY PERKINS (_in a threatening tone_). Are you the editor?

ED. (_with quaking heart_). Yes.

H. P. (_sneering_). I suppose you don’t know who I am?

ED. No, I don’t.

H. P. (_fiercely_). I am that Henry Perkins whom you have so atrociously libelled in your paper of this morning. Don’t think, sir, that such conduct is to go unpunished! I stand upon my rights, sir, as a citizen, and I will not be trampled upon.

(_MR. P. seizes ED. by the collar of his coat and shakes him vigorously._)

ED. (_struggling_). Unhand me, sir!

H. P. (_still shaking him_). There, you little blackguard! I guess you won’t slander me again in a hurry.

ED. (_passionately_). I’ll have the law of you, you villain!

H. P. You will, eh! Then I must give you your pay in advance.

(_He continues to shake him a moment. Then making a low, mocking bow, he goes out._)

ED. (_furiously_). I won’t stand this. I’ll leave a note for Clark, and go home this moment. There’s no knowing what may come next. It is as much as one’s life is worth to be an editor.

(_Exit hurriedly._)

(_Curtain falls._)

KEEPING GENTEEL BOARDERS.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

MRS. JONES, Keeper of a Boarding-House.
AMANDA, Her Daughter.
MRS. SIMPERTON, ⎫
ISADORA MALVINA, ⎪
COUNT HENRI DE FRIPON, ⎪
ABIGAIL TRIST, ⎬ Applicants for Board
ZACHARY WINFIELD TAYLOR SCOTT, ⎪
JETHRO BURBANK, ⎪
MRS. WESTWOOD, ⎭
SHERIFF.
MR. RANDALL.
BRIDGET.

SCENE I.—_A room in the house of MRS. JONES. MRS. J., R., and
her daughter, L., present, both seated._

MRS. JONES. Well, Amanda, now that we have taken a large house and prepared it for boarders, the next thing will be to fill it.

AMANDA. Advertise in the “Herald,” mamma.

MRS. J. It may be a good plan. We ought to make money; but when I consider that we have a large rent to pay, I can’t help thinking that there is some risk about it. You know we were able to live comfortably on the money your poor father left, and without any care or exertion on our part.

A. (_scornfully_). _Comfortably_, mamma! You know how we had to pinch ourselves. I could hardly afford one bonnet a year, and, as to dresses, I had to wear them so long a time I was positively ashamed. Other people make money by keeping boarders, and why can’t we?

MRS. J. You may be right, Amanda. But about the advertisement. How shall we express it?

(_AMANDA sits down at the table and writes._)

A. How will this do, mamma? (_Reads._)

WANTED.—A few first-class boarders, by a genteel family whose object is to surround themselves by a pleasant social circle, rather than to make money. Address “Boarders,” Herald office.

MRS. J. But, my dear, my object is to make money.

A. Of course, mamma; but it sounds well to seem indifferent to it.

MRS. J. Perhaps you are right. (_A pause._) I wonder when the advertisement will appear.

A. To-morrow morning, probably, and we may expect applications at any time afterward.

MRS. J. Then it would be best to fix on a price for board at once.

A. Yes, I suppose so.

MRS. J. How would twelve dollars a week do?

A. It wouldn’t do at all. We couldn’t pay expenses.

MRS. J. But I’m afraid if we charge such high prices we shall not be able to fill our rooms.

A. That’s just the means to accomplish it. Many people judge of the style and reputation of a house by the price asked. You ought to insist on at least fifteen or twenty dollars for the best rooms, and a little less for those not so desirable.

MRS. J. But that won’t correspond with the advertisement, where I say I take boarders for company, rather than to make money.

A. I don’t think that will ever be noticed; but if it should, you can say with truth, that you could not pay your expenses if you charged less.

MRS. J. Well, I hope we may be successful, for I have made such an outlay in fitting up the house, that our income will this year be far less than usual, and our expenses correspondingly larger.

A. There’s no doubt of our success. Three months from now we shall be able not only to defray our necessary expenses, but also to replace the money which you were obliged to draw to pay for the furniture.

(_Curtain falls._)

SCENE II.—_The same. AMANDA, L., present. She is looking over
the morning paper. Enter MRS. JONES, R._

MRS. JONES. Ah, has the paper come, Amanda?

AMANDA. Yes, and the advertisement is inserted, and reads well. (_Passes paper to her mother._)

MRS. J. That seems to be right—(_listens—sound of bell is heard_). But hark! Isn’t that the door bell?

A. Yes; I hope it may prove an applicant for board.

(_Servant ushers in MRS. SIMPERTON and her daughter, L._)

MRS. SIMPERTON. This is Mrs. Jones, I believe.

MRS. J. You are right. That is my name.

MRS. S. (_affectedly_). I must introduce myself as Mrs. Simperton. And this is my daughter, Isadora Malvina. (_MRS. J. bows._) We saw your advertisement in this morning’s “Herald,” and when we called at the office, were directed here.

MRS. J. Yes, my daughter and myself wished for company. It is rather lonely for two persons to live by themselves in a large house like this, with no one near but servants.

MRS. S. It must be so, and I do not wonder that you wish for companions. My daughter and myself are thinking of boarding this winter, and I wish to make some inquiries concerning your rooms. I suppose they are newly furnished.

MRS. J. Yes, they all contain new furniture.

MRS. S. And is it black walnut, with marble tops to the bureau and tables?

MRS. J. Yes, a part of the rooms are furnished in that style.

MRS. S. I suppose we could have our meals in our own rooms.

MRS. J. (_hesitating_). Well—yes—perhaps it could be arranged so.

MRS. S. And I suppose we could have them at whatever hour we chose.

MRS. J. I think so.

MRS. S. That seems to be favorable. May I ask your terms?

MRS. J. For my best rooms, with private meals, I should be obliged to charge twenty dollars a week apiece. If the meals came at unusual hours, it would be worth more.

MRS. S. (_with emphasis_). Your charge is exorbitant. Such accommodations are not worth more than half the sum you name. Still I am willing to pay twenty-five dollars for both of us.

MRS. J. I couldn’t think of such a thing. I shouldn’t be able to pay my expenses at such low rates for board.

MRS. S. I thought you didn’t keep boarders for profit, but only for the sake of company.

MRS. J. That is very true. I don’t take boarders for profit, but neither do I intend to take them at a loss. I shouldn’t consider their company to be of sufficient value to compensate for that.

MRS. S. Very well; I see we must look further. I don’t believe we should be suited here. Come, Isadora Malvina. (_Goes out, L., with a lofty air, followed by her daughter._)

A. What airs people do put on sometimes! I’m glad she didn’t decide to stay. I shouldn’t want her for a boarder at any price. (_Bell rings. Enter COUNT DE FRIPON, L._)

COUNT (_with a polite bow_). Can madame accommodate me with a suite of rooms?

MRS. J. I think so. What rooms do you desire?

C. I should like a _chambre à coucher_—what you call a bedroom; also a parlor in which I could receive my friends.

MRS. J. You would require board, too, I suppose.

C. Oui, madame,—yes, you are right. I should wish board for myself, and sometimes I might bring a friend with me to dine.

MRS. J. Certainly. We shall always be glad to see any of your friends. In regard to terms—

C. (_with a deprecating gesture_). Pardon, madame, but—I never trouble myself with these trifling matters. At the end of every month you will send in your bill to me, and I shall pay it to you at once.

MRS. J. That will be satisfactory. But what name shall I put down?

C. (_with a courtly air_). Count Henri de Fripon, madame. Here is my card. (_Passes it._)

MRS. J. (_bows, while a pleased smile overspreads her face_). And when would you like to come?

C. I shall come to you next Monday, in the morning. I have the honor to wish you good day, madame; bon jour, mademoiselle.

(_Exit, L., with low bow._)

MRS. J. That’s a boarder after my own mind. He never inquired the terms, and will be ready to pay when the bill is presented. I wish we might secure others of the same kind.

A. And he’s one of the nobility, too. His presence will give quite a distinguished air to the house.

MRS. J. Yes; he’s quite an acquisition. (_Bell rings._) Besides, who knows but—(_Enter MISS TRIST, L._)

MISS TRIST. Good mornin’, ma’am. Good mornin’, miss. (_MRS. J. and A. both bow._) I’ve come to see about gettin’ boarded.

MRS. J. I think we can accommodate you. What kind of a room would you like?

MISS T. It don’t make no sort o’ difference to me. I only want a shelter. ’Taint likely I shall be spared long to need one.

MRS. J. (_with sympathy_). Are you an invalid?

MISS T. No, I aint sick yet, but there’s no knowin’ how soon I may be. My mother died _young_, and died suddenly, too. I expect to go in the same way.

MRS. J. I hope not. (_A pause._) We have rooms which, with board, vary from twelve to twenty dollars per week.

MISS T. My sakes! That’s an awful price, aint it? But then I might as well spend my money for board as to leave it for my relations to quarrel over.

MRS. J. That certainly is a better way.

MISS T. (_mournfully_). Perhaps you wouldn’t think it, from my comin’ here to get boarded; but I’ve got three sisters and two brothers, and they’re all watchin’ to see if I aint goin’ to get sick an’ die, so they can have my money.

MRS. J. You’d better come here to board, then. I dare say it would be the means of prolonging your life.

MISS T. Do you think so? I wish I could believe it, though (_dismally_) I haint got nothin’ to live for. But then, if I aint to live long, it would be a comfort to spend my last days in peace. I’ve had a great many troubles and trials in my time.

MRS. J. I am sorry to hear it.

MISS T. Yes, I lost my best friend just six days before we were to be married. If he’d only lived one week longer, I might have been a desolate relict instead of a lonely single woman.

MRS. J. It must have been a great disappointment.

MISS T. Yes; but then ’twas my luck. I don’t place no dependence on anything now. (_Rising._) There’s no knowin’ what may happen; but I’ll come, to stay, next Monday, if I’m alive an’ well.

(_Exit, L._)

A. (_drawing a long breath_). Oh, I’m so glad she’s gone. I hope something will happen to prevent her coming. It’s as dismal to have her round as to be alone in the house on a drizzly day in November.

MRS. J. We can’t refuse any one who is willing to pay our price. But hark! some one is coming. (_Enter MR. SCOTT hurriedly._)

MR. SCOTT (_nervously_). I have come to get boarded here madam. (_With deprecating gesture._) Don’t refuse me, for I shall certainly commit suicide if you do. You see I’ve set my heart on boarding with you and your charming daughter.

MRS. J. (_benignantly_). There is no occasion for my refusing you. We have still a few rooms left that are not engaged.

MR. S. (_in a hurried manner_). And what are your terms—though that will make no difference. I shall come, whatever they may be.

MRS. J. We have one room, at fifteen dollars, that may perhaps suit you.

MR. S. (_with a theatrical air_). Fifteen dollars! Ask me not to pay such a paltry sum. I would never pay less than twenty-five.

MRS. J. Very well, you can pay any sum you choose.

MR. S. Then I choose to pay twenty-five dollars. But there’s another inquiry that I wish to make. Can I have a piano in my room?

MRS. J. There is a piano in the parlor, which the boarders are at liberty to use when they feel inclined.

MR. S. But that will not suit me. Perhaps I should wish to play when some one else was using it. No, I must have one in my own room. (_Earnestly._) I’m willing to pay extra for it—five, fifteen, or even fifty dollars a week, rather than not to have it.

MRS. J. Certainly; if you are willing to pay for it I will have one put into your room for you.

MR. S. You relieve my mind greatly. I will be here to commence boarding to-morrow. Here is my card. (_Passes it._) Good-morning, ladies.

(_Exit hastily, L._)

A. What a strange man! It isn’t often that one meets with a person who sets so little value on money.

MRS. J. His name is as strange as his actions.

A. (_with curiosity_). What is it?

MRS. J. Zachary Winfield Taylor Scott.

A. (_with interest_). Perhaps he is a son of General Scott. I’ve heard it said that the families of great men are often eccentric.

(_Bell rings. Enter JETHRO BURBANK, L._)

JETHRO BURBANK. I’ve come to see as how, could I get boarded.

MRS. J. We have some rooms still vacant, if the price is such as to suit you.

J. B. (_unheeding her remark_). You see, I’ve come all the way from Hatchville, State of Maine, to see if I could get a situation here in the city, and the fust thing is to get a boarding-place. What do you calc’late to charge me now? Don’t set it too high.

MRS. J. The lowest-priced rooms we have left are fifteen dollars per week, with board.

J. B. Gewhittaker! That’s an all-fired big sum. You don’t mean that’s your lowest price.

MRS. J. Certainly. This is a first-class house, and we do not take any boarders who can’t afford to pay our prices.

J. B. Wal, I don’t know what you call fust-class boarders, but marm boards the schoolmaster, and the editor of the paper, and I guess they aint second to nobody.

MRS. J. (_smiling_). And what does she charge for board?

J. B. Wal, she charges jest two dollars a week. That’s what I call a reasonable price. But I knowed that prices were higher in the city, and I calc’lated I’d have to pay as much as five dollars; but to pay three times that, is more than I can stand. Why, the price of a year’s board would buy me a good farm down to Hatchville.

MRS. J. Then I’m afraid you’ll have to go back there.

J. B. Wal, I shan’t give it up so. I’m going to try further.

(_Exit J. B., L._)

A. It is getting late. I don’t believe we shall have any more applicants to-day.

MRS. J. You are mistaken, for here is one now.

(_Enter MRS. WESTWOOD, L._)

MRS. WESTWOOD. Good-afternoon, ladies. Am I too late for a place? Are your rooms all taken?

MRS. J. No. We have several left. There are two in particular that I think you would fancy. One is a very large and pleasant room. The other is a little smaller.

MRS. W. Oh, I must have the large one, by all means.

MRS. J. The larger one, with board, will be twenty dollars a week.

MRS. W. Very well, I will pay it. I’ve got plenty of money at present. My husband died a year ago, and left me with a large farm and a quantity of stock. But I wasn’t going to be immured in a dismal farm-house—not I. So I’ve sold the farm, and come to the city to board till my money gives out. Perhaps then you’ll take me as a partner in the boarding-house business.

MRS. J. I find it takes considerable money, even for that business.

MRS. W. Oh, well, I’ve got enough—a couple of hundred thousand dollars. But I’m not ready to go in yet. I want to see a little of city life first. If I meet a good-looking gentleman that invites me, perhaps I shall become his partner instead of yours. But time will show.

MRS. J. What time would you like to commence?

MRS. W. It might as well be now as any other time. I can send for my trunks.

MRS. J. Very well; I will show you the two rooms, though I think you will prefer the larger one.

MRS. W. Oh, I am sure I shall.

(_Exit MRS. J. and MRS. W., L._)

A. (_sola_). Quite a number of the rooms are already engaged, and I think we may congratulate ourselves on having made a good beginning. How much better it will be to keep a genteel boarding-house than to tend shop or keep school for a living.

(_Curtain falls._)

SCENE III.—_The same. MRS. JONES present, R. Enter AMANDA, L._

AMANDA. Did you send for me, mamma?

MRS. JONES. Yes. I think it is necessary for us to have a consultation about our affairs.

A. (_surprised_). I thought you were getting along charmingly. I’m sure the house is full of boarders at good prices, and has been ever since we commenced. What more could you wish for?

MRS. J. Everything would be quite satisfactory if the boarders would only pay up promptly. But Mrs. Westwood and Miss Trist are the only ones that I can depend on. The butcher and baker have sent in heavy bills, and this morning I have received grocery and gas bills, as well as bills for extra furniture that was required. Then, too, a month’s rent is due for the piano in the parlor and that in Mr. Scott’s room.

A. Ask Mr. Scott for the money due you for his board.

MRS. J. I have done so repeatedly, but he has such a way of evading it that I can’t get anything. Indeed, sometimes he gets so excited that I am almost frightened, and glad enough to leave him, even without my money.

A. But surely the count has paid you.

MRS. J. Not a cent. I was to send in my bill three days ago, but before I was able to do so he asked for an interview, and said that he had been disappointed about receiving money which he expected, and asked me to wait a week longer. He seemed so sorry about it that I couldn’t help accommodating him.

BRIDGET (_entering, R._). An’ did ye take the silver, mum? I haven’t seen a sight of it since I left it on the table after cl’aning it this morning.

MRS. J. (_surprised_). I haven’t taken it away. Was the front door locked?

B. Yis, I thried that same, an’ it was locked as usual. But jist as I went to look if it was fast, the postman came, an’ brought this letter.

MRS. J. (_opening it hastily, and glancing at signature_). Why, this is from the count. (_Reads._)

“Dear Mrs. Jones: I write to let you know that I have just
received the money I expected, and which I was only able to get
by selling your silver, which I gathered up this morning for
that purpose. As the jeweller said it wasn’t first quality,
I got less than I hoped for, so I sha’n’t be able to settle
my board bill at present. You will find the silver, also your
daughter’s watch and rings, at the shop of Willis and Turner.
Yours,

“COUNT HENRI DE FRIPON.”

A. (_excited_). What! My watch and rings. How could he have got them?

B. Oh, the murtherin villain! An’ didn’t I tell Kate, the cook, that he had too much blarny about him for an honest man?

MRS. J. (_troubled_). What shall we do?

B. Send the perlice after him.

(_Enter MISS TRIST, L._)

MISS T. Oh, my poor head! I can’t stand it any longer.

MRS. J. What’s the matter, Miss Trist?

MISS T. That Mr. Scott, whose room is right opposite mine, is all the time playing on the piano. If it was sacred music I wouldn’t mind; but it’s the quickest kind of dancing tunes.

A. Why don’t you knock at his door and tell him how much it disturbs you? There is no one in the parlor, and he can play there all the afternoon if he wishes.

MISS T. Perhaps I will do so, for I’m afraid I shall go distracted.

(_Exit, L._)

B. An’ I must tell ye, mum, that Katy an’ me’ll be afther lavin’ here intirely, if our month’s wages aint paid by to-morrow.