The Bicyclers and Three Other Farces

A DRAMATIC EVENING

CHARACTERS:

MR. THADDEUS PERKINS, a victim.

MR. EDWARD BRADLEY, a friend in disguise.

MR. ROBERT YARDSLEY, an amiable villain.

MR. JOHN BARLOW, the amiable villain’s assistant.

MRS. THADDEUS PERKINS, a martyr.

MRS. EDWARD BRADLEY, a woman of executive ability.

JENNIE, a housemaid.

The scene is placed in the drawing-room of Mr. and Mrs. Thaddeus Perkins, of New York.  The time is a Saturday evening in the early spring, and the hour is approaching eight.  The curtain, rising, discovers Perkins, in evening dress, reading a newspaper by the light of a lamp on the table.  Mrs. Perkins is seated on the other side of the table, buttoning her gloves.  Her wrap is on a chair near at hand.  The room is gracefully over-furnished.

Mrs. Perkins.  Where are the seats, Thaddeus?

Perkins.  Third row; and, by Jove!  Bess (looking at his watch), we must hurry.  It is getting on towards eight now.  The curtain rises at 8.15.

Mrs. Perkins.  The carriage hasn’t come yet.  It isn’t more than a ten minutes’ drive to the theatre.

Perkins.  That’s true, but there are so many carriage-folk going to see Irving that if we don’t start early we’ll find ourselves on the end of the line, and the first act will be half over before we can reach our seats.

Mrs. Perkins.  I’m so glad we’ve got good seats—down near the front.  I despise opera-glasses, and seats under the galleries are so oppressive.

Perkins.  Well, I don’t know.  For The Lyons Mail I think a seat in the front row of the top gallery, where you can cheer virtue and hiss villany without making yourself conspicuous, is the best.

Mrs. Perkins.  You don’t mean to say that you’d like to sit up with those odious gallery gods?

Perkins.  For a melodrama, I do.  What’s the use of clapping your gloved hands together at a melodrama?  That doesn’t express your feelings.  I always want to put two fingers in my mouth and pierce the atmosphere with a regular gallery-god whistle when I see the villain laid low by the tow-headed idiot in the last act—but it wouldn’t do in the orchestra.  You might as well expect the people in the boxes to eat peanuts as expect an orchestra-chair patron to whistle on his fingers.

Mrs. Perkins.  I should die of mortification if you ever should do such a vulgar thing, Thaddeus.

Perkins.  Then you needn’t be afraid, my dear.  I’m too fond of you to sacrifice you to my love for whistling.  (The front-door bell rings.)  Ah, there is the carriage at last.  I’ll go and get my coat.

[Mrs. Perkins rises, and is about to don her wrap as Mr. Perkins goes towards the door.

Enter Mr. and Mrs. Bradley.  Perkins staggers backward in surprise.  Mrs. Perkins lets her wrap fall to the floor, an expression of dismay on her face.

Mrs. Perkins (aside).  Dear me!  I’d forgotten all about it.  This is the night the club is to meet here!

Bradley.  Ah, Perkins, how d’ y’ do?  Glad to see me?  Gad! you don’t look it.

Perkins.  Glad is a word which scarcely expresses my feelings, Bradley.  I—I’m simply de-lighted.  (Aside to Mrs. Perkins, who has been greeting Mrs. Bradley.)  Here’s a kettle of fish.  We must get rid of them, or we’ll miss The Lyons Mail.

Mrs. Bradley.  You two are always so formal.  The idea of your putting on your dress suit, Thaddeus!  It’ll be ruined before we are half through this evening.

Bradley.  Certainly, Perkins.  Why, man, when you’ve been moving furniture and taking up carpets and ripping out fireplaces for an hour or two that coat of yours will be a rag—a veritable rag that the ragman himself would be dubious about buying.

Perkins (aside).  Are these folk crazy?  Or am I?  (Aloud.)  Pulling up fireplaces?  Moving out furniture?  Am I to be dispossessed?

Mrs. Bradley.  Not by your landlord, but you know what amateur dramatics are.

Bradley.  I doubt it.  He wouldn’t have let us have ’em here if he had known.

Perkins.  Amateur—amateur dramatics?

Mrs. Perkins.  Certainly, Thaddeus.  You know we offered our parlor for the performance.  The audience are to sit out in the hall.

Perkins.  Oh—ah!  Why, of course!  Certainly!  It had slipped my mind; and—ah—what else?

Bradley.  Why, we’re here to-night to arrange the scene.  Don’t tell us you didn’t know it.  Bob Yardsley’s coming, and Barlow.  Yardsley’s a great man for amateur dramatics; he bosses things so pleasantly that you don’t know you’re being ordered about like a slave.  I believe he could persuade a man to hammer nails into his piano-case if he wanted it done, he’s so insinuatingly lovely about it all.

Perkins (absently).  I’ll get a hammer.  [Exit.

Mrs. Perkins (aside).  I must explain to Thaddeus.  He’ll never forgive me.  (Aloud.)  Thaddeus is so forgetful that I don’t believe he can find that hammer, so if you’ll excuse me I’ll go help him.  [Exit.

Bradley.  Wonder what’s up?  They don’t quarrel, do they?

Mrs. Bradley.  I don’t believe any one could quarrel with Bessie Perkins—not even a man.

Bradley.  Well, they’re queer.  Acted as if they weren’t glad to see us.

Mrs. Bradley.  Oh, that’s all your imagination.  (Looks about the room.)  That table will have to be taken out, and all these chairs and cabinets; and the rug will never do.

Bradley.  Why not?  I think the rug will look first-rate.

Mrs. Bradley.  A rug like that in a conservatory?  [A ring at the front-door bell is heard.

Bradley.  Ah! maybe that’s Yardsley.  I hope so.  If Perkins and his wife are out of sorts we want to hurry up and get through.

Mrs. Bradley.  Oh, we’ll be through by twelve o’clock.

Enter Yardsley and Barlow.

Yardsley.  Ah! here we are at last.  The wreckers have arrove.  Where’s Perkins?

Barlow.  Taken to the woods, I fancy.  I say, Bob, don’t you think before we begin we’d better give Perkins ether?  He’ll suffer dreadful agony.

Enter Mrs. Perkins, wiping her eyes.

Mrs. Perkins.  How do you do, Mr. Barlow? and you, Mr. Yardsley?  So glad to see you.  Thaddeus will be down in a minute.  He—ah—he forgot about the—the meeting here to-night, and he—he put on his dress-coat.

Yardsley.  Bad thing to lift a piano in.  Better be without any coat.  But I say we begin—eh?  If you don’t mind, Mrs. Perkins.  We’ve got a great deal to do, and unfortunately hours are limited in length as well as in number.  Ah! that fireplace must be covered up.  Wouldn’t do to have a fireplace in a conservatory.  Wilt all the flowers in ten minutes.

Mrs. Perkins (meekly).  You needn’t have the fire lit, need you?

Barlow.  No—but—a fireplace without fire in it seems sort of—of bald, don’t you think?

Yardsley.  Bald?  Splendid word applied to a fireplace.  So few fireplaces have hair.

Mrs. Bradley.  Oh, it could be covered up without any trouble, Bessie.  Can’t we have those dining-room portières to hang in front of it?

Yardsley.  Just the thing.  Dining-room portières always look well, whether they’re in a conservatory or a street scene.  (Enter Perkins.)  Hello, Thaddeus!  How d’ y’?  Got your overalls on?

Perkins (trying to appear serene).  Yes.  I’m ready for anything.  Anything I can do?

Bradley.  Yes—look pleasant.  You look as if you were going to have your picture taken, or a tooth pulled.  Haven’t you a smile you don’t need that you can give us?  This isn’t a funeral.

Perkins (assuming a grin).  How’ll that do?

Barlow.  First-rate.  We’ll have to make you act next.  That’s the most villanous grin I ever saw.

Yardsley.  I’ll write a tragedy to go with it.  But I say, Thad, we want those dining-room portières of yours.  Get ’em down for us, will you?

Perkins.  Dining-room portières!  What for?

Mrs. Perkins.  They all think the fireplace would better be hid, Thaddeus, dear.  It wouldn’t look well in a conservatory.

Perkins.  I suppose not.  And the dining-room portières are wanted to cover up the fireplace?

Yardsley.  Precisely.  You have a managerial brain, Thaddeus.  You can see at once what a dining-room portière is good for.  If ever I am cast away on a desert island, with nothing but a dining-room portière for solace, I hope you’ll be along to take charge of it.  In your hands its possibilities are absolutely unlimited.  Get them for us, old man; and while you are about it, bring a stepladder.  (Exit Perkins, dejectedly.)  Now, Barlow, you and Bradley help me with this piano.  Pianos may do well enough in gardens or pirates’ caves, but for conservatories they’re not worth a rap.

Mrs. Bradley.  Wait a moment.  We must take the bric-à-brac from the top of it before you touch it.  If there are two incompatible things in this world, they are men and bric-à-brac.

Mrs. Perkins.  You are so thoughtful, though I am sure that Mr. Yardsley would not break anything willingly.

Barlow.  Nothing but the ten commandments.

Yardsley.  They aren’t bric-à-brac; and I thank you, Mrs. Perkins, for your expression of confidence.  I wouldn’t intentionally go into the house of another man and toss his Sevres up in the air, or throw his Royal Worcester down-stairs, except under very great provocation.  (Mrs. Perkins and Mrs. Bradley have by this time removed the bric-à-brac from the piano—an upright.)  Now, boys, are you ready?

Bradley.  Where is it to be moved to?

Yardsley.  Where would you prefer to have it, Mrs. Perkins?

Mrs. Perkins.  Oh, I have no preference in the matter.  Put it where you please.

Yardsley.  Suppose you carry it up into the attic, Barlow.

Barlow.  Certainly.  I’ll be glad to if you’ll carry the soft pedal.  I’m always afraid when I’m carrying pianos up-stairs of breaking the soft pedal or dropping a few octaves.

Yardsley.  I guess we’d better put it over in this corner, where the audience won’t see it.  If you are so careless that you can’t move a piano without losing its tone, we’d better not have it moved too far.  Now, then.

[Barlow, Yardsley, and Bradley endeavor to push the piano over the floor, but it doesn’t move.

Enter Perkins with two portières wrapped about him, and hugging a small stepladder in his arms.

Bradley.  Hurry up, Perkins.  Don’t shirk so.  Can’t you see that we’re trying to get this piano across the floor?  Where are you at?

Perkins (meekly).  I’m trying to make myself at home.  Do you expect me to hang on to these things and move pianos at the same time?

Barlow.  Let him alone, Bradley.  He’s doing the best he knows.  I always say give a man credit for doing what he can, whether he is intelligent or not.  Of course we don’t expect you to hang on to the portières and the stepladder while you are pushing the piano, Thad.  That’s too much to expect of any man of your size; some men might do it, but not all.  Drop the portières.

Perkins.  Where’ll I put ’em?

Yardsley.  Put them on the stepladder.

Perkins (impatiently).  And where shall I put the stepladder—on the piano?

Mrs. Perkins (coming to the rescue).  I’ll take care of these things, Thaddeus, dear.

Bradley.  That’s right; put everything off on your wife.  What shirks some men are!

Yardsley.  Now, then, Perkins, lend us your shoulder, and—one, two, three—push!  Ah!  She starts; she moves; she seems to feel the thrill of life along her keel.  We must have gained an inch.  Once more, now.  My, but this is a heavy piano!

Bradley.  Must be full of Wagnerian music.  Why don’t you get a piano of lighter quality, Perkins?  This isn’t any kind of an instrument for amateur stage-hands to manage.

Perkins.  I’ll know better next time.  But is it where you want it now?

Yardsley.  Not a bit of it.  We need one more push.  Get her rolling, and keep her rolling until she stands over there in that corner; and be careful to stop her in time, I should hate to push a piano through one of my host’s parlor walls just for the want of a little care.  (They push until the piano stands against the wall on the other side of the room, keyboard in.)  There!  That’s first-rate.  You can put a camp-chair on top of it for the prompter to sit on; there’s nothing like having the prompter up high, because amateur actors when they forget their lines, always look up in the air.  Perkins, go sit out in the hall and imagine yourself an enthusiastic audience—will you?—and tell us if you can see the piano.  If you can see it, we’ll have to put it somewhere else.

Perkins.  Do you mean it?

Mrs. Bradley.  Of course he doesn’t, Mr. Perkins.  It’s impossible to see it from the hall.  Now, I think the rug ought to come up.

Mrs. Perkins.  Dear me! what for?

Yardsley.  Oh, it wouldn’t do at all to have that rug in the conservatory, Mrs. Perkins.  Besides, I should be afraid it would be spoiled.

Perkins.  Spoiled?  What would spoil it?  Are you going to wear spiked shoes?

Barlow.  Spiked shoes?  Thaddeus, really you ought to have your mind examined.  This scene is supposed to be just off the ballroom, and it is here that Gwendoline comes during the lanciers and encounters Hartley, the villain.  Do you suppose that even a villain in an amateur show would go to a ball with spiked shoes on?

Perkins (wearily).  But I still fail to see what is to spoil the rug.  Does the villain set fire to the conservatory in this play, or does he assassinate the virtuous hero here and spill his gore on the floor?

Bradley.  What a blood-and-thunder idea of the drama you have!  Of course he doesn’t.  There isn’t a death in the whole play, and it’s two hours long.  One or two people in the audience may die while the play is going on, but people who haven’t strong constitutions shouldn’t attend amateur shows.

Mrs. Perkins.  That’s true, I fancy.

Mrs. Bradley.  Very.  It would be very rude for one of your invited guests to cast a gloom over your evening by dying.

Yardsley.  It is seldom done among people who know what is what.  But to explain the point you want explained, Thaddeus: the rug might be spoiled by a leak in the fountain.

Mrs. Perkins.  The fountain?

Perkins.  You don’t mean to say you’re going to have a fountain playing here?

Bradley.  Certainly.  A conservatory without a fountain would be like “Hamlet” with Yorick’s skull left out.  There’s to be a fountain playing here, and a band playing in the next room—all in a green light, too.  It’ll be highly effective.

Perkins.  But how—how are you going to make the fountain go?  Is it to spurt real water?

Yardsley.  Of course.  Did you ever see a fountain spurt sawdust or lemonade?  It’s not a soda-water fountain either, but a straight temperance affair, such as you’ll find in the homes of all truly good people.  Now don’t get excited and raise obstacles.  The thing is simple enough if you know how to do it.  Got one of those English bath-tubs in the house?

Perkins.  No.  But, of course, if you want a bath-tub, I’ll have a regular porcelain one with running water, hot and cold, put in—two of ’em, if you wish.  Anything to oblige.

Yardsley.  No; stationary bath-tubs are useful, but not exactly adapted to a conservatory.

Barlow.  I brought my tub with me.  I knew Perkins hadn’t one, and so I thought I’d better come provided.  It’s out in the hall.  I’ll get it.  [Exit.

Mrs. Bradley (to Mrs. Perkins).  He’s just splendid! never forgets anything.

Mrs. Perkins.  I should say not.  But, Mr. Yardsley, a bath-tub, even an English one, will not look very well, will it?