The Bicyclers and Three Other Farces

Yardsley.  Oh, very.  You see, we’ll put it in the centre of the room.  Just move that table out into the hall, Thaddeus.  (Enter Barlow with tub.)  Ah! now I’ll show you.  (Perkins removes table.)  You see, we put the tub here in the middle of the floor, then we surround it with potted plants.  That conceals the tub, and there’s your fountain.

Perkins.  But the water—how do you get that?

Bradley.  We buy it in bottles, of course, and hire a boy to come in and pour it out every two minutes.  How dull you are, Perkins!  I’m surprised at you.

Perkins.  I’m not over-bright, I must confess, when it comes to building fountains in parlors, with no basis but an English bath-tub to work on.

Yardsley.  Did you ever hear of such a thing as a length of hose with a nozzle on one end and a Croton-water pipe at the other, Thaddeus Perkins?

Mrs. Perkins.  But where is the Croton-water pipe?

Mrs. Bradley.  In the butler’s pantry.  The hose can be carried through the dining-room, across the hall into this room, and it will be dreadfully effective; and so safe, too, in case the curtain catches fire.

Mrs. Perkins.  Oh, Emma!  You don’t think—

Perkins.  Cheerful prospect.  But I say, Yardsley, you have arranged for the water supply; how about its exit?  How does the water get out of the tub?

Yardsley.  It doesn’t, unless you want to bore a hole in the floor, and let it flow into the billiard-room below.  We’ve just got to hustle that scene along, so that the climax will be reached before the tub overflows.

Barlow.  Perhaps we’d better test the thing now.  Maybe my tub isn’t large enough for the scene.  It would be awkward if the heroine had to seize a dipper and bail the fountain out right in the middle of an impassioned rebuke to Hartley.

Perkins.  All right—go ahead.  Test it.  Test anything.  I’ll supply the Croton pipes.

Yardsley.  None of you fellows happen to have a length of hose with you, do you?

Bradley.  I left mine in my other clothes.

Mrs. Bradley.  That’s just like you men.  You grow flippant over very serious matters.  For my part, if I am to play Gwendoline, I shall not bail out the fountain even to save poor dear Bessie’s floor.

Yardsley.  Oh, it’ll be all right.  Only, if you see the fountain getting too full, speak faster.

Barlow.  We might announce a race between the heroine and the fountain.  It would add to the interest of the play.  This is an athletic age.

Perkins.  I suppose it wouldn’t do to turn the water off in case of danger.

Barlow.  It could be done, but it wouldn’t look well.  The audience might think the fountain had had an attack of stage fright.  Where is the entrance from the ballroom to be?

Yardsley.  It ought to be where the fireplace is.  That’s one reason why I think the portières will look well there.

Mrs. Perkins.  But I don’t see how that can be.  Nobody could come in there.  There wouldn’t be room behind for any one to stand, would there?

Bradley.  I don’t know.  That fireplace is large, and only two people have to come in that way.  The rising curtain discloses Gwendoline just having come in.  If Hartley, the villain, and Jack Pendleton, the manly young navy officer, who represents virtue, and dashes in at the right moment to save Gwendoline, could sit close and stand the discomfort of it, they might squeeze in there and await their cues.

Mrs. Perkins.  Sit in the fireplace?

Yardsley.  Yes.  Why not?

Perkins.  Don’t you interfere, Bess, Yardsley is managing this show, and if he wants to keep the soubrette waiting on the mantel-piece it’s his lookout, and not ours.

Yardsley.  By-the-way, Thaddeus, Wilkins has backed out, and you are to play the villain.

Perkins.  I?  Never!

Barlow.  Oh, but you must.  All you have to do is frown and rant and look real bad.

Perkins.  But I can’t act.

Bradley.  That doesn’t make any difference.  We don’t want a villain that the audience will fall in love with.  That would be immoral.  The more you make them despise you, the better.

Perkins.  Well—I positively decline to sit in the fireplace.  I tell you that right now.

Mrs. Bradley.  Don’t waste time talking about petty details.  Let the entrance be there.  We can hang the curtain on a frame two feet out from the wall, so that there will be plenty of room behind for Hartley and Pendleton to stand.  The frame can be fastened to the wood-work of the mantel-piece.  It may take a screw or two to hold it, but they’ll be high up, so nobody will notice the holes in the wood after it comes down.  The point that bothers me is this wall-paper.  People don’t put wall-papers on their conservatories.

Perkins (sarcastically).  I’ll have the room repapered in sheet-glass.  Or we might borrow a few hot-bed covers and hang them from the picture moulding, so that the place would look like a real greenhouse.

Yardsley.  Napoleonic idea.  Barlow, jot down among the properties ten hot-bed covers, twenty picture-hooks, and a coil of wire.  You’re developing, Perkins.

Mrs. Perkins (ruefully, aside).  I wish Thaddeus’s jokes weren’t always taken seriously.  The idea of my drawing-room walls being hung with hot-bed covers!  Why, it’s awful.

Yardsley.  Well, now that that’s settled, we’ll have to dispose of the pictures.  Thaddeus, I wish you’d take down the pictures on the east wall, so that we can put our mind’s eye on just how we shall treat the background.  The mere hanging of hot-bed covers there will not do.  The audience could see directly through the glass, and the wall-paper would still destroy the illusion.

Perkins.  Anything.  Perhaps if you got a jack-plane and planed the walls off it would suffice.

Bradley.  Don’t be sarcastic, my boy.  Remember we didn’t let you into this.  You volunteered.

Perkins.  I know it, Bradley.  The house is yours.

Barlow.  I said you had paresis when you made the offer, Perkins.  If you want to go to law about it, I think you could get an injunction against us—or, rather, Mrs. Perkins could—on the ground that you were non compos at the time.

Mrs. Perkins.  Why, we’re most happy to have you, I’m sure.

Perkins.  So ’m I.  (Aside.)  Heaven forgive me that!

Yardsley.  By-the-way, Thad, there’s one thing I meant to have spoken about as soon as I got here.  Er—is this your house, or do you rent it?

Perkins.  I rent it.  What has that to do with it?

Bradley.  A great deal.  You don’t think we’d treat your house as we would a common landlord’s, do you?  You wouldn’t yourself.

Yardsley.  That’s the point.  If you own the house we want to be careful and consider your feelings.  If you don’t, we don’t care what happens.

Perkins.  I don’t own the house.  (Aside.)  And under the circumstances I’m rather glad I don’t.

Yardsley.  Well, I’m glad you don’t.  My weak point is my conscience, and when it comes to destroying a friend’s property, I don’t exactly like to do it.  But if this house belongs to a sordid person, who built it just to put money in his own pocket, I don’t care.  Barlow, you can nail those portières up.  It won’t be necessary to build a frame for them.  Bradley, carry the chairs and cabinets out.

[Bradley, assisted by Perkins, removes the remaining furniture, placing the bric-à-brac on the floor.

Barlow.  All right.  Where’s that stepladder?  Thaddeus, got any nails?

Mrs. Perkins.  I—I think we’d rather have a frame, Mr. Yardsley.  We can have one made, can’t we, Thaddeus?

Perkins.  Certainly.  We can have anything made.  (Aside.)  I suppose I’d build a theatre for ’em if they asked me to, I’m such a confounded—

Yardsley.  Oh no.  Of course, if you’d prefer it, we’ll send a frame.  I don’t think nails would look well in this ceiling, after all.  Temporarily, though, Barlow, you might hang those portières from the picture-moulding.

Barlow.  There isn’t any.

Yardsley.  Well, then, we’ll have to imagine how it will look.

Mrs. Bradley.  All the bric-à-brac will have to be taken from the room.

Yardsley.  True.  Perkins, you know the house better than we do.  Suppose you take the bric-à-brac out and put it where it will be safe.

Perkins.  Certainly.

[Begins to remove bric-à-brac.

Yardsley.  Now let’s count up.  Here’s the fountain.

Barlow.  Yes; only we haven’t the hose.

Bradley.  Well, make a note of it.

Mrs. Perkins.  Emma, can’t we help Thaddeus?

Mrs. Bradley.  Of course.  I’ll carry out the fender, and you take the andirons.

[They do so.

Yardsley.  The entrance will be here, and here will be the curtain.  How about footlights?

Bradley.  This bracket will do for a connection.  Any plumber can take this bracket off and fasten a rubber pipe to it.

Yardsley.  First-rate.  Barlow, make a note of one plumber, one length of rubber pipe, and foot-lights.

Bradley.  And don’t forget to have potted plants and palms, and so forth, galore.

Barlow.  No.  I’ll make a note of that.  Will this sofa do for a conservatory?

Yardsley.  Jove!  Glad you mentioned that.  Won’t do at all.  Thaddeus! (No answer.)  I hope we haven’t driven him to drink.

Bradley.  So do I.  I’d rather he’d lead us to it.

Yardsley.  Thaddeus!

Perkins (from without).  Well?

Yardsley.  Do you happen to have any conservatory benches in the house?

Mrs. Perkins (appearing in doorway).  We have a patent laundry table.

Barlow.  Just the thing.

Yardsley (calling).  Bring up the patent laundry table, Thaddeus.  (To Bradley.)  What is a patent laundry table?

Bradley.  It’s what my wife calls the cook’s delight.  It’s an ironing-board on wash-days, a supper table at supper-time, and on the cook’s reception days it can be turned into a settee.

Yardsley.  It describes well.

Perkins (from a distance).  Hi! come down and help me with this thing.  I can’t carry it up alone.

Yardsley.  All right, Perk.  Bradley, you and Barlow help Thaddeus.  I’ll move these other chairs and tables out.  It’s getting late, and we’ll have to hustle.

[Exit Barlow.  Bradley meanwhile has been removing pictures from the walls, and, as Yardsley speaks, is standing on the stepladder reaching up for a painting.

Bradley.  What do you take me for—twins?

Yardsley.  Don’t get mad, now, Bradley.  If there’s anything that can add to the terror of amateur theatricals it’s temper.

Mrs. Bradley (from without).  Edward, come here right away.  I want you to move the hat-stand, and see how many people can be seated in this hall.

Bradley.  Oh yes, certainly, my dear—of course.  Right away.  My name is Legion—or Dennis.

Yardsley.  That’s the spirit.  (A crash is heard without.)  Great Scott!  What’s that?

Mrs. Perkins (without).  Oh, Thaddeus!

Bradley.  They’ve dropped the cook’s delight.

[He comes down from the stepladder.  He and Yardsley go out.  The pictures are piled up on the floor, the furniture is topsy-turvy, and the portières lie in a heap on the hearth.

Enter Mrs. Perkins.

Mrs. Perkins.  Dear, dear, dear!  What a mess!  And poor Thaddeus!  I’m glad he wasn’t hurt; but I—I’m afraid I heard him say words I never heard him say before when Mr. Barlow let the table slip.  Wish I hadn’t said anything about the table.

Enter Mrs. Bradley.

Mrs. Bradley.  These men will drive me crazy.  They are making more fuss carrying that laundry table up-stairs than if it were a house; and the worst of it is our husbands are losing their tempers.

Mrs. Perkins.  Well, I don’t wonder.  It must be awfully trying to have a laundry table fall on you.

Mrs. Bradley.  Oh, Thaddeus is angelic, but Edward is absolutely inexcusable.  He swore a minute ago, and it sounded particularly profane because he had a screw and a picture-hook in his mouth.

Yardsley (outside).  It’s almost as heavy as the piano.  I don’t see why, either.

[The four men appear at the door, staggering under the weight of the laundry table.

Perkins (as they set it down).  Whew!  That’s what I call work.  What makes this thing so heavy?

Mrs. Bradley (as she opens a drawer and takes out a half-dozen patent flat-irons and a handle).  This has something to do with it.  Why didn’t you take out the drawer first?

Yardsley.  It wasn’t my fault.  They’d started with it before I took hold.  I didn’t know it had a drawer, though I did wonder what it was that rattled around inside of it.

Bradley.  It wasn’t for me to suggest taking the drawer out.  Thaddeus ought to have thought of that.

Perkins (angrily).  Well, of all—

Mrs. Perkins.  Never mind.  It’s here, and it’s all right.

Yardsley.  That’s so.  We musn’t quarrel.  If we get started, we’ll never stop.  Now, Perkins, roll up that rug, and we’ll get things placed, and then we’ll be through.

Barlow.  Come on; I’ll help.  Bradley, get those pictures off the rug.  Don’t be so careless of Mrs. Perkins’s property.

Bradley.  Careless?  See here now, Barlow—

Mrs. Bradley.  Now, Edward—no temper.  Take the pictures out.

Bradley.  And where shall I take the pictures out to?

Yardsley.  Put ’em on the dining-room table.

Perkins (aside).  Throw ’em out the window, for all I care.

Bradley.  Eh?

Perkins.  Nothing.  I—er—I only said to put ’em—er—to put ’em wherever you pleased.

Bradley.  But I can’t say where they’re to go, Thaddeus.  This isn’t my house.

Perkins (aside).  No—worse luck—it’s mine.

Mrs. Perkins.  Oh—put them in the dining-room; they’ll be safe there.

Bradley.  I will.

[He begins carrying the pictures out.  Perkins, Barlow, and Yardsley roll up the rug.

Yardsley.  There!  You fellows might as well carry that out too; and then we’ll be ready for the scene.

Barlow.  Come along, Thaddeus.  You’re earning your pay to-night.

Perkins (desperately).  May I take my coat off?  I’m boiling.

Mrs. Bradley.  Certainly.  I wonder you didn’t think of it before.

Perkins.  Think?  I never think.

Yardsley.  Well, go ahead in your thoughtless way and get the rug out.  You are delaying us.

Perkins.  All right.  Come on.  Barlow, are you ready?

Barlow.  I am.  [They drag the rug out.

Yardsley.  At last.  (Replaces the tub.)  There’s the fountain.  Now where shall we put the cook’s delight?

Mrs. Perkins.  Over here, I should say.

Mrs. Bradley.  I think it would be better here.

Bradley (who has returned).  Put it half-way between ’em, Yardsley.  I say give in always to the ladies; and when they don’t agree, compromise.  It’s a mighty poor woman that isn’t half right occasionally.

Mrs. Bradley.  Edward!

Yardsley (adopting the suggestion).  There!  How’s that?

Perkins (returning).  Perfect.  I never saw such an original conservatory in my life.

Mrs. Perkins.  I suppose it’s all right.  What do you think, Emma?

Mrs. Bradley.  Why, it’s simply fine.  Of course it requires a little imagination to see it as it will be on the night of the performance; but in general I don’t see how it could be better.

Barlow.  No—nor I.  It’s great as it is, but when we get the hot-bed covers hung, and the fountain playing, and plants arranged gracefully all around, it will be ideal.  I say we ought to give Yardsley a vote of thanks.

Perkins.  That’s so.  We’re very much indebted to Yardsley.

Yardsley.  Never mind that.  I enjoy the work very much.

Perkins.  So glad.  (Aside.)  I wonder when we get a vote of thanks?

Bradley (looking at his watch).  By Jove, Emma, it’s after eleven!

Mrs. Bradley.  After eleven?  Dear me!  I had no idea it was as late as that.  How time flies when you are enjoying yourself!  Really, Edward, you ought not to have overlooked the time.  You know—

Bradley.  I supposed you knew we couldn’t pull a house down in five minutes.

Perkins.  What’s become of the clock?

Mrs. Perkins.  I don’t know.  Who took the clock out?

Barlow.  I did.  It’s under the dining-room table.

Mrs. Bradley.  Well, we mustn’t keep Bessie up another moment.  Good-night, my dear.  We have had a delightful time.

Mrs. Perkins.  Good-night.  I am sure we have enjoyed it.

Perkins (aside).  Oh yes, indeed; we haven’t had so much fun since the children had the mumps.

Yardsley.  Well, so-long, Perkins.  Thanks for your help.

Perkins.  By-by.

Barlow.  Good-night.

Yardsley.  Don’t bother about fixing up to-night, Perkins.  I’ll be around to-morrow evening and help put things in order again.

[They all go out.  The good-nights are repeated, and finally the front door is closed.

Re-enter Perkins, who falls dejectedly on the settee, followed by Mrs. Perkins, who gives a rueful glance at the room.

Perkins.  I’m glad Yardsley’s coming to fix us up again.  I never could do it.

Mrs. Perkins.  Then I must.  I can’t ask Jennie to do it, she’d discharge us at once, and I can’t have my drawing-room left this way over Sunday.

Perkins (wearily).  Oh, well, shall we do it now?

Mrs. Perkins.  No, you poor dear man; we’ll stay home from church to-morrow morning and do it.  It won’t be any harder work than reading the Sunday newspapers.  What have you there?

Perkins (looking at two tickets he has abstracted from his vest-pocket).  Tickets for Irving—this evening—Lyons Mail—third row from the stage.  I was just thinking—

Mrs. Perkins.  Don’t tell me what you were thinking, my dear.  It can’t be expressible in polite language.

Perkins.  You are wrong there, my dear.  I wasn’t thinking cuss-words at all.  I was only reflecting that we didn’t miss much anyhow, under the circumstances.

Mrs. Perkins.  Miss much?  Why, Thaddeus, what do you mean?

Perkins.  Nothing—only that for action continuous and situations overpowering The Lyons Mail isn’t a marker to an evening of preparation for Amateur Dramatics.

Enter Jennie.

Jennie.  Excuse me, mim, but the coachman says shall he wait any longer?  He’s been there three hours now.

[CURTAIN]

THE FATAL MESSAGE

CHARACTERS:

MR. THADDEUS PERKINS, in charge of the curtain.

MRS. THADDEUS PERKINS, cast for Lady Ellen.

MISS ANDREWS, cast for the maid.

MR. EDWARD BRADLEY, an under-study.

MRS. EDWARD BRADLEY, cast for Lady Amaranth.

MR. ROBERT YARDSLEY, stage-manager.

MR. JACK BARLOW, cast for Fenderson Featherhead.

MR. CHESTER HENDERSON, an absentee.

JENNIE, a professional waitress.

The scene is laid in the library of the Perkins mansion, on the afternoon of the day upon which an amateur dramatic performance is to be held therein.  The Perkins house has been given over to the dramatic association having the matter in charge.  At right of library a scenic doorway is hung.  At left a drop-curtain is arranged, behind which is the middle hall of the Perkins dwelling, where the expected audience are to sit.  The unoccupied wall spaces are hung with paper-muslin.  The apartment is fitted up generally to resemble an English drawing-room; table and chair at centre.  At rear stands a painted-canvas conservatory entrance, on left of which is a long oaken chest.  The curtain rising discovers Mrs. Perkins giving a few finishing touches to the scene, with Mr. Perkins gazing curiously about the room.

Perkins.  Well, they’ve transformed this library into a scene of bewitching beauty—haven’t they?  These paper-muslin walls are a dream of loveliness.  I suppose, as the possessor of all this, I ought to be supremely happy—only I wish that canvas conservatory door hadn’t been tacked over my reference-books.  I want to look up some points about—

Mrs. Perkins.  Oh, never mind your books, Thaddeus; it’s only for one night.  Can’t you take a minute’s rest?

Perkins.  One night?  I like that.  It’s been there two already, and it’s in for to-night, and all day to-morrow, I suppose.  It’ll take all day to-morrow to clean up, I’ll wager a hat.  I’m beginning to rue the hour I ever allowed the house of Perkins to be lured into the drama.

Mrs. Perkins.  You’re better off than I am.  I’ve got to take part, and I don’t half know my lines.

Perkins.  I?  I better off?  I’d like to know if I haven’t got to sit out in front and watch you people fulfil your diabolical mission in your doubly diabolical way, and grin at the fearful jokes in the dialogue I’ve been listening to for weeks, and make the audience feel that they are welcome when they’re not.  What’s been done with my desk?

Mrs. Perkins.  It’s down in the laundry.  You’re about as—

Perkins.  Oh, is it?  Laundry is a nice place for a desk.  Plenty of starch handy to stiffen up a writer’s nerve, and scrubbing-boards galore to polish up his wits.  And I suppose my papers are up in the attic?

Mrs. Perkins.  No; they’re stowed away safely in the nursery.  Now please don’t complain!

Perkins.  Me?  Complain?  I never complain.  I didn’t say a word when Yardsley had my Cruikshanks torn from their shelves and chucked into a clothes-basket and carried into the butler’s pantry, did I?  Did I say as much as one little word?  I wanted to say one little word, I admit, but I didn’t.  Did I?  If I did, I withdraw it.  I’m fond of this sort of thing.  The greatest joy in life is to be found in arranging and rearranging a library, and I seem to be in for joy enough to kill.  What time are the—these amateur Thespians coming?

Mrs. Perkins (looking at her watch).  They’re due now; it’s half-past four.  (Sits down and opens play-book.  Rehearses.)  No, not for all the world would I do this thing, Lord Muddleton.  There is no need to ask it of me.  I am firm.  I shall—

Perkins, Oh, let up, my dear!  I’ve been getting that for breakfast, dinner, and tea for two weeks now, and I’m awfully tired of it.  When I asked for a second cup of coffee at breakfast Sunday, you retorted, “No, not for all the world would I do this thing, Lord Muddleton!”  When I asked you where my dress ties were, you informed me that it was “what baseness,” or words to that effect; and so on, until I hardly know where I am at.  (Catches sight of the chest.)  Hello!  How did that happen to escape the general devastation?  What are you going to do with that oak chest?