The Bicyclers and Three Other Farces

Yardsley.  Don’t mention it, I pray.  The unexpectedness is wholly mine, Miss Andrews—I mean—ah—the pleasure is—

Barlow.  Wholly mine.

Dorothy (withdrawing her hands from both and sitting down).  I haven’t seen either of you since the Perkinses dance.  Wasn’t it a charming affair?

Yardsley.  Delightful.  I—ah—I didn’t know that the Perkinses—

Barlow (interrupting).  It was a good deal of a crush, though.  As Mrs. Van Darling said to me, “You always meet—”

Yardsley.  It’s a pity Perkins isn’t more of a society man, though, don’t you think?

Dorothy.  O, I don’t know.  I’ve always found him very pleasant.  He is so sincere.

Barlow.  Isn’t he, though?  He looked bored to death all through the dance.

Yardsley.  I thought so too.  I was watching him while you were talking to him, Barlow, and such a look of ennui I never saw on a man’s face.

Barlow.  Humph!

Dorothy.  Are you going to Mrs. Van Darling’s dinner?

Barlow.  Yes; I received my bid last night.  You?

Dorothy.  Oh yes!

Yardsley (gloomily).  I can’t go very well.  I’m—ah—engaged for Tuesday.

Barlow.  Well, I hope you’ve let Mrs. Van Darling know.  She’s a stickler for promptness in accepting or declining her invitations.  If you haven’t, I’ll tell her for you.  I’m to see her to-night.

Yardsley.  Oh no!  Never mind.  I’ll—I’ll attend to it.

Barlow.  Oh, of course.  But it’s just as well she should know in advance.  You might forget it, you know.  I’ll tell her; it’s no trouble to me.

Dorothy.  Of course not, and she can get some one to take your place.

Yardsley (desperately).  Oh, don’t say anything about it.  Fact is, she—ah—she hasn’t invited me.

Barlow.  Ah!  (Aside.)  I knew that all along.  Oh, but I’m clever!

Dorothy (hastily, to relieve Yardsley’s embarrassment).  Have you seen Irving, Mr. Yardsley?

Yardsley.  Yes.

Barlow (suspiciously).  What in?  I haven’t seen you at any of the first nights.

Yardsley (with a grin).  In the grill-room at the Players.

Barlow (aside).  Bah!

Dorothy (laughing).  You are so bright, Mr. Yardsley.

Barlow (forcing a laugh).  Ha, ha, ha!  Why, yes—very clever that.  It ought to have a Gibson picture over it, that joke.  It would help it.  Those Gibson pictures are fine, I think.  Carry any kind of joke, eh?

Yardsley.  Yes, they frequently do.

Dorothy.  I’m so glad you both like Gibson, for I just dote on him.  I have one of his originals in my portfolio.  I’ll get it if you’d like to see it.

[She rises and goes to the corner of the room, where there stands a portfolio-case.

Yardsley (aside).  What a bore Barlow is!  Hang him!  I must get rid of him somehow.

[Barlow meanwhile is assisting Dorothy.

Yardsley (looking around at the others).  Jove! he’s off in the corner with her.  Can’t allow that, for the fact is Barlow’s just a bit dangerous—to me.

Dorothy (rummaging through portfolio).  Why, it was here—

Barlow.  Maybe it’s in this other portfolio.

Yardsley (joining them).  Yes, maybe it is.  That’s a good idea.  If it isn’t in one portfolio maybe it’s in another.  Clever thought!  I may be bright, Miss Andrews, but you must have observed that Barlow is thoughtful.

Dorothy (with a glance at Barlow).  Yes, Mr. Yardsley, I have noticed the latter.

Barlow.  Tee-hee! that’s one on you, Bob.

Yardsley (obtuse).  Ha, ha!  Yes.  Why, of course!  Ha, ha, ha!  For repartee I have always said-polite repartee, of course—Miss Andrews is—(Aside.)  Now what the dickens did she mean by that?

Dorothy.  I can’t find it here.  Let—me think.  Where—can—it—be?

Barlow (striking thoughtful attitude).  Yes, where can it be?  Let me do your thinking for you, Miss Dorothy.  (Then softly to her.)  Always!

Yardsley (mocking Barlow).  Yes!  Let me think!  (Points his finger at his forehead and assumes tragic attitude.  Then stalks to the front of stage in manner of burlesque Hamlet.)  Come, thought, come.  Shed the glory of thy greatness full on me, and thus confound mine enemies.  Where the deuce is that Gibson?

Dorothy.  Oh, I remember.  It’s up-stairs.  I took it up with me last night.  I’ll ring for Jennie, and have her get it.

Yardsley (aside, and in consternation).  Jennie!  Oh, thunder!  I’d forgotten her.  I do hope she remembers not to forget herself.

Barlow.  What say?

Yardsley.  Nothing; only—ah—only that I thought it was very—very pleasant out.

Barlow.  That’s what you said before.

Yardsley (indignantly).  Well, what of it?  It’s the truth.  If you don’t believe it, go outside and see for yourself.

[Jennie appears at the door in response to Dorothy’s ring.  She glances demurely at Yardsley, who tries to ignore her presence.

Dorothy.  Jennie, go up to my room and look on the table in the corner, and bring me down the portfolio you will find there.  The large brown one that belongs in the stand over there.

Jennie (dazed).  Yessum.  And shall I be bringin’ lemons with it?

Dorothy.  Lemons, Jennie?

Jennie.  You always does have lemons with your tea, mum.

Dorothy.  I didn’t mention tea.  I want you to get my portfolio from up-stairs.  It is on the table in the corner of my room.

[Looks at Jennie in surprise.

Jennie.  Oh, excuse me, mum.  I didn’t hear straight.

[She casts a languishing glance at Yardsley and disappears.

Yardsley (noting the glance, presumably aside).  Confound that Jennie!

Barlow (overhearing Yardsley).  What’s that?  Confound that Jennie?  Why say confound that Jennie?  Why do you wish Jennie to be confounded?

Yardsley (nervously).  I didn’t say that.  I—ah—I merely said that—that Jennie appeared to be—ah—confounded.

Dorothy.  She certainly is confused.  I cannot understand it at all.  Ordinarily I have rather envied Jennie her composure.

Yardsley.  Oh, I suppose—it’s—it’s—it’s natural for a young girl—a servant—sometimes to lose her—equipoise, as it were, on occasions.  If we lose ours at times, why not Jennie?  Eh?  Huh?

Barlow.  Certainly.

Yardsley.  Of course—ha—trained servants are hard to get these days, anyhow.  Educated people—ah—go into other professions, such as law, and—ah—the ministry—and—

Dorothy.  Well, never mind.  Let’s talk of something more interesting than Jennie.  Going to the Chrysanthemum Show, Mr. Barlow?

Barlow.  I am; wouldn’t miss it for the world.  Do you know, really now, the chrysanthemum, in my opinion, is the most human-looking flower we have.  The rose is too beautiful, too perfect, for me.  The chrysanthemum, on the other hand—

Yardsley (interrupting).  Looks so like a football-player’s head it appeals to your sympathies?  Well, perhaps you are right.  I never thought of it in that light before, but—

Dorothy (smiling).  Nor I; but now that you mention it, it does look that way, doesn’t it?

Barlow (not wishing to disagree with Dorothy).  Very much.  Droll idea, though.  Just like Bob, eh?  Very, very droll.  Bob’s always dro—

Yardsley (interrupting).  When I see a man walking down the Avenue with a chrysanthemum in his button-hole, I always think of a wild Indian wearing a scalp for decorative purposes.

[Barlow and Dorothy laugh at this, and during their mirth Jennie enters with the portfolio.  She hands it to Dorothy.  Dorothy rests it on the arm of her chair, and Barlow looking over one shoulder, she goes through it.  Jennie in passing out throws another kiss to Yardsley.

Yardsley (under his breath, stamping his foot).  Awgh!

Barlow.  What say?

[Dorothy looks up, surprised.

Yardsley.  I—I didn’t say anything.  My—ah—my shoe had a piece of—ah—

Barlow.  Oh, say lint, and be done with it.

Yardsley (relieved, and thankful for the suggestion).  Why, how did you know?  It did, you know.  Had a piece of lint on it, and I tried to get it off by stamping, that’s all.

Dorothy.  Ah, here it is.

Yardsley.  What?  The lint?

Barlow.  Ho!  Is the world nothing but lint to you?  Of course not—the Gibson.  Charming, isn’t it, Miss Dorothy?

Dorothy (holding the picture up).  Fine.  Just look at that girl.  Isn’t she pretty?

Barlow.  Very.

Dorothy.  And such style, too.

Yardsley (looking over Dorothy’s other shoulder).  Yes, very pretty, and lots of style.  (Softly.)  Very—like some one—some one I know.

Barlow (overhearing).  I think so myself, Yardsley.  It’s exactly like Josie Wilkins.  By-the-way—ah—how is that little affair coming along, Bob?

Dorothy (interested).  What!  You don’t mean to say—Why, Mister Yardsley!

Yardsley (with a venomous glance at Barlow).  Nonsense.  Nothing in it.  Mere invention of Barlow’s.  He’s a regular Edison in his own way.

[Dorothy looks inquiringly at Barlow.

Barlow (to Yardsley).  Oh, don’t be so sly about it, old fellow!  Everybody knows.

Yardsley.  But I tell you there’s nothing in it.  I—I have different ideas entirely, and you—you know it—or, if you don’t, you will shortly.

Dorothy.  Oh!  Then it’s some one else, Mr. Yardsley?  Well, now I am interested’.  Let’s have a little confidential talk together.  Tell us, Mr. Yardsley, tell Mr. Barlow and me, and maybe—I can’t say for certain, of course—but maybe we can help you.

Barlow (gleefully rubbing his hands).  Yes, old man; certainly.  Maybe we—we can help you.

Yardsley (desperately).  You can help me, both of you—but—but I can’t very well tell you how.

Barlow.  I’m willing to do all I can for you, my dear Bob.  If you will only tell us her name I’ll even go so far as to call, in your behalf, and propose for you.

Yardsley.  Oh, thanks.  You are very kind.

Dorothy.  I think so too, Mr. Barlow.  You are almost too kind, it seems to me.

Yardsley.  Oh no; not too kind, Miss Andrews.  Barlow simply realizes that one who has proposed marriage to young girls as frequently as he has knows how the thing is done, and he wishes to give me the benefit of his experience.  (Aside.)  That’s a facer for Barlow.

Barlow.  Ha, ha, ha!  Another joke, I suppose.  You see, my dear Bob, that I am duly appreciative.  I laugh.  Ha, ha, ha!  But I must say I laugh with some uncertainty.  I don’t know whether you intended that for a joke or for a staggerer.  You should provide your conversation with a series of printed instructions for the listener.  Get a lot of cards, and have printed on one, “Please laugh”; on another, “Please stagger”; on another, “Kindly appear confused.”  Then when you mean to be jocose hand over the laughter card, and so on.  Shall I stagger?

Dorothy.  I think that Mr. Yardsley meant that for a joke.  Didn’t you, Mr. Yardsley?

Yardsley.  Why, certainly.  Of course.  I don’t really believe Barlow ever had sand enough to propose to any one.  Did you, Jack?

Barlow (indignant).  Well, I rather think I have.

Dorothy.  Ho, ho!  Then you are an experienced proposer, Mr. Barlow?

Barlow (confused).  Why—er—well—um—I didn’t exactly mean that, you know.  I meant that—ah—if it ever came to the—er—the test, I think I could—I’d have sand enough, as Yardsley puts it, to do the thing properly, and without making a—ah—a Yardsley of myself.

Yardsley (bristling up).  Now what do you mean by that?

Dorothy.  I think you are both of you horrid this afternoon.  You are so quarrelsome.  Do you two always quarrel, or is this merely a little afternoon’s diversion got up for my especial benefit?

Barlow (with dignity).  I never quarrel.

Yardsley.  Nor I.  I simply differ sometimes, that’s all.  I never had an unpleasant word with Jack in my life.  Did I, Jack?

Barlow.  Never.  I always avoid a fracas, however great the provocation.

Dorothy (desperately).  Then let us have a cup of tea together and be more sociable.  I have always noticed that tea promotes sociability—haven’t you, Mr. Yardsley?

Yardsley.  Always.  (Aside.)  Among women.

Barlow.  What say?

[Dorothy rises and rings the bell for Jennie.

Yardsley.  I say that I am very fond of tea.

Barlow.  So am I—here.  [Rises and looks at pictures.  Yardsley meanwhile sits in moody silence.

Dorothy (returning).  You seem to have something on your mind, Mr. Yardsley.  I never knew you to be so solemn before.

Yardsley.  I have something on my mind, Miss Dorothy.  It’s—

Barlow (coming forward).  Wise man, cold weather like this.  It would be terrible if you let your mind go out in cold weather without anything on it.  Might catch cold in your idea.

Dorothy.  I wonder why Jennie doesn’t come?  I shall have to ring again.

[Pushes electric button again.

Yardsley (with an effort at brilliance).  The kitchen belle doesn’t seem to work.

Dorothy.  Ordinarily she does, but she seems to be upset by something this afternoon.  I’m afraid she’s in love.  If you will excuse me a moment I will go and prepare the tea myself.

Barlow.  Do; good!  Then we shall not need the sugar.

Yardsley.  You might omit the spoons too, after a remark like that, Miss Dorothy.

Dorothy.  We’ll omit Mr. Barlow’s spoon.  I’ll bring some for you and me.  [She goes out.

Yardsley (with a laugh).  That’s one on you, Barlow.  But I say, old man (taking out his watch and snapping the cover to three or four times), it’s getting very late—after five now.  If you want to go with Billy Wilkins you’d better take up your hat and walk.  I’ll say good-bye to Miss Andrews for you.

Barlow.  Thanks.  Too late now.  You said Billie wouldn’t wait after four thirty.

Yardsley.  Did I say four thirty?  I meant five thirty.  Anyhow, Billie isn’t over-prompt.  Better go.

Barlow.  You seem mighty anxious to get rid of me.

Yardsley.  I?  Not at all, my dear boy—not at all.  I’m very, very fond of you, but I thought you’d prefer opera to me.  Don’t you see?  That’s where my modesty comes in.  You’re so fond of a good chat I thought you’d want to go to-night.  Wilkins has a box.

Barlow.  You said seats a little while ago.

Yardsley.  Of course I did.  And why not?  There are seats in boxes.  Didn’t you know that?

Barlow.  Look here, Yardsley, what’s up, anyhow?  You’ve been deuced queer to-day.  What are you after?

Yardsley (tragically).  Shall I confide in you?  Can I, with a sense of confidence that you will not betray me?

Barlow (eagerly).  Yes, Bob.  Go on.  What is it?  I’ll never give you away, and I may be able to give you some good advice.

Yardsley.  I am here to—to—to rob the house!  Business has been bad, and one must live.  [Barlow looks at him in disgust.

Yardsley (mockingly).  You have my secret, John Barlow.  Remember that it was wrung from me in confidence.  You must not betray me.  Turn your back while I surreptitiously remove the piano and the gas-fixtures, won’t you?

Barlow (looking at him thoughtfully).  Yardsley, I have done you an injustice.

Yardsley.  Indeed?

Barlow.  Yes.  Some one claimed, at the club, the other day, that you were the biggest donkey in existence, and I denied it.  I was wrong, old man, I was wrong, and I apologize.  You are.

Yardsley.  You are too modest, Jack.  You forget—yourself.

Barlow.  Well, perhaps I do; but I’ve nothing to conceal, and you have.  You’ve been behaving in a most incomprehensible fashion this afternoon, as if you owned the house.

Yardsley.  Well, what of it?  Do you own it?

Barlow.  No, I don’t, but—

Yardsley.  But you hope to.  Well, I have no such mercenary motive.  I’m not after the house.

Barlow (bristling up).  After the house?  Mercenary motive?  I demand an explanation of those words.  What do you mean?

Yardsley.  I mean this, Jack Barlow: I mean that I am here for—for my own reasons; but you—you have come here for the purpose of—

Dorothy enters wish a tray, upon which are the tea things.

Barlow (about to retort to Yardsley, perceiving Dorothy).  Ah!  Let me assist you.

Dorothy.  Thank you so much.  I really believe I never needed help more.  (She delivers the tray to Barlow, who sets it on the table.  Dorothy, exhausted, drops into a chair.)  Fan me—quick—or I shall faint.  I’ve—I’ve had an awful time, and I really don’t know what to do!

Barlow and Yardsley (together).  Why, what’s the matter?

Yardsley.  I hope the house isn’t on fire?

Barlow.  Or that you haven’t been robbed?

Dorothy.  No, no; nothing like that.  It’s—it’s about Jennie.

Yardsley (nervously).  Jennie?  Wha—wha—what’s the matter with Jennie?

Dorothy.  I only wish I knew.  I—

Yardsley (aside).  I’m glad you don’t.

Barlow.  What say?

Yardsley.  I didn’t say anything.  Why should I say anything?  I haven’t anything to say.  If people who had nothing to say would not insist upon talking, you’d be—

Dorothy.  I heard the poor girl weeping down-stairs, and when I went to the dumbwaiter to ask her what was the matter, I heard—I heard a man’s voice.

Yardsley.  Man’s voice?

Barlow.  Man’s voice is what Miss Andrews said.

Dorothy.  Yes; it was Hicks, our coachman, and he was dreadfully angry about something.

Yardsley (sinking into chair).  Good Lord!  Hicks!  Angry!  At—something!

Dorothy.  He was threatening to kill somebody.

Yardsley.  This grows worse and worse!  Threatening to kill somebody!  D-did-did you o-over-overhear huh-huh-whom he was going to kuk-kill?

Barlow.  What’s the matter with you, Yardsley?  Are you going to die of fright, or have you suddenly caught a chill?

Dorothy.  Oh, I hope not!  Don’t die here, anyhow, Mr. Yardsley.  If you must die, please go home and die.  I couldn’t stand another shock to-day.  Why, really, I was nearly frightened to death.  I don’t know now but what I ought to send for the police, Hicks was so violent.

Barlow.  Perhaps she and Hicks have had a lovers’ quarrel.

Yardsley.  Very likely; very likely indeed.  I think that is no doubt the explanation of the whole trouble.  Lovers will quarrel.  They were engaged, you know.

Dorothy (surprised).  No, I didn’t know it.  Were they?  Who told you?

Yardsley (discovering his mistake).  Why—er—wasn’t it you said so, Miss Dorothy?  Or you, Barlow?

Barlow.  I have not the honor of the young woman’s confidence, and so could not have given you the information.

Dorothy.  I didn’t know it, so how could I have told you?

Yardsley (desperately).  Then I must have dreamed it.  I do have the queerest dreams sometimes, but there’s nothing strange about this one, anyhow.  Parlor-maids frequently do—er—become engaged to coachmen and butlers and that sort of thing.  It isn’t a rare occurrence at all.  If I’d said she was engaged to Billie Wilkins, or to—to Barlow here—

Barlow.  Or to yourself.

Yardsley.  Sir?  What do you mean to insinuate?  That I am engaged to Jennie?

Barlow.  I never said so.

Dorothy.  Oh dear, let us have the tea.  You quarrelsome men are just wearing me out.  Mr. Barlow, do you want cream in yours?

Barlow.  If you please; and one lump of sugar.  (Dorothy pours is out.)  Thanks.

Dorothy.  Mr. Yardsley?

Yardsley.  Just a little, Miss Andrews.  No cream, and no sugar.

[Dorothy prepares a cup for Yardsley.  He is about to take it when—

Dorothy.  Well, I declare!  It’s nothing but hot water!  I forgot the tea entirely!

Barlow (with a laugh).  Oh, never mind.  Hot water is good for dyspepsia.

[With a significant look at Yardsley.

Yardsley.  It depends on how you get it, Mr. Barlow.  I’ve known men who’ve got dyspepsia from living in hot water too much.

[As Yardsley speaks the portière is violently clutched from without, and Jennie’s head is thrust into the room.  No one observes her.

Barlow.  Well, my cup is very satisfactory to me, Miss Dorothy.  Fact is, I’ve always been fond of cambric tea, and this is just right.

Yardsley (patronizingly).  It is good for children.

Jennie (trying to attract Yardsley’s attention).  Pst!

Yardsley.  My mamma lets me have it Sunday nights.

Dorothy.  Ha, ha, ha!

Barlow.  Another joke?  Good.  Let me enjoy it too.  Hee, Hee!

Jennie.  Pst!

[Barlow looks around; Jennie hastily withdraws her head.

Barlow.  I didn’t know you had steam heat in this house.

Dorothy.  We haven’t.  What put such an idea as that into your head?

Barlow.  Why, I thought I heard the hissing of steam, the click of a radiator, or something of that sort back by the door.

Yardsley.  Maybe the house is haunted.

Dorothy.  I fancy it was your imagination: or perhaps it was the wind blowing through the hall.  The pantry window is open.

Barlow.  I guess maybe that’s it.  How fine it must be in the country now!

[Jennie pokes her head in through the portières again, and follows it with her arm and hand, in which is a feather duster, which she waves wildly in an endeavor to attract Yardsley’s attention.

Dorothy.  Divine.  I should so love to be out of town still.  It seems to me people always make a great mistake returning to the city so early in the fall.  The country is really at its best at this time of year.

[Yardsley turns half around, and is about to speak, when he catches sight of the now almost hysterical Jennie and her feather duster.

Barlow.  Yes; I think so too.  I was at Lenox last week, and the foliage was gorgeous.

Yardsley (feeling that he must say something).  Yes.  I suppose all the feathers on the maple-trees are turning red by this time.

Dorothy.  Feathers, Mr. Yardsley?

Barlow.  Feathers?

Yardsley (with a furtive glance at Jennie).  Ha, ha!  What an absurd slip!  Did I say feathers?  I meant—I meant leaves, of course.  All the leaves on the dusters are turning.