Scene: The library of Cyrus Martin’s home in New York City: a very handsome room, in tapestry and dark oak. Doors up left, down left, and down right. Books, chairs, divans, as necessary. Down left is an oak typewriting table with a typewriter on it. It is obviously out of place in the room, and is evidently only a temporary arrangement. Handsome walnut furniture. Mantel set on mantel. Fire dogs and irons in fireplace. All-over carpet. Handsome busts on bookcases. Chandelier and four brackets. Curtains on windows at back. It is seven o’clock in the evening—early September.
At Rise: Mary Grayson is seated at typewriter; she strums the keys idly and indifferently with one finger. She might hum a turkey-trot, keeping time with a one-finger accompaniment. In a moment Johnson, a typical English butler, enters from door upper L.
Johnson. I beg pardon, Miss Grayson.
Mary. (Whirling about eagerly) What is it, Johnson? Has young Mr. Martin come in yet?
Johnson. No, Miss.
Mary. But I told you not to interrupt me until he did.
Johnson. I know, Miss, but it’s that Mr. Ambrose Peale again; he’s called four times.
Mary. Say that Mr. Martin will be back at eight o’clock.
Johnson. Yes, Miss. There’s a lady waiting, too, Miss, to see Mr. Martin Senior. Here’s her card.
Mary. Mme. la Comtesse de Beaurien. Tell her that Mr. Martin Senior can see no one.
Johnson. I can’t make her comprehend anything I say. She just sits and waits.
Mary. Oh, bring her in, then. I’ll make her understand somehow, but, Johnson, don’t fail to let me know the minute young Mr. Martin gets home.
Johnson. (Going to door up L.) Yes, Miss.
(Mary rises from typewriter, takes off her sleeve-protectors and smoothes out her skirt.)
Johnson. (Announcing) Countess dee Beauree-en——
(The Countess enters from door upper L. She is a very smart-looking girl of about twenty-six or twenty-seven, typically French in manner and does not speak a word of English. He exits.)
Mary. (To Countess) How do you do?
Countess. (Advancing to her) Mam’selle Martin?
Mary. Oh, no, I’m Miss Grayson, Mr. Martin’s secretary.
Countess. (Blankly) Sec-ree-taree?
Mary. I’m sorry, but it’s quite impossible for you to see Mr. Martin. He is confined to the house with a severe attack of gout. If you will write him I will see that he gets your letter. You can address him here instead of the office; while he is ill I come here every day for the mail.
Countess. Pardon, mais je ne comprends pas—je ne parle pas l’anglais. Vous parlez Français peut-être?
Mary. (Blankly) You see, Mr. Martin is ill....
Countess. Je répète que je ne parle pas anglais. Mr. Martin est-il ici?
Mary. It’s quite useless for you to talk: I don’t understand French.
Countess. Un moment, Mam’selle—peut-être je parle trop vite.... (More slowly) Je désire parler à M. Martin àpropos des affaires. Je suis riche. Mais on peut toujours être plus riche. Si je pouvais obtenir l’agence du savon Martin pour la France ça serait une belle affaire. Je donnerais cinquante mille francs pour cette agence. Répéter cela à M. Martin et je suis sûre qu’il me recevra immédiatement. Vous comprenez maintenant——
Mary. But I really don’t understand French. (Slowly and loudly) Mr. Martin is ill—sick! He can see no one—you’ll have to go—please do——
Countess. Mon Dieu! Vous êtes stupide.... (Sitting down in chair L. of table) J’attendrai M. Martin.
Mary. There’s no use your sitting down. (She goes to her) Mr. Martin doesn’t understand French, either.
Countess. C’est bien, c’est bien, mam’selle; je ne suis pas pressée.
Mary. I don’t understand. Please go—(She waves her hands)
Countess. Ah, laissez-moi donc tranquille—vous m’embêtez.
Mary. Oh, dear!
(Johnson enters.)
Johnson. Young Mr. Martin’s come in; he’ll be here directly.
Mary. Good Heavens! (She goes over and makes a wild sweeping gesture) Mr. Martin is out—out.
Countess. (With marked accent) Out?
Mary. (Nodding her head) Oui——
Countess. (Rapidly) Oui? Ah vous parlez Français? Je voudrais savoir si Mr. Martin est ici. Je voudrais lui parler tout de suite.
Mary. Heavens! She’s off again; let’s act it for her. Let’s see—(She points to Johnson) That is Mr. Martin.
Countess. Eh?
Mary. We’re pretending that is Mr. Martin.
Countess. (Shaking her head) Ah, non, ça ce n’est pas M. Martin.
Mary. We’re pretending—see, pretending? Now, you see—Mr. Martin is out—see?
(Johnson exits and enters immediately.)
Countess. (Suddenly) Ah, Mr. Martin n’est pas ici! Je comprends.
Mary. Heavens, she understands, Johnson! Take her by the arm and lead her out. (Crosses L.)
Johnson. (Starting to do so as Countess rises to go out) Yes, Miss.
Countess. Attendez! A quelle heure M. Martin rentrera-t-il? (She sits again)
Johnson. Now what’s the matter? You’d better come quietly, Miss—(He takes her by the arm)
Countess. (Shaking him off) A quelle heure rentrera-t-il? (There is a blank pause. To Mary) Maintenant—faites attention à votre tour. Regardez-moi: je suis M. Martin, vous comprenez? Moi je suis M. Martin——
Mary. (Nodding) Mr. Martin.
Countess. (Going to door) Mr. Martin n’est pas ici; il est sorti—il est au bureau. Enfin s’il n’est pas au bureau c’est pas mon affaire. Maintenant je voudrais savoir à quelle heure rentrera-t-il?
Mary. (As Countess goes) Heavens, she’s going. (She turns at door) She’s coming back.
Countess. (Returning to Mary) A quelle heure M. Martin rentrera-t-il? (There is another pause. Suddenly the Countess takes out her watch)
Mary. (Eagerly) Oh, she wants to know when he’ll be in! (She runs over and points to clock) Eight o’clock—eight—o’clock.
Countess. Oui—Oui, huit heures—je comprends. Merci bien—je m’en vais maintenant, mais je reviendrai. Au revoir.
Mary. I can understand that! Au revoir—au revoir—good night.
Countess. (Going) Merci—merci—à huit heures—bonsoir—bonsoir—(She exits)
Mary. Don’t let her in here again unless you have an interpreter.
Johnson. Very good, Miss. (He exits door upper L.)
(Mary primps, and sits at typewriter again, and idly touches the keys with one finger, maintaining an eager watch on the door. She hears someone coming and hastily and busily bangs away at the typewriter. Rodney Martin enters door L. He is a young man of twenty-four with a certain quaint frank charm, in spite of his funny little mustache, English morning coat, spats and white carnation. He is by no means brainless, but simply undeveloped by reason of the kind of life he has led under appallingly frictionless conditions.)
Rodney. Miss Grayson!
(Mary’s previous business-like air has entirely disappeared, and she assumes the fluttering airs of a timid ingenue, overdoing it for anyone except a boy madly in love with her.)
Mary. What a surprise! (Rodney goes and locks both doors L.) Why, Mr. Martin ... what are you doing?
Rodney. (Coming to her and facing her over back of chair) I want to talk with you. Mary, will you marry me?
Mary. Why, really——
Rodney. You love me, don’t you?
Mary. I—I don’t know what to say——
Rodney. Say Yes.
Mary. (Shyly) Yes.
Rodney. (Trying to grab her) You angel!
Mary. (Eluding him) Wait!
Rodney. We’ll be married right away.
Mary. But suppose your father disapproves?
Rodney. He won’t know anything about it until we’re married, and then what could he do?
Mary. He might cut you off.
Rodney. Would you care?
Mary. (Hastily) I? No, no, indeed. I was thinking of you, dear.
Rodney. Don’t you bother about me. We’ll be married to-morrow, and then come home for the parental blessing.
Mary. Oh, I couldn’t do that. It wouldn’t be square. I’m his private secretary: he trusts me. To bring me here to his home and then to find I’d married his son on the sly—we couldn’t do that.
Rodney. You do make it sound rather bad. I wouldn’t want us to give father the worst of it; we’ve always been pretty good friends, he and I. I guess I’d better tell him—in a week or so.
Mary. Why, Rodney, if you love me, we must get this awful suspense over.
Rodney. But suppose he does object?
Mary. Even then I wouldn’t give you up.
Rodney. Mary!
Mary. You could go into business, make a big man of yourself, make me proud of you——
Rodney. You talk just like the heroine in a play I saw last night. She wanted the hero to go to work, and he did, and then for four acts everybody suffered.
Mary. Don’t you want to work?
Rodney. (Seriously) I should say not. Imagine going to bed every night, knowing you’ve got to get up in the morning and go to business.
Mary. You’d be happier, wouldn’t you, if you had a job?
Rodney. Please don’t talk like father; he’s preached a job at me ever since I left college. Why should I work? Father made millions out of soap and is forever complaining that he’s always had his nose to the grindstone, that he’s worked fourteen hours a day for thirty years, that he’s never known what fun was, that it’s all made him old before his time. I can’t see the sense of following an example like that—I really can’t. He’s got enough for you, and me, and our children. Yes, and our children’s grandchildren. I’ve explained all this to him but I can’t seem to make him understand. But it’s simple: why work when there’s millions in the family? And why even talk of money when you and I are in love? Come, kiss me. (He leans towards her; she moves away to L. He crosses R.)
Mary. No, you mustn’t—not till you’ve spoken to your father.
Rodney. You won’t kiss me till I tell him?
Mary. No.
Rodney. And you will when I do?
Mary. Yes.
Rodney. Then I’ll tell him right away. (He goes toward door L. She crosses R.)
Mary. Oh, Rodney, you’re splendid! And don’t be afraid.
Rodney. Afraid! (Pausing) You don’t think I’d better wait till the morning?
(Cyrus Martin knocks at the door violently, and says “ouch” in a loud tone.)
Martin. (Off-stage) Why is this door locked? What the devil does this mean?
Mary. If you don’t ask him now, I’ll never marry you.
Martin. (Off-stage) Open the door.
Rodney. Coming, father, coming. (He goes and unlocks both doors)
Martin. (Loudly) Ouch, ouch! The devil! (He enters) Why was that door locked?
Rodney. Was it locked?
Martin. You young fool, didn’t you just unlock it? (Crosses to R.)
Rodney. (Nervously) So I did!
(Mary has gone to her typewriter and now begins typing.)
Martin. Stop that noise! (She does so. Rodney looks at her, discouraged. She motions to him to go on. Meanwhile Martin has painfully limped to a chair down-stage by table and sinks into it. His foot gives him another twinge.) Ouch! Oh, my poor foot!
(Rodney hastily picks up footstool and comes with it to his father.)
Rodney. I’m afraid your foot hurts.
Martin. Not at all—I just pretend that it does!
Rodney. (Fervently) I hoped you were better.
Martin. Well, I’m not. What have you got there?
Rodney. A footstool—I thought it might make you more comfortable.
Martin. How much do you want?
Rodney. Why, nothing, father.
Martin. Well anyhow, the answer is not a nickel——
Rodney. You do me an injustice. I’m just sorry to see you in pain.
Martin. Well, you want something, that’s certain.
Rodney. Why do you say that?
Martin. I know you—and whatever it is, you can’t have it.
(Rodney turns appealingly to Mary. She ignores him. He turns back to his father and tries to muster up his courage.)
Rodney. (Clearing his throat) Well, as a matter of fact, I did want——
Martin. Now we’re getting to it.
Rodney. I wanted to have a talk with you—an important talk——
Martin. Curious! That’s just what I wanted with you—I’ve wanted it all day ... and now we’ll have it—Miss Grayson!
Mary. Yes, sir? (Rises)
Martin. Get out. (She exits through door upper L., without noticing Rodney, who stands looking after her dejectedly. As he hears the door close) Now, what do you mean by overdrawing your allowance again?
Rodney. (Innocently) What it simply proves is that I was right when I told you my allowance was too small.
Martin. (Aghast) What!
Rodney. And if my allowance is too small for one, it’s much too small for two.
Martin. For two?
Rodney. Father, has it ever occurred to you that I might marry?
Martin. Of course it has! You’re fool enough for anything.
Rodney. I don’t consider a man a fool because he’s married.
Martin. That’s because you’ve never tried it.
Rodney. I intend to try it.
Martin. Who is the girl?
Rodney. (Nervously) The girl?
Martin. Yes, girl—you’re not going to marry an automobile or a polo pony—you’re going to marry a girl, aren’t you? Some blue-eyed, doll-faced, gurgling, fluttering little fool. Oh, why doesn’t God give young men some sense about women?
Rodney. I object very strongly to your speaking in that way of Miss Grayson.
Martin. Miss Grayson? Miss Grayson? You’re not going to marry a typewriter?
Rodney. Yes, sir.
Martin. Does she know it?
Rodney. Yes, sir.
Martin. Of course she knows a good thing like you when she sees it!
Rodney. I won’t listen to you talk of Miss Grayson in that way.
Martin. You’ve got to listen. I won’t permit any such absurd, ridiculous marriage! Thank Heaven, you had sense enough not to elope——
Rodney. I wanted to, but she wouldn’t. She insisted on your being told, so you see what an injustice——
Martin. Injustice? Can’t you see that she wished me to know, so that if I disapproved and cut you off, she’d not be stuck with you on her hands.
Rodney. Please, father—it’s quite useless. (He starts to go)
Martin. No, my boy, wait a minute. Remember, I’m your friend even if I am your father. (Rises, goes to door R. to ring bell) Don’t you believe it’s only your money she wants?
Rodney. I know it isn’t.
Martin. (Pushing bell) I’ll prove it is.
Rodney. What are you going to do?
Martin. Send for Miss Grayson.
Rodney. You shan’t humiliate her.
Johnson. (Entering from door upper L.) Yes, sir?
Martin. Ask Miss Grayson to come here at once.
Johnson. Yes, sir. (He exits)
Martin. I’ll tell that scheming secretary that if you persist in this marriage, I’ll disinherit you! Then watch her throw you over.
Rodney. Even if you are my father, you shan’t insult the girl I love.
Martin. Poppycock! You’re afraid to put her to the test: you’re afraid she will chuck you.
Rodney. (Quickly) I am not afraid.
Mary. (Entering from door upper L.) You wanted me, Mr. Martin?
Rodney. (Going to her, she crosses to C.) Mary!
Martin. Wait a minute. My precious son informs me that you and he intend to marry.
Mary. (Timidly) Oh, sir——
Martin. And I wish to tell you that if he marries you, he doesn’t get one penny of my money, and that means he’ll starve.
Mary. Then at least we can starve together. (They hold hands)
Rodney. Mary!
Martin. Making a grand-stand play, eh? You think I’m too fond of him not to relent? Well, you’re wrong. Neither of you can get a nickel from me: you can both starve together.
Rodney. We won’t starve.
Martin. What can you do? You’re not a producer—you never will be. (Crosses to L.) You’re just an idler. You couldn’t earn five dollars a week, but you’ll have a chance to try. You’ll get out of my house to-night or I’ll have you thrown out.
Rodney. Now, father——
Martin. Not another word, sir, not another word! (He kicks chair, and stamps out angrily, thru lower L. door)
Rodney. (To Mary) It’s getting more like that play every minute.
Mary. (Half crying) Oh, Rodney, Rodney, what have I done? I’m so—so sorry.
Rodney. You haven’t done anything—neither of us has. Father didn’t seem to give us a chance to. He did it all——
Mary. Oh, Rodney——
Rodney. You were bully the way you stuck up for me. When you said we’d starve together, I just choked all up.
Mary. (Genuinely) Please don’t, Rodney.
Rodney. Just because he’s got a lot of money he seems to think there isn’t any left, but I’ll show him. I may not have much at the start, but watch my finish.
Mary. What are you going to do?
Rodney. I’m going to work.
Mary. (Excited) You are—really? (Rises)
Rodney. Yes, indeed—father couldn’t make me do it, but you have. I’ll work for you.
Mary. Oh, you are splendid. Will you get a position?
Rodney. I should say not! Work for someone else? No, sir—I’m going in business for myself—for you. I’m going to show the stuff that’s in me. Of course, we can’t get married till I’ve made good. Will you wait?
Mary. (Shyly) Yes, dear.
Rodney. You’re a dandy.
Mary. What business are you going in?
Rodney. I don’t know yet. I’m going upstairs to pack a suit-case and think. (Crosses to R.) I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. (He grabs her and kisses her hastily but heartily)
Mary. Oh, oh—please——
Rodney. Don’t mind, Mary. You’ll get used to ’em. (Exits door lower R.)
(She goes over and raps three times on the door through which Martin left, and backs away from it. She stands there expectantly. In a moment Martin tiptoes in with no trace of a limp. She puts her fingers to her lips to indicate silence, and points off-stage R. to indicate where Rodney has gone. Martin tiptoes nearer, nodding his head, questioning and eager. Mary smilingly nods her head in reply.)
Martin. (In stage-whisper) You mean our scheme worked?
Mary. (Delighted) Yes, yes.
Martin. You really have got him to go to work?
Mary. I have!
Martin. (Gleefully) By George, that’s great!
Mary. Isn’t it!
Martin. You’re sure he wasn’t just talking?
Mary. No, he’s gone upstairs to pack and go out and make a name for himself.
Martin. You’re a wise girl. Isn’t it wonderful?
Mary. And you said I couldn’t do it.
Martin. I said I didn’t think you could, but you have, and I owe you $2,500. (Crosses to chair L. of table to make out check)
Mary. Oh, there’s no hurry.
Martin. Never put off till to-morrow the money you can get to-day.
Mary. Aren’t you proud I’ve been so successful?
Martin. Proud? I’m so doggone happy I’m making this out for $5,000.
Mary. Oh, Mr. Martin!
Martin. And it’s worth $50,000 to me to have my boy really want to work, not just to do it to please me. What a difference an incentive makes! (Hands her the check)
Mary. (Smiling at check) Doesn’t it?
Martin. (Crosses to L.) Especially if it’s a girl. And to think I begged and threatened Rodney for months, and then you plan this scheme, you invent my gout, you rehearse me, you come up here for six short weeks and—Bing, you get him so he’s in love with you.
Mary. Or thinks he is.
Martin. But, say, what about your marriage? (Sits in chair L. of table)
Mary. He said he wouldn’t marry me till he’d made good—if I’d just wait. (Sits in chair R. of table)
Martin. (Anxiously) Do you think perhaps he may really love you?
Mary. Of course not.
Martin. It’s the first time he’s actually wanted to marry anybody.
Mary. Oh, it’s just that I’ve been very blue-eyed and baby-faced.
Martin. I guess you’re right!
Mary. Of course I am. When I break our engagement he may feel sort of lonely for a while and give up women forever, but pretty soon some charming girl of his world will come along—some limousine lady, and they’ll live happy ever after.
Martin. I sort of begin to wish this marriage were going to be on the level.
Mary. It wouldn’t work out. I’m a business woman. Even if your son did love me—really love—I wouldn’t marry him. Just now he’s twenty-four with an India-rubber heart that is easy to stretch and easier to snap back. All boys at twenty-four are like that.
Martin. (Reminiscently) I guess so. I remember when I was a young man, there was a girl ... my heart was broken for a week—perhaps ten days. I went down to the club one night and got spifflicated—however, however—(Abruptly changing the subject) What’s my son going to work at?
Mary. I don’t know yet.
Martin. Do you think he’ll make good?
Mary. He will if he keeps at it. (Rises and goes R.)
Martin. Well, you’ll keep him at it? (Rises and goes R.)
Mary. That wasn’t our agreement. I only undertook to get him to start to work.
Martin. Hum.
Mary. (Quickly) Isn’t that true?
Martin. Quite—quite. I was just thinking we might make some new agreement to have you keep him on the job.
Mary. (Rubbing her fingers as if handling money) I’m a business woman.
Martin. What strikes you as fair?
Mary. I’d rather the proposition came from you.
Martin. What do you say to your present salary, and at the end of the year I will personally give you a check for twenty-five per cent of what Rodney has made.
Mary. Oh, that wouldn’t interest me at all.
Martin. What’s your proposition, then?
Mary. (Promptly) My present salary doubled.
Martin. Um—that’s pretty steep.
Mary. You told me what I’d done already was worth $50,000 to you.
Martin. Merely a figure of speech, my dear. Let’s see, you’re getting $40 a week, and....
Mary. $50, and I want $100.
Martin. Sounds like a hold-up. (Crosses R.)
Mary. Then let’s drop it. This new contract was your idea, not mine. Good-evening. (She starts to go, gets to door, which she bangs as if she had gone. She remains however in the room)
Martin. Hold on—hold on—(He turns and sees her, and then chuckles at her joke on him. She laughs, too) I was simply figuring. Tell you what I’ll do: $75 a week and 10 per cent of what Rodney makes.
Mary. Seventy-five a week and 10 per cent of what he makes? All right, I’ll go you.
Martin. Good.
Mary. (Goes to desk, takes note-book) Will you just write me a note stating the facts and the consideration?
Martin. You want it in writing? (Crosses to table R. and sits)
Mary. Certainly, it’s always safer that way. (He writes. As he writes) As soon as you see Rodney, you’ll have to discharge me.
Martin. I will, violently. I make a pretty good actor under your direction. How did you like that irate father stuff?
Mary. Great! You needn’t make the note long. Just a memorandum.
Martin. (Holding up paper) How’s that?
Mary. (Reading) I think that covers it—if you’ll sign it.
Martin. (Confused) Didn’t I sign it?
Mary. (Smiling) No, and never put off till to-morrow what you can sign to-day.
Martin. (Signing) There you are. (Hands Mary paper)
Mary. (Sits on table) Thanks. Now, Mr. Martin, there’s just one question I’d like to ask.
Martin. Go ahead, I’ll answer you anything.
Mary. Why is it, when Rodney’s been out of college for two years, that it’s only the last three months you’ve been so persistent about getting him to work?
Martin. It’s like this. You know old John Clark?
Mary. The man you dine with so often?
Martin. Yes, friends and rivals for thirty years.
Mary. He’s in Ivory Soap, isn’t he?
Martin. (Emphatically) I should say he is—one of the big men there. We’ve fought all our lives over soap, but he’s never been able to lick me, and—well, I haven’t been able to lick him, either.
Mary. Perhaps that’s why you’re such good friends.
Martin. Perhaps it is. Anyhow, as it’s fifty-fifty in business, we’ve lately narrowed the fight down to a family matter. You know old John Clark has a son, too: Ellery—nasty, egotistical, self-satisfied young puppy.
Mary. I know, I’ve talked to him.
Martin. Well, old Clark thinks Ellery is the prince of all modern business, and he kept pitying me so much about Rodney’s being an idler—a rich man’s son—it got on my nerves, so lately I made a bet with him.
Mary. A bet!
Martin. I bet him thirty thousand dollars my son could make more in a year than his son could. So I had to get Rodney busy, and he’s got to make good. He can’t be such a pin-head as he looks! If there’s anything in heredity there must be something of me in him, and we’ve got to find it—we’ve got to develop Rodney, dig deep, maybe blast. If he doesn’t win out——
Mary. But he will, I’m sure he will.
Martin. It isn’t just the money. I guess I’m a sentimental old fool, but I’m proud. I want my boy to be Rodney Martin, not just Cyrus Martin’s son, and I want to show old Clark that as a judge of character he’s a bigger fool than I am. If I don’t get that bet——
Mary. But you’re going to, I’m sure you are.
Martin. By George, Miss Grayson, if I weren’t a bit old and on the shelf, I’d marry you myself. You and I could clean up all the loose change in America. (Rodney enters R. Martin, seeing him, changes his whole attitude. Rises) I don’t care to discuss the matter further, Miss Grayson: consider yourself discharged. Good evening. (Crosses to L.)
Rodney. It’s all right, Mary. You can have a job in my office. (Crosses to C.)
Martin. (Scornfully) Your office, ha! (Suddenly) Oh, my foot, my poor foot! (He limps painfully towards door) Your office! It’s a joke, young man!
Rodney. Oh, you needn’t laugh! I’ll show you. (Crosses L. C.)
Martin. (Winking at Mary) Silence, you young puppy. Oh, my poor foot! (He exits)
Mary. Oh, Rodney! (Sits on sofa)
(Rodney goes up-stage, and passes behind sofa so that he is at the R. end of sofa.)
Rodney. Gout’s an awful thing, isn’t it? (Sits on sofa)
Mary. Oh, Rodney, I’m afraid I’ve spoiled everything for you—your future——
Rodney. Nonsense, you’ve made my future. Without you, I’d never have got the idea, the big idea.
Mary. Idea for what?
Rodney. The idea to make money out of; that’s all you need. And, just think, I found it in this book.
Mary. What idea? What book?
Rodney. It’s a cook-book.
Mary. What on earth——?
Rodney. Well, you see, when I was packing I stumbled across this book; it fell open at this page—fate was on the job—it was a hunch. Look!
Mary. (Looking) But what is it?
Rodney. It’s an old family recipe for making cheap soap. It says it’s the cheapest soap in the world. Cheaper even than the manufacturers make it. I’m going into the soap business.
Mary. (Amazed) What?
Rodney. Sure. Father did; look at the money he made. Why shouldn’t I?
Mary. (Rises, goes L.) You’re joking.
Rodney. I’m in dead earnest. I’m going to buck the trust. (Rises)
Mary. But how can you?
Rodney. I don’t know, but I will. You see, I’ll have all the popular sympathy: independent young son of soap-king fights father; don’t buy from the trust.
Mary. But is that very nice to your father?
Rodney. Has he been nice to me? It’s great! Down with monopoly! Hurrah for the people! I’ve heard political speeches like that. Hurrah for the people’s soap! That isn’t a bad name, either. The People’s Soap. (Lays book on table)
Mary. But you haven’t any capital.
Rodney. (Dejected) I never thought of that.
Mary. You’d need a lot of money.
Rodney. (Bracing up) Well, I’ll just have to get it, that’s all, and you’ll be my secretary. Of course, till I make big money I wouldn’t ordinarily have thought of taking you away from father—but as long as he discharged you—well, you work for me now. What does father pay you?
Mary. Fifty dollars a week.
Rodney. I’ll pay you a hundred and fifty.
Mary. But you haven’t any money.
(Johnson enters from door upper L.)
Johnson. Beg pardon, Mr. Rodney, but Mr. Ambrose Peale is here to see you.
Mary. For the fifth time——
Rodney. (Puzzled) Ambrose Peale? Oh, yes, I remember. Ask him to come in.
Johnson. Yes, sir. (He exits door upper L.)
Mary. Who is he?
Rodney. He’s got something to do with the theater. When I was in Harvard two years ago I met him one night in the lobby of the theater. I haven’t seen him since—it was the night we had our egg fight.
Mary. You and Mr. Peale?
Rodney. No, no, the fellows threw eggs at the people on the stage. You see, it was a college play——
Mary. Did you throw eggs?
Rodney. I forgot to bring any. Peale was the manager of the show and was mighty decent to me—kept me out of jail.
(Peale enters from door upper L.)
Peale. Well, well, Rodney Martin, how are you? (To Mary) How are you, dear lady?
Rodney. How do you do? Miss Grayson—Mr. Ambrose Peale.
Peale. Ambrose Peale—that’s me absolutely. Well, I’m still in the show business. (To Mary) Ever see “The Belle of Broadway”? Great show, great girls, great cast.
Mary. Oh, are you an actor?
Peale. (Scornfully) An actor? I should say not. I’m a press-agent.
Mary. Oh!
Peale. But, say, be sure to catch that show; it may leave the city soon—out-of-town bookings, you know—but remember the name: “The Belle of Broadway.” And now if you’ll excuse me, Miss, I came to talk business with Mr. Martin.
Rodney. Business? Surely—surely. (Winking at Mary) I’m a business man—now.
Mary. I’ll be back in a few minutes.
Rodney. Thank you, Miss Grayson. (She exits door lower R.)
Peale. Now, I’m not much on handing myself flowers across the footlights, but do you happen to remember what I did for you the night of the egg fight?
Rodney. You fixed things with the chief of police and kept me from being expelled.
Peale. By George, you do remember. And you said any time you could do anything for me——
Rodney. That’s still true.
Peale. You’re immense, son. Now, it’s this way—have a chair. (He sits. Rodney does likewise) Between you and me, “The Belle of Broadway” is an awful thing—business gone to pot. Something’s got to be done. Some great stuff pulled off to give it a boost, and that’s where you come in.
Rodney. I?
Peale. You’ve got an aeroplane, haven’t you?
Rodney. Yes, but——
Peale. Then everything’s all right. Now you abduct the leading lady, Julia Clark, to-morrow night, in your aeroplane—elope with her——
Rodney. What?
Peale. Sure—some stunt, too—never been done. Julia’ll stand for it—she’s game for any press gag——
Rodney. But I couldn’t do that.
Peale. Certainly you can. I’m telling you Julia’ll stand for it—a bird of a story—no performance. Why? You’re up in the air with the leading lady. The next night standing room only to catch a look at the girl you’re stuck on. I can see the headlines now: Soap King’s Son Takes New Star Among the Stars—with flashlights.
Rodney. But it’s out of the question. (Rises, takes chair to table)
Peale. What’s the matter with it?
Rodney. I wouldn’t do it, that’s all.
Peale. Gee, that’s tough!
Rodney. I’m not backing down—anything in reason, but you see, there’s someone who might object.
Peale. A girl? (Rodney nods) Her? (Pointing to where Mary exited)
Rodney. Yes.
Peale. (Rises and puts chair back) I guess it’s cold: girls are funny about their beaux doing a little innocent thing like eloping with some other girl.
Rodney. Why don’t you try somebody else?
Peale. I have! You were my last card. Well, I’m fired!
Rodney. Fired?
Peale. Sure, that stunt would have kept us going, but now, on the level—well, the show’s so bad, people won’t even go see it on a pass. We’ll close Saturday and I’m out——
Rodney. A fake story like that would really have helped?
Peale. Helped a whole lot: given us a fresh start, and then I’d have pulled off some new stunts and saved my job.
Rodney. Oh, nonsense. If that were true, I’d feel mighty uncomfortable at not being able to oblige you, but an obvious trumped-up lie like that can’t be any good.
Peale. It can’t, eh?
Rodney. Oh, I know it’s advertising——
Peale. You bet it’s advertising. What made Anna Held? Milk baths. What made Gaby Deslys? A dago king.
Rodney. But that kind of advertising can’t be of real value. (Sits)
Peale. Oh, you’re one of those guys who don’t believe in advertising, are you? Now, don’t get me talking advertising. That’s where I live, where I have my town house and country estate, my yacht and motors. That’s my home. Maybe you think love is important? Piffle. Advertising, my boy, the power of suggestion, the psychology of print; say a thing often enough and hard enough and the other chap’ll not only believe you, he’ll think it’s his own idea, and he’ll fight for it. Some old gink, a professor of psychology, showed forty Vassar girls the other day two samples of satin, one blue, one pink, same grade, same value, same artistic worth. One he described as a delicate warm old rose, the other a faded blue. He asked them to choose their favorite. Thirty-nine out of the forty picked the old rose. Why? Because they’d been told it was warm and delicate; no faded blue for theirs! What did it? The power of suggestion—advertising!
Rodney. (Amused) You seem to know something about it——
Peale. I not only seem to, I do. You heard me tell that girl of yours a few minutes ago that “The Belle of Broadway” was the biggest hit in town. Ask her to go to the theater. Give her her choice and I’ll bet you four dollars to a fried egg she picks “The Belle of Broadway.” Advertising!
Rodney. I don’t believe it.
Peale. Well, try it—and say, what makes you go to the theater yourself? I’ll tell you—it’s what you’ve read about the play or what some fellows told you.
Rodney. (Beginning to be convinced) Why, I suppose that’s true.
Peale. And what he tells you, some other guy has told him. Ninety-seven per cent of the public believe what they’re told, and what they’re told is what the other chap’s been told—and the fellow who told him read it somewhere. When you see a thing in print about something you don’t really know anything about, you come pretty near believing it. And all the advertiser has to do is to tell you right and you’ll fall.
Rodney. But I never read advertisements.
Peale. Oh, you don’t, eh? I guess you do. If I say His Master’s Voice, you know that advertises a phonograph. You’re on to what soap “It Floats” refers to. There’s a Reason—Uneeda—Quaker Oats—Phoebe Show—Children Cry For it—Sapolio—Grape Nuts—Peruna—The Road of Anthracite—Spearmint—Pierce Arrow—57 Varieties—Kodak—White Seal—Gold Dust Twins—He Won’t Be Happy Till He Gets It—Bull Durham—Pianola—Cuticura—Melachrino—Clysmic—Goodyear—Steinway—Thermos—Coca-Cola—The Watch that Made The Dollar Famous. I suppose you don’t know what any of them mean?
Rodney. (Amused) Why, I know what they all mean.
Peale. You bet you do. What kind of garters do you wear?
Rodney. Why, let me see: Boston.
Peale. Exactly. What do you know about ’em? Nothing. Are they any better than any other garter? You don’t know—I don’t know—but all my life, every magazine I’ve ever looked into has had a picture of a man’s leg with a certain kind of garter on it—Boston—so when I go into a store to buy a pair of garters I just naturally say Boston; so do you. What do you know about Mennen’s Talcum Powder? Nothing, except that it has the picture of the homeliest man in the world on the box and it’s so impressed your imagination, you just mechanically order Mennen’s. If I say to you, E. & W., you don’t think it’s a corset, do you? If I say C. B., you don’t think it’s a collar, and what about the well-known and justly famous B. V. D.’s? You don’t read advertisement? Rot!
Rodney. But——
Peale. No ‘but’ about it: advertising’s responsible for everything. When a department store advertises a seven-dollar shirt-waist for four dollars, you don’t believe it’s on the level, do you?
Rodney. No, I don’t.
Peale. Neither do I, but there’s a hell of a lot of women who do. When Bryan advertised the Grape Juice Highball, do you know that its sale went up 652 gallons a day?
Rodney. How do you know it was 652?
Peale. I’ll let you into a little secret: I don’t know. I don’t know a damned thing about grape juice, and as long as my health and strength keep up, I hope I never will, but if I said I’d read in a newspaper that the sale had gone up 652 gallons, you wouldn’t have doubted it, would you?
Rodney. No, I suppose I wouldn’t.
Peale. And you’d have told somebody else and he’d have believed you, too. Say, do you drink much?
Rodney. No.
Peale. Can you tell the difference between a vintage wine and last year’s champagne? Sure, you can: it costs more. Son, the world is full of bunk. Ninety-seven per cent of the people are sheep, and you can get ’em all by advertising.
Rodney. You are gradually making me come to the conclusion that you believe in publicity.
Peale. Believe in it! It’s my life. What kind of eggs do you eat?
Rodney. Why, hen’s eggs, of course.
Peale. Why “of course”? Did you ever eat a duck’s egg?
Rodney. Why, no.
Peale. Do you know anything against the duck?
Rodney. No.
Peale. Exactly. When a duck lays an egg it’s a damn fool and keeps quiet about it, but when a hen does, my boy—cluck-cluck all over the place! She’s advertising. So you eat hen’s eggs.
Rodney. You’re beginning to convince me.
Peale. If I’m beginning to convince you, that’s advertising, too. Say, are you for Roosevelt or against him?
Rodney. I’m for him strong.
Peale. I’m against him. I read one paper, you read another. I think he’s a faker, you think he’s a great man. But does either of us really know anything about him except what we’ve read? Have you ever met Roosevelt or talked to him or known anybody who did know him? I haven’t, but the point is, whatever we may think, good or bad, we’ve heard a lot about him, because he’s the best advertiser in the world. And that, my son, is the whole secret of it: get ’em talking about you, get ’em praisin’ if you can, or get ’em cussin’, but for the love of Heaven, don’t let ’em be quiet. Mention your name—have ’em argue about you—boost or knock—be a hero or a villain, but don’t be a dub. Why, give me the money, a little time, a few pages of advertising, and I can sell you shares in the Atlantic Ocean!
Rodney. (Excited) You really believe that with proper advertising you could build up a great business?
Peale. Believe! Look around you: everything’s doing it.
Rodney. And you are out of a job.
Peale. Unless you do the aero-elopement.
Rodney. (Rises) Then you’re out of it. Do you want to work for me?
Peale. Sure.
Rodney. When can you begin?
Peale. Now.
Rodney. What’s your salary?
Peale. I’ve been getting $60, but I’m worth $75.
Rodney. I’ll give you a hundred.
Peale. What is your business? Counterfeiting?
Rodney. No, it’s——
Peale. Don’t tell me. As long as it don’t send me to state’s prison or the chair, it’s all right. Could I have about $25 advance on my salary now?
Rodney. Is that customary?
Peale. It is with me.
Rodney. Oh, all right. (He gives him the money)
Peale. Just as an evidence of good faith. (He counts money) Well, now I’m working for you, what business are you in?
Rodney. The soap business.
Peale. (Grinning) Nice clean business. With father?
Rodney. Against him!
Peale. Oh!
Rodney. My father and I have had a quarrel.
Peale. I know, I know: fathers are very unreasonable these days.
Rodney. I’m going to fight the soap trust.
Peale. Well, you’re no piker. You’ve picked out a nice refined job. How long have you been at it?
Rodney. Twenty minutes.
Peale. How’s it going?
Rodney. Fine, since I got an idea from you.
Peale. They grow all over me—help yourself.
Rodney. I’m going to get a factory, advertise like the very dickens: Soap King’s son fights father—and licks him, too, by George!
Peale. Wait a minute, wait a minute, do you know why your father is the soap king?
Rodney. I suppose because he controls all the soap business in the country except Ivory.
Peale. Exactly, and the way he keeps control of it is by buying out all his live competitors. Now, here’s a blue-ribbon champion of the world scheme. Why don’t we make good and sell out to father?
Rodney. No, I don’t care to do that. I want to make good myself.
Peale. Well, if father is forced to buy you out, isn’t that enough? What do you want?
Rodney. I’ve got to be a success on my own. I’ve got to show father, and—Miss Grayson.
Peale. (Comprehending) Oh! Making good with the dame, eh?
Rodney. You see, father says I can’t earn five dollars a week.
Peale. He isn’t right, is he?
Rodney. No, sir, you’ll see.
Peale. I hope so. Pretty tough if you couldn’t. Some job trying to sell soap if father’s against us.
Rodney. I suppose it is.
Peale. I tell you: why not make such a hit with the soap, advertise it so strong, he’ll just have to back you?
Rodney. Now that’s settled, we’re going to lick father.
Peale. Yes, that’s settled. What do I do?
Rodney. You write the ads that make us.
Peale. It’s my chance. Think, I’ll never have to see “The Belle of Broadway” again! I’ll write ads, I’ll conduct a campaign that’ll keep your father awake, and in three months at the most he’ll be begging for a chance to back us.
Rodney. I believe we’ll do it.
Peale. Come on, come on. Let’s get busy. What’s the name of the soap?
Rodney. It hasn’t been named.
Peale. Well, what is there about it that makes it different from any other soap?
Rodney. I don’t know.
Peale. Well, what could there be about some soap that was different from some other soap?
Rodney. Well, let’s see.
Peale. Where did you get it from?
Rodney. From this cook-book.
Peale. Are you kidding me?
Rodney. No. Half an hour ago I decided to go in to business, and I happened to find this recipe for soap in a cook-book—it’s the cheapest soap in the world. (Reflecting) That’s not a bad title: the cheapest soap in the world. (A pause. They reflect)