Spiker. Exactly; it was your thirteenth birthday, and you travelled second-class with a half-ticket—(meaningly)—on your thirteenth birthday.
Sir P. (terribly agitated). Fiend that you are, how came you to learn this?
Spiker. Very simple. I was at that time in the temporary position of ticket-collector at Baker Street. In the exuberance of boyhood, you cheeked me. I swore to be even with you some day.
Sir P. Even if—if your accusation were well-founded, how are you going to prove it?
Sp. Oh, that's easy! I preserved the half-ticket, on the chance that I should require it as evidence hereafter.
Sir P. (aside). And so the one error of an otherwise blameless boyhood has found me out—at last! (To Spiker.) I fear you not; my crime—if crime indeed it was—is surely condoned by twenty-seven long years of unimpeachable integrity!
Sp. Bye-laws are Bye-laws, old Buck! there's no Statute of Limitations in criminal offences that ever I heard of! Nothing can alter the fact that you, being turned thirteen, obtained a half-ticket by a false representation that you were under age. A line from me, even now, denouncing you to the Traffic Superintendent, and I'm very much afraid——
Sir P. (writhing). Spiker, my—my dear friend, you won't do that—you won't expose me? Think of my age, my position, my daughter!
Sp. Ah, now you've touched the right chord! I was thinking of your daughter—a nice lady-like gal—I don't mind telling you she fetched me, Sir, at the first glance. Give me her hand, and I burn the compromising half-ticket before your eyes on our return from church after the wedding. Come, that's a fair offer!
Sir P. (indignantly). My child, the ripening apple of my failing eye, to be sacrificed to a blackmailing blackguard like you! Never while I live!
Sp. Just as you please; and, if you will kindly oblige me with writing materials, I will just drop a line to the Traffic Superintendent——
Sir P. (hoarsely). No, no; not that.... Wait, listen; I—I will speak to my daughter. I promise nothing; but if her heart is still her own to give, she may, (mind, I do not say she will,) be induced to link her lot to yours, though I shall not attempt to influence her in any way—in any way.
Sp. Well, you know your own business best, old Cockalorum. Here comes the young lady, so I'll leave you to manage this delicate affair alone. Ta-ta. I shan't be far off.
[Swaggers insolently out as Verb. enters.
Sir P. My child, I have just received an offer for your hand. I know not if you will consent?
Verb. I can guess who has made that offer, and why. I consent with all my heart, dear Papa.
Sir P. Can I trust my ears! You consent? Noble girl!
[He embraces her.
Verb. I was quite sure dear Bleshugh meant to speak, and I do love him very much.
Sir P. (starting). It is not Lord Bleshugh, my child, but Mr. Samuel Spiker, the gentleman (for he is at heart a gentleman) whom I introduced to you just now.
Verb. I have seen so little of him, Papa, I cannot love him—you must really excuse me!
Sir P. Ah, but you will, my darling, you will—I know your unselfish nature—you will, to save your poor old dad from a terrible disgrace ... yes, disgrace, listen! Twenty-seven years ago—(he tells her all). Verbena, at this very moment, there is a subscription on foot in the county to present me with my photograph, done by an itinerant photographer of the highest eminence, and framed and glazed ready for hanging. Is that photograph never to know the nail which even now awaits it? Can you not surrender a passing girlish fancy, to spare your fond old father's fame? Mr. Spiker is peculiar, perhaps, in many ways—not quite of our monde—but he loves you sincerely, my child, and that is in itself a recommendation. Ah, I see—my prayers are vain ... be happy, then. As for me, let the police come—I am ready! [Weeps.
Verb. Not so, Papa; I will marry this Mr. Spiker, since it is your wish. [Sir Posh. dries his eyes.
Sir P. Here, Spiker, my dear fellow, it is all right. Come in. She accepts you.
Enter Spiker.
Sp. Thought she would. Sensible little gal! Well, Miss, you shan't regret it. Bless you, we'll be as chummy together as a couple of little dicky-birds.
Verb. Mr. Spiker, let us understand one another. I will do my best to be a good wife to you—but chumminess is not mine to give, nor can I promise ever to be your dicky-bird.
Enter Lord Bleshugh.
Lord B. Sir Poshbury, may I have five minutes with you? Verbena, you need not go. (Looking at Spiker.) Perhaps this person will kindly relieve us of his presence.
Sp. Sorry to disoblige, old fellow, but I'm on duty where Miss Verbena is now, you see, as she's just promised to be my wife.
Lord B. Your wife!
Verb. (faintly). Yes, Lord Bleshugh, his wife!
Sir P. Yes, my poor boy, his wife!
[Verbena totters, and falls heavily in a dead faint, r.c., upsetting a flower-stand; Lord Bleshugh staggers, and swoons on sofa, c., overturning a table of knicknacks; Sir Poshbury sinks into chair, l.c., and covers his face with his hands.
Sp. (looking down on them triumphantly). Under the Harrow, by Gad! Under the Harrow!
[Curtain, and end of Act I.
ACT II.
Scene—Same as in Act I.; viz., the Morning-Room at Natterjack Hall. Evening of same day. Enter Blethers.
Blethers. Another of Sir Poshbury's birthdays almost gone—and my secret still untold! (Dodders.) I can't keep it up much longer.... Ha, here comes his Lordship—he does look mortal bad, that he do! Miss Verbena ain't treated him too well, from all I can hear, poor young feller!
Enter Lord Bleshugh.
Lord Bleshugh. Blethers, by the memory of the innumerable half-crowns that have passed between us, be my friend now—I have no others left. Persuade your young Mistress to come hither—you need not tell her I am here, you understand. Be discreet, and this florin shall be yours!
Blethers. Leave it to me, my lord. I'd tell a lie for less than that, any day, old as I am! [Exit.
Lord Bl. I cannot rest till I have heard from her own lips that the past few hours have been nothing but a horrible dream.... She is coming! Now for the truth!
Enter Verbena.
Verbena. Papa, did you want me? (Recognises Lord B.—controls herself to a cold formality.) My lord, to what do I owe this—this unexpected intrusion? [Pants violently.
Lord Bl. Verbena, tell me, you cannot really prefer that seedy snob in the burst boots to me?
Verb. (aside). How can I tell him the truth without betraying dear Papa? No, I must lie, though it kills me. (To Lord B.) Lord Bleshugh, I have been trifling with you. I—I never loved you.
Lord B. I see, and all the while your heart was given to a howling cad?
Verb. And if it was, who can account for the vagaries of a girlish fancy! We women are capricious beings, you know. (With hysterical gaiety.) But you are unjust to Mr. Spiker—he has not yet howled in my presence—(aside)—though I very nearly did in his!
Lord B. And you really love him?
Verb. I—I love him. (Aside.) My heart will break!
Lord B. Then I have no more to say. Farewell, Verbena! Be as happy as the knowledge that you have wrecked one of the brightest careers, and soured one of the sweetest natures in the county, will permit. (Goes up stage, and returns.) A few days since you presented me with a cloth pen-wiper, in the shape of a dog of unknown breed. If you will kindly wait here for half-an-hour, I shall have much pleasure in returning a memento which I have no longer the right to retain, and there are several little things I gave you which I can take back with me at the same time, if you will have them put up in readiness. [Exit.
Verbena. Oh, he is cruel, cruel! but I shall keep the little bone yard-measure, and the diamond pig—they are all I have to remind me of him!
Enter Spiker, slightly intoxicated.
Spiker. (throwing himself on sofa without seeing Verb.) I don' know how it is, but I feel precioush shleepy, somehow. P'raps I did partake lil' too freely of Sir Poshbury's gen'rous Burgundy. Wunner why they call it "gen'rous"—it didn't give me anything—'cept a bloomin' headache! However, I punished it, and old Poshbury had to look on and let me. He-he! (Examining his hand.) Who'd think, to look at thish thumb, that there was a real live Baronet squirmin' under it. But there ish! [Snores.
Verb. (bitterly). And that thing is my affianced husband Ah, no I cannot go through with it, he is too repulsive! If I could but find a way to free myself without compromising poor Papa. The sofa-cushion! Dare I? It would be quite painless.... Surely the removal of such an odious wretch cannot be Murder.... I will! (Slow music. She gets a cushion, and presses it tightly over Spiker's head.) Oh, I wish he wouldn't gurgle like that, and how he does kick! He cannot even die like a gentleman! (Spiker's kicks become more and more feeble and eventually cease.) How still he lies! I almost wish ... Mr. Spiker, Mr. Spi-ker!... no answer—oh, I really have suffocated him! (Enter Sir Posh.) You, Papa?
Sir Posh. What, Verbena, sitting with, hem—Samuel in the gloaming? (Sings with forced hilarity.) "In the gloaming, oh, my darling!" that's as it should be—quite as it should be!
Verb. (in dull strained accents). Don't sing, Papa, I cannot bear it—just yet. I have just suffocated Mr. Spiker with a sofa-cushion. See! [Shows the body.
Sir Posh. Then I am safe—he will tell no tales now! But, my child, are you aware of the very serious nature of your act? An act of which, as a Justice of the Peace, I am bound to take some official cognizance!
Verb. Do not scold me, Papa. Was it not done for your sake?
Sir P. I cannot accept such an excuse as that. I fear your motives were less disinterested than you would have me believe. And now, Verbena, what will you do? As your father, I would gladly screen you—but, as a Magistrate, I cannot promise to be more than passive.
Verb. Listen, Papa. I have thought of a plan—why should I not wheel this sofa to the head of the front-door steps, and tip it over? They will only think he fell down when intoxicated—for he had taken far too much wine, Papa!
Sir P. Always the same quick-witted little fairy! Go, my child, but be careful that none of the servants see you. (Verb. wheels the sofa and Spiker's body out, l.u.e.) My poor impulsive darling, I do hope she will not be seen—servants do make such mischief! But there's an end of Spiker, at any rate. I should not have liked him for a son-in-law, and with him, goes the only person who knows my unhappy secret!
Enter Blethers.
Blethers. Sir Poshbury, I have a secret to reveal which I can preserve no longer—it concerns something that happened many years ago—it is connected with your birthday, Sir Poshbury.
Sir P. (quailing). What, another! I must stop his tongue at all hazards. Ah, the rotten sash-line! (To Blethers.) I will hear you, but first close yonder window, the night-air is growing chill.
[Blethers goes to window at back. Slow music. As he approaches it, Lord Bleshugh enters (r 2 e), and, with a smothered cry of horror, drags him back by the coat-tails—just before the window falls with a tremendous crash.
Sir P. Bleshugh! What have you done?
Lord Blesh. (sternly). Saved him from an untimely end—and you from—crime!
Collapse of Sir P. Enter Verbena, terrified.
Verb. Papa, Papa, hide me! The night-air and the cold stone steps have restored Mr. Spiker to life and consciousness! He is coming to denounce me—you—both of us! He is awfully annoyed!
Sir P. (recklessly). It is useless to appeal to me, child. I have enough to do to look after myself—now.
[Enter Spiker, indignant.
Spiker. Pretty treatment for a gentleman, this! Look here, Poshbury, this young lady has choked me with a cushion, and then pitched me down the front steps—I might have broken my neck.
Sir P. It was an oversight which I lament, but for which I must decline to be answerable. You must settle your differences with her.
Spiker. And you too, old horse! You had a hand in this, I know, and I'll pay you out for it now. My life ain't safe if I marry a girl like that, so I've made up my mind to split and be done with it!
Sir P. (contemptuously). If you don't, Blethers will. So do your worst, you hound!
Spiker. Very well then; I will. (To the rest.) I denounce this man for travelling with a half-ticket from Edgware Road to Baker Street on his thirteenth birthday, the 31st of March twenty-seven years ago this very day! [Sensation.
Blethers. Hear me! It was not his thirteenth birthday; Sir Poshbury's birthday falls on the 1st of April—to-morrow! I was sent to register the birth, and, by a blunder, which I have repented bitterly ever since, unfortunately gave the wrong date. Till this moment I have never had the manliness or sincerity to confess my error, for fear of losing my situation.
Sir P. (to Spiker). Do you hear, you paltry knave? I was not thirteen. Consequently, I was under age, and the Bye-laws are still unbroken. Your hold over me is gone—gone for ever!
Spiker. H'm—Spiker spiked this time!
[Retires up disconcerted.
Lord Bl. And you did not really love him, after all, Verbena?
Verb. (with arch pride). Have I not proved my indifference?
Lord Bl. But I forget—you admitted that you were but trifling with my affection—take back your pin-cushion!
Verb. Keep it. All that I did was done to spare my father!
Sir Posh. Who, as a matter of fact, was innocent—but I forgive you, child, for your unworthy suspicions. Bleshugh, my boy, you have saved me from unnecessarily depriving myself of the services of an old retainer. Blethers, I condone a dissimulation for which you have done much to atone. Spiker, you vile and miserable rascal, be off, and be thankful that I have sufficient magnanimity to refrain from giving you in charge. (Spiker sneaks off crushed.) And now, my children, and my faithful old servant, congratulate me that I am no longer——
Verbena and Lord Bleshugh (together). Under the Harrow!
[Affecting Family Tableau and quick Curtain.
Once more we draw upon our favourite source of inspiration—the poems of the Misses Taylor. The dramatist is serenely confident that the new London County Council Censor of Plays, whenever that much-desired official is appointed, will highly approve of this little piece on account of the multiplicity of its morals. It is intended to teach, amongst other useful lessons, that—as the poem on which it is founded puts it—"Fruit in lanes is seldom good"; also, that it is not always prudent to take a hint: again, that constructive murder is distinctly reprehensible, and should never be indulged in by persons who cannot control their countenances afterwards. Lastly, that suicide may often be averted by the exercise of a little savoir vivre.
Characters.
Tommy and his Sister Jane (Taylorian Twins, and awful examples).
Their Wicked Uncle (plagiarised from a forgotten Nursery Story, and slightly altered).
Old Farmer Copeer (skilled in the use of horse and cattle medicines).
Scene—A shady lane; on the right, a gate, leading to the farm; left, some bushes, covered with practicable scarlet berries.
Enter the Wicked Uncle, stealthily.
The W. U. No peace of mind I e'er shall know again
Till I have cooked the geese of Tom and Jane!
But—though a naughty—I'm a nervous nunky,
For downright felonies I'm far too funky!
I'd hire assassins—but of late the villains
Have raised their usual fee to fifteen shillin's!
Nor, to reduce their rates, will they engage
(Sympathetically) For two poor orphans who are under age!
So (as I'd give no more than half a guinea)
I must myself get rid of Tom and Jenny.
Yet, like an old soft-hearted fool, I falter,
And can't make up my mind to risk a halter.
(Looking off.) Ha, in the distance, Jane and little Tom I see!
These berries—(meditatively)—why, it only needs diplomacy.
Ho-ho, a most ingenious experiment!
[Indulges in silent and sinister mirth, as Jane and Tom trip in, and regard him with innocent wonder.
Jane. Uncle, what is the joke? Why all this merriment?
The W. U. (in guilty confusion). Not merriment, my loves—a trifling spasm—
Don't be alarmed—your Uncle often has 'em!
I'm feeling better than I did at first—
You're looking flushed, though not, I hope, with thirst?
[Insidiously.
Song, by the Wicked Uncle.
The sun is scorching overhead;
The roads are dry and dusty;
And here are berries, ripe and red,
Refreshing when you're thusty!
They're hanging just within your reach,
Inviting you to clutch them!
But—as your Uncle—I beseech
You won't attempt to touch them?
Tommy and Jane (dutifully). We'll do whatever you beseech, and not attempt to touch them!
[Annoyance of W. U.
The W. U. Temptation (so I've understood)
A child, in order kept, shuns;
And fruit in lanes is seldom good
(With several exceptions).
However freely you partake,
It can't—as you are young—kill,
But should it cause a stomach-ache—
Well, don't you blame your Uncle!
Tommy and Jane. No, should it cause a stomach-ache, we will not blame our Uncle!
The W. U. (aside). They'll need no further personal assistance,
But take the bait when I am at a distance.
I could not, were I paid a thousand ducats,
(With sentiment) Stand by, and see them kick their little buckets,
Or look on while their sticks this pretty pair cut!
[Stealing off.
Tommy. What, Uncle, going?
The W. U. (with assumed jauntiness). Just to get my hair cut! [Goes.
Tommy (looking wistfully at the berries). I say, they do look nice, Jane, such a lot too!
Jane (demurely). Well, Tommy, Uncle never told us not to.
[Slow music; they gradually approach the berries, which they pick and eat with increasing relish, culminating in a dance of delight.
Duet—Tommy and Jane (with step-dance).
Tommy (dancing, with his mouth full). These berries ain't so bad—although they've far too much acidity.
Jane (ditto). To me, their only drawback is a dash of insipidity.
Tommy (rudely). But, all the same, you're wolfing 'em with wonderful avidity!
Jane (indignantly). No, that I'm not, so there now!
Tommy (calmly). But you are!
Jane. And so are you!
[They retire up, dancing, and eat more berries—after which they gaze thoughtfully at each other.
Jane. This fruit is most refreshing—but it's curious how it cloys on you!
Tommy (with anxiety). I wonder why all appetite for dinner it destroys in you!
Jane. Oh, Tommy, aren't you half afraid you've ate enough to poison you?
Tommy. No, that I'm not—so there now! &c., &c.
[They dance as before.
Tommy. Jane, is your palate parching up in horrible aridity?
Jane. It is, and in my throat's a lump of singular solidity.
Tommy. Then that is why you're dancing with such pokerlike rigidity.
[Refrain as before; they dance with decreasing spirit, and finally stop, and fan one another with their hats.
Jane. I'm better now that on my brow there is a little breeziness.
Tommy. My passing qualm is growing calm, and tightness turns to easiness.
Jane. You seem to me tormented by a tendency to queasiness?
[Refrain; they attempt to continue the dance—but suddenly sit down side by side.
Jane (with a gasp). I don't know what it is—but, oh, I do feel so peculiar!
Tommy (with a gulp). I've tumults taking place within that I may say unruly are.
Jane. Why, Tommy, you are turning green—you really and you truly are!
Tommy. No, that I'm not, so there now!
Jane. But you are!
Tommy. And so are you!
[Melancholy music; to which Tommy and Jane, after a few convulsive movements, gradually become inanimate. Enter old Farmer Copeer from gate, carrying a large bottle labelled "Cattle Medicine."
Farmer C. It's time I gave the old bay mare her drench.
[Stumbles over the children.
What's here? A lifeless lad!—and little wench!
Been eating berries—where did they get them idees?
For cows, when took so, I've the reg'lar remedies.
I'll try 'em here—and if their state the worse is,
Why, they shall have them balls I give my 'erses!
[Carries the bodies off just before the W. U. re-enters.
W. U. The children—gone? yon bush of berries less full!
Hooray, my little stratagem's successful!
[Dances a triumphant pas seul. Re-enter Farmer C.
Farmer C. Been looking for your little niece and nephew?
The W. U. Yes, searching for them everywhere—
Farmer C. (ironically). Oh, hev' you?
Then let me tell you, from all pain they're free, Sir.
The W. U. (falling on his knees). I didn't poison them—it wasn't me, Sir!
[Exit.
The W. U. My wretched nerves again! This time I'm done for!
Well, though I'm trapped, and useless all disguise is,
My case shall ne'er come on at the Assizes!
[Rushes desperately to tree and crams himself with the remaining berries, which produce an almost instantaneous effect. Re-enter Tom and Jane from gate, looking pale and limp. Terror of the Wicked Uncle as he turns and recognises them.
The W. U. (with tremulous politeness). The shades of Jane and Tommy, I presume?
[Re-enter Farmer C.
Jane and Tommy (pointing to Farmer C.) His Cattle Mixtures snatched us from the tomb!
The W. U. (with a flicker of hope). Why, then the self-same drugs will ease my torments!
Farmer C. (chuckling). Too late! they've drunk the lot, the little vormints!
The W. U. (bitterly). So out of life I must inglorious wriggle,
Pursued by Tommy's grin, and Jenny's giggle!
[Dies in great agony, while Tommy, Jane, and Farmer Copeer look on with mixed emotions as the Curtain falls.
"Miss Jenny and Polly had each a new dolly."—Vide Poem.
Characters.
| Miss Jenny Miss Polly |
} | By the Sisters Leamar. |
| The Soldier Doll The Sailor Doll |
} | By the Two Armstrongs. |
Scene—A Nursery. Enter Miss Jenny and Miss Polly, who perform a blameless step-dance with an improving chorus.
Oh, isn't it jolly! we've each a new dolly,
And one is a Soldier, the other's a Tar;
We're fully contented with what's been presented,
Such good little children we both of us are!
[They dance up to a cupboard, from which they bring out two large Dolls, which they place on chairs.
Miss J. Don't they look nice! Come, Polly, let us strive
To make ourselves believe that they're alive!
Miss P. (addressing Sailor D.). I'm glad you're mine. I dote on all that's nautical.
The Sailor D. (opening his eyes suddenly). Excuse me, Miss, your sister's more my sort o' gal.
[Kisses his hand to Miss J., who shrinks back, shocked and alarmed.
Miss J. Oh, Polly, did you hear? I feel so shy!
The Sailor D. (with mild self-assertion). I can say "Pa" and "Ma"—and wink my eye.
[Does so at Miss P., who runs in terror to Miss J.'s side.
Miss J. Why, both are showing signs of animation.
Miss P. Who'd think we had such strong imagination!
The Soldier Doll (aside to the Sailor D.). I say, old fellow, we have caught their fancy—
In each of us they now a real man see!
Let's keep it up!
The Sailor D. (dubiously.) D'ye think as we can do it?
The Soldier D. You stick by me, and I will see you through it.
Sit up, and turn your toes out,—don't you loll;
Put on the Man, and drop the bloomin' Doll!
[The Sailor Doll pulls himself together, and rises from chair importantly.
The Sailor D. (in the manner of a Music-hall Chairman)—
Ladies, with your kind leave, this gallant gent
Will now his military sketch present.
[Miss J. and P. applaud: the Soldier D., after feebly expostulating, is induced to sing.
Song, by the Soldier Doll.
When I used to be displayed,
In the Burlington Arcade,
With artillery arrayed
Underneath.
Shoulder Hump
I imagine that I made
All the Lady Dolls afraid,
I should draw my battle-blade
From its sheath,
Shoulder Hump
For I'm Mars's gallant son,
And my back I've shown to none,
Nor was ever seen to run
From the strife!
Shoulder Hump!
Oh, the battles I'd have won,
And the dashing deeds have done,
If I'd ever fired a gun
In my life!
Shoulder Hump!
Refrain (to be sung marching round Stage).
By your right flank, Wheel!
Let the front rank kneel!
With the bristle of the steel
To the foe.
Till their regiments reel,
At our rattling peal,
And the military zeal
We show!
[Repeat, with the whole company marching round after him.
The Soldier Doll. My friend will next oblige—this jolly Jack Tar.
Will give his song and chorus in charàck-tar!
[Same business with Sailor D.
Song, by the Sailor Doll.
In costume I'm
So maritime,
You'd never suppose the fact is,
That with the Fleet
In Regent Street,
I'd precious little naval practice!
There was saucy craft,
Rigged fore an' aft,
Inside o' Mr. Cre-mer's.
From Noah's Arks to Clipper-built barques,
Like-wise mechanical stea-mers.
Chorus.
But to navigate the Serpentine,
Yeo-ho, my lads, ahoy!
With clockwork, sails, or spirits of wine,
Yeo-ho, my lads, ahoy!
I did respeckfully decline,
So I was left in port to pine,
Which wasn't azactually the line
Of a rollicking Sailor Boy, Yeo-ho!
Of a rollicking Sailor Bo-oy!
Yes, there was lots
Of boats and yachts,
Of timber and of tin, too;
But one and all
Was far too small
For a doll o' my size to get into
I was too big
On any brig
To ship without disas-ter,
And it wouldn't never do
When the cap'n and the crew
Were a set 'o little swabs all plaster!
Chorus—So to navigate the Serpentine, &c.
An Ark is p'raps
The berth for chaps
As is fond o' Natural Hist'ry.
But I sez to Shem
And the rest o' them,
"How you get along at all's a myst'ry!
With a Wild Beast Show
Let loose below,
And four fe-males on deck too!
I never could agree
With your happy fami-lee,
And your lubberly ways I objeck to."
[Chorus. Hornpipe by the company, after which the Soldier Doll advances condescendingly to Miss Jenny.
The Sold. D. Invincible I'm reckoned by the Ladies,
But yield to you—though conquering my trade is!
Miss J. (repulsing him). Oh, go away, you great conceited thing, you!
[The Sold. D. persists in offering her attentions.
Miss P. (watching them bitterly). To be deserted by one's doll does sting you!
[The Sailor D. approaches.
The Sailor D. (to Miss P.) Let me console you, Miss, a Sailor Doll
As swears his 'art was ever true to Poll!
(N.B.—Good opportunity for Song here.)
Miss P. (indignantly to Miss J.) Your Sailor's teasing me to be his idol!
Do make him stop—(spitefully)—When you've quite done with my doll!
Miss J. (scornfully.) If you suppose I want your wretched warrior,
I'm sorry for you!
Miss P. I for you am sorrier.
Miss J. (weeping, r.). Polly preferred to me—what ignominy!
Miss P. (weeping, l.). My horrid Soldier jilting me for Jenny!
[The two Dolls face one another, c.
Sailor D. (to Soldier D.). You've made her sluice her sky-lights now, you swab!
Soldier D. (to Sailor D.). As you have broke her heart, I'll break your nob! [Hits him.
Sailor D. (in a pale fury). This insult must be blotted out in bran!
Soldier D. (fiercely). Come on, I'll shed your sawdust—if I can!
[Miss J. and P. throw themselves between the combatants.
Miss J. For any mess you make we shall be scolded,
So wait until a drugget we've unfolded!
[They lay down drugget on Stage.
The Soldier D. (politely). No hurry, Miss, we don't object to waiting.
The Sailor D. (aside). His valour—like my own—'s evaporating!
(Defiantly to Soldier D.). On guard! You'll see how soon I'll run you through!
(Confidentially.) (If you will not prod me, I won't pink you.)
The Soldier D. Through your false kid my deadly blade I'll pass!
(Confidentially.) (Look here, old fellow, don't you be a hass!)
[They exchange passes at a considerable distance.