Henry (like a man). By Jove! (lookLITTLE PLAYS FOR AMATEURS. ing at his watch)—I had no idea-is it II." A SLIGHT MISUNDERSTANDING." really-poor old Joe-waiting The scene is a drawing-room (in which the men are allowed to smoke—or a are allowed to draw-it doesn't [Dashes out tactfully in a state of incoherence. you must be quick. Because I'm enIsobel (looking at her watch). Well, gaged George (rising and leading Isobel to smoking-room in which the women the front of the stage). Miss Barley, much matter) in the house of something I want to say to you. now that we are alone I have somebody or other in the country. George Turnbull and his old College friend, Henry Peterson, are confiding in each other, as old friends will, over their whiskies and cigars. It is about three o'clock in the afternoon. George (dreamily, helping himself to a stiff soda). Henry, do you remember that evening at Christ Church College, five years ago, when we opened our hearts to each other. ... Henry (lighting a cigar and hiding it in a fern-pot). That moonlight evening on the Backs, George, when I had failed in my Matriculation examination ? George. Yes; and we promised that when either of us fell in love the other should be the first to hear of it? (Rising solemnly.) Henry, the moment has come. (With shining eyes.) I am in love. Henry (jumping up and grasping him by both hands). George! My dear old George! (In a voice broken with emotion) Bless you, George ! [He pats him thoughtfully on the back three times, nods his head twice, gives him a final grip of the hand, and returns to his chair. George (more moved by this than he cares to show). Thank you, Henry. (Hoarsely.) You 're a good fellow. Henry (airily, with a typically British desire to conceal his emotion). Who is the lucky little lady? George (taking out a picture postcard of the British Museum and kissing it passionately). Isobel Barley! [If Henry is not careful he will probably give a start of surprise here, with the idea of suggesting to the audience that he (1) knows something about the lady's past, or (2) is in love with her himself. He is, however, thinking of a different play. We shall come to that one in a week or two. Henry (in a slightly dashing manner). Little Isobel? Lucky dog! George. I wish I could think so. (Sighs.) But I have yet to approach her, and she may be another's. [George drops her hand and staggers away from her. Isobel. Why, what's the matter? George (to the audience, in a voice expressing the very deeps of emotion). Engaged! She is engaged! I am too late! [He sinks into a chair and covers his face with his hands. Isobel (surprised). Mr. Turnbull! What has happened? Isobel. But he was here a moment ago. Henry. Yes, he's only just gone. Isobel. Why didn't he say good-bye? (Eagerly.) But perhaps he left a message for me? (Henry shakes his head.) Nothing? (Henry bows silently and leaves the room.) Oh! (She gives a cry and throws herself on the sofa.) And I loved him! George, George, why didn't you speak? [Enter George hurriedly. He is fully dressed for a shooting expedition in the Rocky Mountains, and carries a rifle under his arm. George (to the audience). I have just come back for my pocket-handkerchief. I must have dropped it in here somewhere. (He begins to search for it, and in the ordinary course of things comes upon Isobel on the sofa. He puts his rifle down carefully on a table, with the muzzle pointing at the prompter rather than at the audience, and staggers back.) Merciful heavens ! Isobel ! George (waving her away with one hand). Go! Leave me! I can bear Dead! (He falls on his knees beside this best alone. (Exit Isobel.) Merci- the sofa.) My love, speak to me! ful heavens, she is plighted to another! Isobel (softly). George! Enter Henry. Henry (eagerly). Well, old man? George (raising a face white with misery-that is to say, if he has remembered to put the French chalk in the palms of his hands). Henry, I am too late! She is another's! Henry (in surprise). Whose? George (with dignity). I did not ask her. It is nothing to me. Good-bye, Henry. Be kind to her. George. She is alive! Isobel! Isobel. Don't go, George! George. My dear, I love you! But when I heard that you were another's, honour compelled me Isobel (sitting up quickly). What do you mean by another's? George. You said you were engaged! Isobel (suddenly realizing how the dreadful misunderstanding arose which nearly wrecked two lives). But I only meant I was engaged to play tennis with Lady Carbrook! Henry. Why, where are you going? George (firmly). To the Rocky George. What a fool I have been! Mountains. I shall shoot some bears. (He hurries on before the audience can Grizzly ones. shall forget my grief. It may be that thus I assent.) Then, Isobel, you will be mine? Isobel. Yes, George. And you won't Henry (after a pause). Perhaps you go and shoot nasty bears, will you, are right, George. What shall I tell-dear? Not even grizzly ones? Her? George (taking her in his arms). George. Tell her nothing. But Never, darling. That was only (turning should anything (feeling casually in his to the audience with the air of one who pockets) happen to me-if (going over is making his best point) A SLIGHT them again quickly) I do not come back, MISUNDERSTANDING. then (searching them all, including the waistcoat ones, in desperate haste), give her-give her-give her (triumphantly bringing his handkerchief out of the last pocket) this, and say that my last thought was of her. Good-bye, my old friend. Good-bye. [Exit to Rocky Mountains. Enter Isobel. CURTAIN. A. A. M. Naval Supremacy. "Lady Curzon-Howe will perform the cere mony of laying the first plate of the King George V. at Portsmouth. "TO-DAY'S DIARY.-Launching of the King George V. at Portsmouth. '-Dai y Express. Isobel. Why, where's Mr. Turn-If any other nation can do it more (Fiercely) Heavens, Henry, if she bull? should be another's! Enter Isobel. Henry (sadly). He's gone. Isobel. Gone? Where? Henry. To the Rocky Mountains. Isobel (brightly). So I've run you to To shoot bears. (Feeling that some earth at last. Now what have you further explanation is needed.) Grizzly got to say for yourselves? ones, you know. quickly than that we shall be surprised. "ENGLISHMAN'S ADVENTURE Not barbed wire, we trust. OUR DEBT TO MR. DOTT. [A letter signed P. MCOMISH DOTT appears in The Outlook of January 14th expressing the fear that England is falling into senile decay.] THOUGH a man of simple nature, living in a humdrum way, To the spell of nomenclature I have always fall'n a prey; Names with me are an obsession, thickening the thinnest plot, But my tastiest possession is the last, MCOMISH DOTT. Latterly, while curio-hunting, I acquired some splendid loot, Bracketing Sir PERCY BUNTING with his friend Sir JESSE Boot, my Now in even fuller measure there has fallen to lot I've collected Mustard, Smellie, Hog with but a single "g," But I give my vote-a plumper-unto P. McOMISH DOTT. LOWTHER BRIDGER'S lucubrations long have ceased to give me joy, KIPLING COMMON's coruscations my fastidious palate cloy; But a rapture fine and frantic, such as centred in Shalott, Lurks within the rich, romantic name of P. McOMISH DOTT. Somewhere in the Boreal regions first his sanguine star arose, Where the Macs abound in legions, alternating with the O's; There he tossed the caber daily, there the golden eagle shot, There the giant capercailzie fell to P. MCOMISH DOTT. Fed on mountain dew in Jura, and eschewing Saxon swipes, Soon he mastered the bravura of the devastating pipes; Or amid the glens and corries traced the stag's elusive slot, Far from dull suburban "swarries," sturdy P. MCOмISH DOTT. Then he swept the board at college, gathering in his mental net Every earthly form of knowledge from CONFUCIUS to Till-for so the gossips tell us-Admiral Sir PERCY SCOTT Hand-in-hand with ELLIS BARKER-happy P. MCOMISH Last of all we see him, scorning our misgivings to assuage, Query:-Is the P for Peter, Parsifal or Peregrine? "Old Age Prevented.-Eat orange flower honey."-Advt. in "Daily Mail." Can this be yet another example of commercial candour? too. An' the master 'e says to me Jim, you go back to that gorse we drew, For it's there them beggars 'll be!" Oh, gatherin' 'ounds is the job I love, W'en the dark comes down on the thorn, An' the moon is 'ung in the sky above An' the dips like a witch o' fear- Will be 'alfway 'ome by now, O' course, if you're sent for a 'ound wot lags You must do as you 're ordered 'ow; An' it's allus the custom, so I've found, With a pack worth callin' a pack, That a whip goes back for the missin' 'ound, An' it's mostly me goes back! Though I know the beggars is runnin' the road On a breast-'igh scent o' soup, Will I use my brains? No, I'll be blowed If I'd ever so 'umble stoop. If they think that a fox-'ound don't 'ave wits, say; Let 'em think so, then, I Some folk must gather up sense by bits As a fed 'oss gathers 'is 'ay! An' that 's wy I ride so cheery back W'en the master says to me, "Jim"-wi' 'is keen heye over the pack "I am two 'ounds short, or three!" An' that's wy I'm Houtcast's honly friend, An' 'Armony's lifelong pal, Because if they kept wi' the pack to the end, Well, 'ow would I see my gal? From The Queen of Jan. 14th:"A new story from the pen of Mrs. Molesworth can never fail to be welcome, and especially at this season, with Christmas No, I don't 'alf mind keepin' long late presents looming in the near future." hours, For it's all in the day for me, An' I know there's a glass to be 'ad at The Towers, An' there's Oakwood Farm for tea, With a pai. o gruel all mixed, I guess, "The painter, whose art is of a well-curbed and moderate modernity, has, however, no very strong artistic personality: you would not stand befor one of his pictures and say "That is a Leech!"-Daily Telegraph. An' a stall that the old 'oss knows, We know one painter before whose An' a seat by the kitchen fire wi' Bess, pictures you would not stand and say W'en the cook an' the 'ousemaid" That is a Cow." At least not with goes! any certainty. THE PREAMBULATOR. [The Preamble to the Parliament Bill is threatened with strong opposition from the Labour Party.] |