Now that Sir J. M. BARRIE has shown us the Transatlantic kinema man's
idea of the perfect _Macbeth_, it is up to the purveyor of American
films to retaliate by presenting one of his plots for ordinary stage
performance in the Kirriemuir manner. Here and there an inadvertent
touch of Western colour may be anticipated.
Scene.--_Kensington Gardens. The_ Heroine--_oh, the little love!--is
taking a dander round the "Keep off the Grass" boards. Her feet are
bare, and this is probably the reason why from time to time she dances
among the trees. In the background the Hero, wearing a divided kilt,
rides about on a horse. Having thus given the audience time to settle,
the play starts._
_Heroine_ (_perceiving_ Hero). Gee! there's that rube I met up North.
Sic a bonny lad too! (_sighing sadly_). But he hasna much siller, I'm
sair misdootin'. Guess there's no twelve-pound look about him.
_Hero_ (_dashing up and dismounting_). Wal, I wanter know. Say, ain't
you the peach I useter see from my window in Thrums?
_Heroine_ (_coyly_). Havers!
_Hero_ (_not to be outdone_), Dagont!
[_She strolls away with her chin in the air, her shoes and stockings in
her hands, and the famous red light in her eye. She goes behind a tree,
and the_ Hero, _thinking she has retired there to greet sadly, follows
to console her. However, he discovers that she is merely resuming her
footgear, and he retreats modestly._]
_Hero_ (_rolling his eyes wildly to denote love_). A snod bit lassie,
that. I mean to say--I--ay! Juist so! Ay, ou ay!
_Heroine_ (_returning with her shoes on_). For the love of Mike--I mean
Losh keep's!--are you still here?
_Hero._ That's so. I wanter put you wise about me. I ain't no boob, as
you seemter think. You can bet your rubbers on that. Maybe you're
thinkin' that I'm but a puir laddie. Wal, let _me_ tell _you_ you're
guessin' wrong. I'm an author--I do writin' stunts. And if I don't swell
around in new pants all afternoon it's only because I have to keep all
my cheques among the crumbs in my tobacco pouch. I _have_ to do it. All
the best Scots writers do it. We call it Arcadian Mixture.
_Heroine._ Guess that rollers out the course of true love some. But let
_me_ tell _you_ there's another feller after me--a puir feckless body of
a villain. And, Losh preserve us, here he comes!
[_The_ Villain _enters. He looks rather like a revue-producer who has
seen better nights. The_ Hero, _overcome by bashfulness at being
discovered in conversation with a female, conceals himself behind his
accent._]
_Villain._ See here, gal, you just gotter marry me.
_Heroine._ Shucks! I should say, Dinna blether, ma mannie.
[_The_ Hero _creeps cautiously out of ambush._]
_Villain_ (_caressingly_). I have always loved my little Mary.
_Hero_ (_subtly ironic_). Imphm! Imphm! Ou ay, imphm!
_Villain_ (_surprised but finding a way_). Oh, the dears! oh, the
darlings!
_Hero_ (_bewildered_). What's all that blatherskite, any old way?
_Villain_ (_privily drawing bludgeon_). It was Sneeky Hobart who never
went to kirk again after they substituted tin plates for the usual cloth
collecting-bags.
_Hero_ (_perplexed and off his guard_). Guess you've gone bughouse,
sonny. I mean, I'm no quick in the uptak'----
_Villain._ Are ye no? (_brandishing bludgeon_). Well, I am! (_He fells
the_ Hero _senseless to the ground._) And noo, lassie, I can sorter
concentrate on you.
_Heroine_ (_in the most ladylike way_). Help! oh, help!
_Villain._ Say, you don't seemter freeze on to me, somehow. But you must
and shall be mine! Come awa', lassie.
[_He seizes her and she resists. Meanwhile the_ Hero, _who fell on to a
clump of genuine thistles, makes a superbly-rapid recovery from his
unconsciousness._]
_Villain_ (_pausing to mop his brow_). Say, you'll got my goat for sure
if you kick up like this, lassie.
_Heroine._ Gee! That's a great idea. If only Peter Pan's goat----
[_The_ Hero, _inspired, crawls away unnoticed._]
_Villain_ (_preparing to renew the struggle_). Lassie, I'm quite sweered
o' you. There's an awesome look in your eye. And can ye no be more
ladylike in your fechting? Remember whose heroine you are.
[_He again strives to bear her off. The_ Hero, _having broken off a
couple of branches and affixed them to his head--a little trick he
learned from the Admirable Crichton--now returns disguised as a goat. He
rushes at Villain, who flees and scales the park railings. But his
overcoat collar catches in the spikes, and he hangs suspended and
helpless. In that position he slowly starves, and dies inconspicuously
as the_ Hero _and_ Heroine _finish the play._]
_Hero_ (_extending his arms_). Say, is it a deal? I mean, will ye ha'e
us, lassie?
_Heroine_ (_with little wells of gladness in her eyes_). It's a cinch.
Guess you're Mr. Smart from Smartville. Ay, I'm thinkin' I'll tak' you.
But you men are fickle callants--that's what every woman knows. Come
awa' and let's find a little meenister at once.
_Hero._ Oh, joy! oh, rapture! oh, rosy rapture! [_They embrace and
exeunt_.]
_The Audience_. Hoots!
Curtain.
* * * * *