THREE PLAYS
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
THE DAY’S PLAY
THE HOLIDAY ROUND
ONCE A WEEK
ONCE ON A TIME
NOT THAT IT MATTERS
IF I MAY
FIRST PLAYS
SECOND PLAYS
THE SUNNY SIDE
MR. PIM
THE RED HOUSE MYSTERY
THREE PLAYS
BY A. A. MILNE
LONDON
CHATTO & WINDUS
1923
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY
R. & R. CLARK, LTD., EDINBURGH
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
To DAFF
FOR MAKING THE FAIRY-BOOKS COME TRUE
Applications regarding Amateur Performances of the Plays in this
Volume should be addressed to Samuel French, Ltd., 26 Southampton
Street, Strand, London, W.C.2.
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE GREAT BROXOPP 1
THE DOVER ROAD 93
THE TRUTH ABOUT BLAYDS 179
_These plays are printed here in the order in which they were
written._
INTRODUCTION
I wanted not to write an introduction to these three plays, but
circumstances are too strong for me. Yet, after all, what is to be
said but, to the public, “Here they are; like them,” and, to the
critics, “Here they are; fall on them”? But apparently this is not
enough. I must think of something else.
There was a happy time when I was a critic myself. I, too, have lived
in that Arcady. What nights were then! Red-letter nights when the play
was bad, and in one short hour, standing on the body of the dramatist,
I had delivered my funeral oration; black-letter nights when the play
was good, and it took six hours of solid pushing, myself concealed by
the fellow’s person, to place him fairly in the sun. The years slip
away. Yet even now I have something of my old style. Here, lest you
should think I am boasting, is my _Hamlet_. Yes, by the enterprise of
_The Saturday Review_, I was present on that historic first night.
For, lately, this paper stimulated its readers, with promise of
reward, to imagine themselves there as critics, and I brushed up my
old black doublet and went with the others. Interested, you know, in
this young provincial dramatist; hoping against hope that here at last
was the.... However, luckily the play was a bad one, and (proud am I
to say it) I won the prize.
HAMLET
Mr. William Shakespeare, whose well-meaning little costume play
_Hamlet_ was given in London for the first time last week, bears
a name that is new to us, although we understand, or at least are
so assured by the management, that he has a considerable local
reputation in Warwickshire as a sonneteer. Why a writer of
graceful little sonnets should have the ambition, still less
conceive himself to have the ability, to create a tragic play
capable of holding the attention of a London audience for three
hours, we are unable to imagine. Merely to kill off seven (or was
it eight?) of the leading characters in a play is not to write a
tragedy. It is not thus that the great master-dramatists have
purged our souls with pity and with terror. Mr. Shakespeare, like
so many other young writers, mistakes violence for power, and, in
his unfortunate lighter moments, buffoonery for humour. The real
tragedy of last night was that a writer should so misunderstand
and misuse the talent given to him.
For Mr. Shakespeare, one cannot deny, has talent. He has a certain
pleasing gift of words. Every now and then a neat line catches the
ear, as when Polonius (well played by Mr. Macready Jones) warns
his son that “borrowing often loses a man his friends,” or when
Hamlet himself refers to death as “a shuffling off of this mortal
toil.” But a succession of neat lines does not make a play. We
require something more. Our interest must be held throughout: not
by such well-worn stage devices as the appearance of a ghostly
apparition, who strikes terror into the hearts only of his
fellow-actors; not by comic clowning business at a grave-side; but
by the spiritual development of the characters. Mr. Shakespeare’s
characters are no more than mouthpieces for his rhythmic musings.
We can forgive a Prince of Denmark for soliloquising in blank
verse to the extent of fifty lines, recognising this as a
legitimate method of giving dignity to a royal pronouncement; but
what are we to say of a Captain of Infantry who patly finishes off
a broken line with the exact number of syllables necessary to
complete the _iambus_? Have such people any semblance to life at
all? Indeed, the whole play gives us the impression of having been
written to the order of a manager as a means of displaying this or
that “line” which, in the language of the day, he can “do just
now.” Soliloquies (unhampered by the presence of rivals) for the
popular star, a mad scene for the leading lady (in white), a ghost
for the electrician, a duel for the Academy-trained fencers, a
scene in dumb-show for the cinema-trained rank-and-file—our
author has provided for them all. No doubt there is money in it,
and a man must live. But frankly we prefer Mr. Shakespeare as a
writer of sonnets.
So much for Mr. Shakespeare. I differ from him (as you were about
to say) in that I prefer to see my plays printed, and he obviously
preferred to see his acted. People sometimes say to me: “How
beautifully Mary Brown played that part, and wasn’t John Smith’s
creation wonderful, and how tremendously grateful you must be.” She
did; it was; I am. The more I see of actors and actresses at
rehearsals (and it is only at rehearsals of your own plays that you
can see them at all, or learn anything of their art), by so much the
more do I admire, am I amazed by, their skill. There are heights and
depths and breadths and subtleties in acting, still more in producing,
of which the casual playgoer, even the regular playgoer if he only
sees the stage from the front, knows nothing. But the fact remains
that, to the author, the part must always seem better than the player.
That great actor John Smith may “create” the part of Yorick, but the
author created it first, and created it, to his own vision, every bit
as much in flesh and blood as did, later, the actor. You may read the
plays here, and say that this or the other character does not “live,”
meaning by this that you are unable to visualise him, unable to
imagine for yourself, granted the circumstance, a person so acting, so
reacting. Well—“If it be so, so it is, you know”; it is very easy not
to be a great artist; I have failed. But do not believe that, because
a character does not live for you, therefore it does not live for the
author. While we are writing, how can we help seeing the fellow? We
shut our eyes, and he is there; we open them, and he is there; we dip
our pen into the ink-pot, and he is waiting on the edge for us. We
shake him out on to the paper.... Ah, but now he is dead, you say.
Well, well, he lived a moment before.
So when John Smith “creates” the character of Yorick, he creates him
in his own image—John Smith-Yorick; a great character, it may be, to
those who see him thus for the first time, but lacking something to us
who have lived with the other for months. For the other was plain
Yorick—and only himself could play him. Alas, poor Yorick, I knew him
well, a fellow of most excellent fancy. Would that you could know him
too! Well, you may find him in the printed page ... or you may not ...
but here only, if anywhere, is he to be found.
A. A. M.
THE GREAT BROXOPP
FOUR CHAPTERS IN HIS LIFE
CHARACTERS
Broxopp.
Nancy (_his wife_).
Jack (_his son_).
Sir Roger Tenterden.
Iris Tenterden.
Honoria Johns.
Ronald Derwent.
Norah Field.
Benham.
Mary.
Alice.
* * * * *
_The Scene is laid in the Broxopp home of the period._
_Twenty-four years pass between Act I. and Act II., eighteen months
between Act II. and Act III., and a year between Act III. and Act IV._
* * * * *
The first performance of this play in London took place at the St.
Martin’s Theatre on March 6, 1923, with the following cast:
_Nancy Broxopp_ Mary Jerrold.
_Mary_ Margaret Carter.
_Broxopp_ Edmund Gwenn.
_Benham_ J. H. Roberts.
_Alice_ Gwen Hubbard.
_Honoria Johns_ Marjorie Gabain.
_Jack Broxopp_ Ian Hunter.
_Iris Tenterden_ Faith Celli.
_Sir Roger Tenterden_ Dawson Milward.
_Norah Field_ Beatrix Thomson.
_Ronald Derwent_ Richard Bird.
THE GREAT BROXOPP
ACT I
SCENE: _The GREAT BROXOPP’S lodgings in Bloomsbury; a humble room in
late Victorian days, for BROXOPP has only just begun. He has been
married for six months, and we see NANCY (the dear) at work, while her
husband is looking for it. He is an advertising agent, in the days
when advertising agents did not lunch with peers and newspaper
proprietors. Probably he would prefer to call himself an “adviser to
men of business.” As we see from a large advertisement over the
sideboard—drawn and lettered by hand (NANCY’S)—he has been hoping to
advise SPENLOW on the best way to sell his suspenders. SPENLOW, we are
assured, “gives that natty appearance.” The comfort, says THE GREAT
ONE, in an inspired moment:_
“_The comfort is immense
With Spenlow’s great invention!
Other makes mean Suspense,
But Spenlow means Suspension!!_”
_Many such inspirations decorate the walls—some accepted, some even
paid for—and NANCY is now making a fair copy of one of them._
_MARY, the Broxopps’ servant—NANCY thought they could do without one,
but the GREAT BROXOPP wanted to be called “Yes, sir,” and insisted on
it—well then, MARY comes in._
* * * * *
NANCY (_without looking up_). Yes, Mary?
MARY. It’s about the dinner, ma’am.
NANCY (_with a sigh_). Yes, I was afraid it was. It isn’t a very nice
subject to talk about, is it, Mary?
MARY. Well, ma’am, it has its awkwardness like.
NANCY (_after a pause, but not very hopefully_). How is the joint
looking?
MARY. Well, it’s past looking like anything very much.
NANCY. Well, there’s the bone.
MARY. Yes, there’s the bone.
NANCY (_gaily_). Well, there we are, Mary. Soup.
MARY. If you remember, ma’am, we had soup yesterday.
NANCY (_wistfully_). Couldn’t you—couldn’t you squeeze it again,
Mary?
MARY. It’s past squeezing, ma’am—in this world.
NANCY. I was reading in a book the other day about two people who went
out to dinner one night—they always dine late in books, Mary—and
ordered a grilled bone. It seemed such a funny thing to have, when
they had everything else to choose from. I suppose _our_ bone——?
MARY. Grilling wouldn’t do it no good, ma’am.
NANCY. Well, I suppose we mustn’t blame it. It has been a good joint
to _us_.
MARY. A good stayer, as you might say.
NANCY. Yes. Well, I suppose we shall have to get another.
MARY. Yes, ma’am.
NANCY. Would you look in my purse? (_MARY goes to the sideboard and
opens the purse._) How much is there?
MARY. Three coppers and two stamps, ma’am.
NANCY. Oh! (_Determined to be brave_) Well, that’s fivepence.
MARY. They are halfpenny stamps, ma’am.
NANCY (_utterly undone_). Oh, Mary! What a very unfortunate morning
we’re having. (_Coaxingly_) Well, anyhow it’s fourpence, isn’t it?
MARY. Yes, ma’am.
NANCY. Well, now what can we get for fourpence?
MARY (_stolidly_). A turkey.
NANCY (_laughing with complete happiness_). Oh, Mary, don’t be so
gloomy about it. (_Collapsing into laughter again_) Let’s have two
turkeys—two tuppenny ones.
MARY. It’s enough to make any one gloomy to see a nice gentleman like
Mr. Broxopp and a nice lady like yourself starving in a garret.
NANCY. I don’t know what a garret is, but if this is one, I love
garrets. And we’re not starving; we’ve got fourpence. (_Becoming
practical again_) What about a nice chop?
MARY. It isn’t much for two of you.
NANCY. Three of us, Mary.
MARY. Oh, I can do all right on bread and cheese, ma’am.
NANCY. Well then, so can I. And Jim can have the chop. There! Now let
me get on with my work. (_Contemptuously to herself as she goes on
with her drawing_) Starving! And in a house _full_ of bread and
cheese!
MARY. Mr. Broxopp is not the sort of gentleman to eat a chop while his
wife is only eating a bit of cheese.
NANCY (_with love in her voice and eyes_). No, he isn’t! (_Proudly_)
Isn’t he a _fine_ man, Mary?
MARY. Yes, he’s a real gentleman is Mr. Broxopp. It’s queer he doesn’t
make more money.
NANCY. Well, you see, he’s an artist.
MARY (_surprised_). An artist? Now that’s funny, I’ve never seen him
painting any of his pictures.
NANCY. I don’t mean that sort of an artist. I mean he’s——
(_Wrinkling her forehead_) Now, how did he put it yesterday? He likes
ideas for their own sake. He wants to educate the public up to them.
He doesn’t believe in pandering to the public for money. He’s in
advance of his generation—like all great artists.
MARY (_hopefully_). Yes, ma’am.
NANCY (_pointing to the advertisement of Spenlow’s suspenders_). Now,
there you see what I mean. Now that’s what the artist in Mr. Broxopp
feels that a suspender-advertisement _ought_ to be like. But
Mr. Spenlow doesn’t agree with him. Mr. Spenlow says it’s above the
public’s head. And so he’s rejected Jim’s work. That’s the worst of
trying to work for a man like Mr. Spenlow. He doesn’t understand
artists. Jim says that if _he_ saw an advertisement like that, he’d
buy ten pairs at once, even if he never wore anything but kilts. And
Jim says you can’t work for men like that, and one day he’ll write
advertisements for something of his own.
MARY. Lor, ma’am! Well, I’ve often wondered myself if it was quite
decent for a gentleman like Mr. Broxopp to write about things that
aren’t spoken of in ordinary give-and-take conversation. But then——
NANCY (_with pretty dignity_). That is not the point, Mary. An artist
has no limitations of that sort. And—and you’re interrupting me at my
work.
MARY (_going over to her and just touching her lightly on the
shoulder_). Bless you, dearie, you _are_ fond of him, aren’t you?
NANCY. Oh, I just love him. (_Eagerly_) And he must have that chop to
himself, Mary, and I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll write him a
little note to say I’ve been invited out to dinner—and who do you
think is going to invite me? Why, you! And we’ll have our bread and
cheese together in the kitchen. Won’t that be fun? (_Suddenly looking
tragic_) Oh!
MARY. What’s the matter, ma’am?
NANCY. Why, perhaps he’ll go out again directly after dinner and then
I shan’t have seen him all day! (_After thinking it over_) No, Mary, I
shall have dinner with him. (_Firmly_) But I shall say I’m _not_
hungry. (_There is a sound of whistling on the stairs._) Listen,
there’s Jim! Oh, Mary, go quickly! He hasn’t seen me for such a long
time and he’ll like to find me alone.
MARY (_sympathetically_). _I_ know, ma’am.
[_She goes out._
(_The GREAT BROXOPP comes in. He wears a tail-coat of the period,
a wide-awake hat, and a spreading blue tie—“The Broxopp tie” as
it is called in later years. He is twenty-five at this time, but
might be any age, an impetuous, enthusiastic, flamboyant, simple
creature; candid, generous; a gentleman, yet with no manners; an
artist, yet not without vulgarity. His beliefs are simple. He
believes in himself and NANCY; but mostly in himself._)
BROXOPP. Nancy!
NANCY. Jim! (_She flies into his arms._)
BROXOPP (_releasing himself and looking at his watch_). Two hours and
twenty minutes since I kissed you, Nancy.
NANCY. Is that all? It seems so much longer.
BROXOPP (_comparing his watch with the clock_). You’re right; I’m a
little slow. It’s two hours and twenty-three minutes. I must have
another one. (_Has one._)
NANCY. Oh, Jim, darling, it’s lovely having you back. But you’re
early, aren’t you? Tell me what’s been happening.
BROXOPP (_trying to speak indifferently_). How do you know anything
has been happening?
NANCY (_excitedly_). Then it _has_! I knew it had! I felt it. Tell me
quickly! (_With a sudden change_) No, don’t tell me quickly, tell me
very, very slowly. Begin from the very beginning when you left here
after breakfast. (_Pleadingly_) Only just tell me first that it _is_
good news.
BROXOPP (_with an air_). Madam, you see in front of you the Great
Broxopp.
NANCY. Yes, but you’ve told me that every day since we’ve been
married.
BROXOPP (_momentarily shaken, but quickly recovering_). But you
believed it! Say you believed it!
NANCY. Of course I did.
BROXOPP (_strutting about the room_). Aha, _she_ knew! She recognised
the Great Broxopp. (_Striking an attitude_) And now the whole world
will know.
NANCY. Is it as wonderful as that?
BROXOPP. It is, Nancy, it is! I have been singing all the way home.
(_Seriously_) Nancy, when we have lots of money I think I shall learn
to sing. An artist like myself requires to give expression to his
feelings in his great moments. Several people on the bus objected to
my singing. I’m afraid they were right.
NANCY (_awed_). Are we going to have lots of money one day? Oh, quick,
tell me—but slowly right from the beginning. (_She arranges his chair
for him._) Or would you rather walk about, dear?
BROXOPP (_sitting down_). Well, I shall probably have to walk about
directly, but—Where are _you_ going to sit?
NANCY (_on the floor at his knees_). Here.
BROXOPP (_earnestly_). Nancy, you must get me out of my habit of
sitting down before you are seated. It isn’t what a gentleman would
do.
NANCY (_patting his hand_). It’s what a husband would do. That’s what
wives are for—to make their husbands comfy.
BROXOPP. Well, dear, never hesitate to tell me any little thing you
notice about me. I never drop my aitches now, do I?
NANCY (_smiling lovingly at him_). Never, darling.
BROXOPP (_complacently_). Very few people could have got out of that
in a year. But then (_raising his hand with a gesture of pride_)
Broxopp is not like—— Dear me, have I been wearing my hat all the
time?
NANCY. Yes, darling, I love you in your hat.
(_A little upset, BROXOPP takes it off and throws it on the
floor._)
BROXOPP (_pained_). Darling, you should have told me.
NANCY. I love you so—just as you are. The Great Broxopp. Now then,
begin from the beginning.
BROXOPP (_his confidence recovered_). Well, after breakfast—a
breakfast so enormous that, as I said to you at the time, I probably
shouldn’t require any dinner after it——
NANCY (_hastily_). Yes, darling, but I said it first, and I really
meant it. (_Carelessly_) I don’t know how it is, but somehow I feel I
shan’t be at all hungry for dinner to-day.
BROXOPP. Nancy, what _is_ for dinner to-day?
NANCY (_as though dinner were a small matter in that house_). Oh,
chops, bread and cheese and all that sort of thing. (_Eagerly_) But
never mind dinner now—go on telling me.
BROXOPP. Nancy, look at me and tell me how many chops you have
ordered?
NANCY (_bravely_). I thought perhaps one would be enough for you,
dear, as you weren’t very hungry, and not being hungry myself——
BROXOPP (_jumping up_). I thought so! The Great Broxopp to dine off
one chop! The Great Broxopp’s wife to dine off no chops! (_He leans
against the wall in a magnificent manner, and with a tremendous
flourish produces a five pound note_) Woman, buy five hundred chops!
(_Producing another five pound note with an even greater air_) Five
hundred tons of fried potatoes! (_Flourishing a third note_) Five
million bottles of tomato sauce! (_Thumping his heart_) That’s the
sort of man I am.
NANCY. Jim! Have you earned all this?
BROXOPP (_disparagingly_). Tut! That’s nothing to what is coming.
NANCY. Fifteen pounds! (_Suddenly remembering_) Now what would you
_really_ like for dinner?
BROXOPP (_going over to her and taking her hands_). Nancy, _you_
believed in me all the time. It has been weary waiting for you, but
now—(_answering her question_) I think I should like a kiss.
NANCY (_kissing him and staying very close_). Of course I believed in
you, my wonderful man. And now they’ll all believe in you. (_After a
pause_) Who believed the fifteen pounds? Was it Mr. Spenlow?
BROXOPP. Spenlow? Bah! (_He strides across the room and tears down the
Spenlow advertisements._) Spenlow comes down—like his suspenders.
_Facilis descensus Spenlovi._ (_Dramatically_) I see the man Spenlow
begging his bread from door to door. I see his wife’s stockings
falling in swathes about her ankles. I see——
NANCY. Darling!
BROXOPP. You’re quite right, dear. I’m being vulgar again. And worse
than that—uncharitable. When we are rich, we will ask the Spenlows
to stay with us. We will be kind to them; we will provide them with
suspenders.
NANCY (_bringing him back to the point_). Jim! (_She holds up the
money._) You haven’t told me yet.
BROXOPP (_carelessly_). Oh, that? That was from Fordyce.
NANCY. The Fordyce cheap Restaurants?
BROXOPP. The same. I had an inspiration this morning. I forced my way
into the office of the man Fordyce, and I took him on one side and
whispered winged words into his ear. I said (_dramatically_) “Fordyce
fills you for fivepence.” It will be all over London to-morrow.
“Fordyce fills you for fivepence.” What an arresting thought to a
hungry man!
NANCY. Shall we have dinner there to-day, dear?
BROXOPP. Good heavens, no! It is sufficient that I drag others into
his beastly eating-house. _We_ will dine on champagne, regally.
NANCY. Darling, I know you are an artist and mustn’t be thwarted,
but—there’s the rent—and—and other days coming—and——
BROXOPP (_dropping into his chair again_). Nancy, come and sit on my
knee. (_With suppressed excitement_) Quick, while I’m sitting down. I
shall be wanting to walk about directly. This room is too small for
me. (_She comes to him._) Nancy, it has been a hard struggle for you,
I’m afraid.
NANCY. I’ve loved it, Jim.
BROXOPP. Well, that’s over now. Now the real fun is beginning.
(_Triumphantly_) Nancy, I’m on my own at last. Broxopp is on his own!
(_He puts her down impetuously and jumps up._) I look into the future
and what do I see? I see on every hoarding, I see on the side of every
omnibus, I see dotted among the fields along the great railway routes
these magic words: “BROXOPP’S BEANS FOR BABIES.”
NANCY (_carried away_). Darling!
BROXOPP. Yes! I have begun. And now the world will see what
advertisement can do in the hands of an artist. Broxopp’s Beans for
Babies!
NANCY. But—(_timidly_) do babies like beans?
BROXOPP (_confidently_). They will. I can make them like anything. I
can make them _cry_ for beans. They will lean out of their little
cradles and hold out their little hands and say: “Broxopp. I want
Broxopp. Give me my beans.”
NANCY (_seeing them_). The darlings. (_Business-like_) Now tell me all
about it.
BROXOPP (_really meaning to this time_). It began with—Ah, Nancy, it
began with _you_. I might have known it would. I owe it, like
everything else, to you.
NANCY (_awed_). To me?
BROXOPP. To you. It was the nail-brush.
NANCY. The nail-brush?
BROXOPP. Yes, you told me the other day to buy a nail-brush. (_Looking
at his fingers_) You were quite right. As you said, a gentleman is
known by his hands. I hadn’t thought of it before. Always tell me,
darling. Well, I went into a chemist’s. Fordyce had given me fifteen
guineas. I had the odd shillings in my pocket and I suddenly
remembered. There was a very nice gentlemanly young fellow behind the
counter, and as sometimes happens on these occasions, I got into
conversation with him.
NANCY (_smiling to herself_). Yes, darling.
BROXOPP. I told him something of my outlook on life. I spoke of the
lack of imagination which is the curse of this country, instancing the
man Spenlow as an example of the type with whom we artists had to
deal. He interrupted me to say that he had found it so, too. A patent
food which he had composed in his leisure moments—I broke in hastily.
“Tell me of your food,” I said. “Perhaps,” and I smote my breast,
“perhaps _I_ am the capitalist for whom you look.”
NANCY. The five hundred pounds!
BROXOPP. The five hundred pounds. The nest-egg which I had been
keeping for just such a moment. In a flash I saw that the moment had
come.
NANCY (_a little frightened_). Then we shall never have that five
hundred pounds behind us again.
BROXOPP. But think of the thousands we shall have in front of us!
Millions!
NANCY. We seemed so safe with that in the bank. My little inheritance.
No, darling, I’m not disagreeing. I know you’re quite right. But I’m
just a little frightened. You see, I’m not so brave as you.
BROXOPP. But you will be brave _with_ me? You believe in me?
NANCY. Oh, yes, yes. (_Bravely_) Go on.
BROXOPP (_going on_). He told me about his discovery. A food for
babies. Thomson’s Food for Babies, he called it. (_Scornfully_) No
wonder nobody would look at it. “The name you want on that food,” I
said, “is Broxopp.” Who is Thomson? Anybody. The next man you meet may
be Thomson. But there is only one Broxopp—the Great Broxopp. (_With
an inspired air_) Broxopp’s Beans for Babies!
NANCY (_timidly_). I still don’t quite see why beans.
BROXOPP. Nor did he, Nancy. “Mr. Thomson,” I said, “this is _my_
business. _You_ go about inventing foods. Do I interfere with you? No.
I don’t say that we must have this, that, and the other in it. All I
do is to put it on the market and advertise it. And when I’m doing
that, don’t you interfere with _me_. Why beans? you say. Exactly! I
want the whole of England to ask that question. Beans for Babies—what
an absurd idea! Who _is_ this Broxopp? Once they begin talking like
that, I’ve got them. As for the food—make it up into bean shape and
let them dissolve it. Or no. Leave it as it is. They’ll talk about it
more that way. _Lucus a non lucendo._ Good-morning!”
NANCY. What does _that_ mean?
BROXOPP (_off-handedly_). It’s Latin, dear, for calling a thing black
because it’s white. Thomson understood; he’s an educated man, he’s not
like Spenlow.
NANCY. And do we share the profits with Mr. Thomson?
BROXOPP. He’ll have to take some, of course, because it’s his food. I
shall be generous to him, Nancy; don’t you be afraid of that.
NANCY. I know you will, darling; that’s what I’m afraid of.
BROXOPP (_carelessly_). We shall have an agreement drawn up. (_On fire
to begin._) It will be hard work for the first year. Every penny we
make will have to be used again to advertise it. (_Thumping the
table_) But I can do it! With you helping me, Nancy, I can do it.
NANCY (_adoringly_). You can do it, my man. And oh! how proud I shall
be of helping you.
BROXOPP. And the time will come when the world will be full of Broxopp
Babies! I look into the future and I see—millions of them!
NANCY (_coming very close_). Jim, when I am all alone, then sometimes
I look into the future, too.
BROXOPP (_indulgently_). And what do you see, Nancy?
NANCY. Sometimes I seem to see _one_ little Broxopp baby.
BROXOPP (_with a shout_). Nancy! You mean——
NANCY. Would you like to have a little one of your very own, Jim?
BROXOPP. My darling! It only needed this! (_He takes her in his
arms._)
NANCY. My husband!
BROXOPP (_releasing her_). A Broxopp—to carry on the name! A little
Broxopp! Nancy, he shall be the first, the pioneer of all the Broxopp
Babies! (_Carried away_) I see him—everywhere—sitting in his little
vest——
NANCY (_seeing him too_). His little vest!
BROXOPP. Holding out his little pudgy hand——
NANCY. His little pudgy hand!
BROXOPP. And saying to all the world (_he hesitates, and a sudden
triumphant inspiration gives him the words_) “I am a Broxopp Baby—are
you?”
(_They gaze eagerly into the future, BROXOPP seeing his million
babies, NANCY seeing her one._)