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[Illustration: PUNCHINELLO Vol. I. No. 17.]
SATURDAY, JULY 23, 1870.
PUBLISHED BY THE
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THE MYSTERY OF MR. E. DROOD,
By ORPHEUS C. KERR,
Continued in this Number.
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* * * * *
THE MYSTERY OF MR. E. DROOD.
AN ADAPTATION.
BY ORPHEUS C. KERR
CHAPTER XI.--(Continued.)
BLADAMS ushered in two waiters--one Irish and one German--who wore that
look of blended long-suffering and extreme weariness of everything
eatable, which, in this country, seems inevitably characteristic of the
least personal agency in the serving of meals. (There may be lands in
which the not essentially revolting art of cookery can be practiced
without engendering irritable gloom in the bosoms of its practitioners,
and the spreading of tables does not necessarily entail upon the actors
therein a despondency almost sinister; but the American kitchen is the
home of beings who never laugh, save in that sardonic bitterness of
spirit which grimly mocks the climax of human endurance in the burning
of the soup; and the waiter of the American dining-room can scarcely
place a dish upon the board without making it eloquent of a blighted
existence.) Having dashed the stews upon the reading-table before the
fire, and rescued a drowning fly[1] from one of them with his least
appetizing thumb-nail, the melancholy Irish attendant polished the
spoons with his pocket-handkerchief and hurled them on either side of
the plates. Perceiving that his German associate, in listlessly throwing
the mugs of ale upon the table, had spilled some of the liquid, he
hurriedly wiped the stain away with EDWIN DROOD'S worsted muffler, and
dried the sides of the glasses upon the napkin intended for Mr. DIBBLE'S
use. There was something of the wild resources of despair, too, in this
man's frequent ghostly dispatch of the German after articles forgotten
in the first trip, such as another cracker, the cover of the
pepper-cruet, the salt, and one more pinch of butter; and so greatly did
his apparent dejection of soul increase as each supplementary luxury
arrived and was recklessly slammed into its place, that, upon finally
retiring from the room with his associate, his utter hopelessness of
aspect gave little suggestion of the future proud political preferment
to which, by virtue of his low estate and foreign birth, he was
assuredly destined.
[Footnote 1: In anticipation of any critical objection to the
introduction of a living _fly_ in _December_, the Adapter begs leave to
suspect than an anachronism is always legitimate in a work of fiction
when a point is to be made. Thus, in Chapter VIII of the inimitable
"NICHOLAS NICKLEBY," Mr. SQUEERS tells NICHOLAS that morning has come,
"and _ready iced_, too;" and that "the pump's _froze_," while, only a
few pages later, in the same chapter, one of Mr. SQUEERS' scholars is
spoken of as "weeding the garden."]
The whole scene had been a reproachful commentary upon the stiff
American system of discouraging waiters from making remarks upon the
weather, inquiring the cost of one's new coat, conferring with one upon
the general prospects of his business for the season, or from indulging
in any of the various light conversational diversions whereby barbers,
Fulton street tailors, and other depressed gymnasts, are occasionally
and wholesomely relieved from the misery of brooding over _their_
equally dispiriting avocations.
After the departure of the future aldermen, or sheriffs, of the city,
the good old lawyer accompanied his young guest in an expeditious
assimilation of the stews; saying little, but silently regretting, for
the sake of good manners, that Mr. BLADAMS could not eat oysters without
making a noise as though they were alive in his mouth. At last, mug of
ale in hand, he turned to his clerk:
"BLADAMS!"
"Sir to you!" responded Mr. BLADAMS, hastily putting down the plate from
which he had been drinking his last drop of stew, and grasping his own
mug.
"Your health, BLADAMS.--Mr. EDWIN joins me, I'm sure.--And may the--may
our--that is, may your--suppose we call it Bump of Happiness--may your
Bump of Happiness increase."
Staring thoughtfully, Mr. BLADAMS felt for the Bump upon his head and,
having scratched what he seemed to take for it, replied: "It's a go,
sir. The Bump has increased some since KENT'S Commentaries fell on it
from that top-shelf the other day."
"I am going to toast my lovely ward," whispered Mr, DIBBLE to EDWIN;
"but I put BLADAMS first, because he was once a person to be respected,
and I treat him with politeness in place of a good salary."
"Success to the Bump," said EDWIN DROOD, rather struck by this piece of
practical economy, and newly impressed with the standard fact that
politeness costs nothing.
"And now," continued Mr. DIBBLE, with a wink in which his very ear
joined, "I give you the peerless Miss FLORA POTTS. BLADAMS, please
remember that there are others here to eat crackers besides yourself,
and join us in a health to Miss POTTS."
"Let the toast pass, drink to the lass!" cried Mr. BLADAMS, husky with
crackers. "All ale to her!"
"Count me in, too," assented EDWIN.
"Dear me!" said the old lawyer, breaking a momentary spell of terror
occasioned by Mr. BLADAMS having turned blue and nearly choked to death
in a surreptitious attempt to swallow a cracker which he had previously
concealed in one of his cheeks. "Dear me! although I am a square,
practical man, I do believe that I could draw a picture of a true
lover's state of mind to-night."
"A regular chromo," wheezed Mr. BLADAMS, encouragingly; pretending not
to notice that his employer was reaching an ineffectual arm after the
crackers at his own elbow.
"Subject to the approving, or correcting, judgment of Mr. E. DROOD, I
make bold to guess that the modern true lover's mind, such as it is, is
rendered jerky by contemplation of the lady who has made him the object
of her virgin affectations," proceeded Mr. DIBBLE, looking intently at
EDWIN, but still making farther and farther reaches toward the distant
crackers, even to the increased tilting of his chair. "I venture the
conjecture, that if he has any darling pet name for her, such as
Pinky-winky,' 'Little Fooly,' 'Chignonentily,' or 'Waxy Wobbles,' he
feels horribly ashamed if any one overhears it, and coughs violently to
make believe that be never said it."
It was curious to see EDWIN listening with changing color to this
truthful exposure of his young mind; the while, influenced
unconsciously, probably, by the speaker's example, he, too, had begun
reaching and chair-tilting toward the crackers across the table. What
time Mr. BLADAMS, at the opposite side of the board, had apparently sunk
into a sudden and deep slumber; although from beneath one of his folded
arms a finger dreamily rested upon the rim of the cracker-plate, and
occasionally gave it a little pull farther away from the approaching
hands.
"My picture," continued Mr. DIBBLE, now quite hoarse, and almost
horizontal in his reaching, to EDWIN DROOD, also nearly horizontal in
the same way--"my picture goes on to represent the true lover as ever
eager to be with his dear one, for the purpose of addressing implacable
glares at the Other Young Man with More Property, whom She says she
always loved as a Brother when they were Children Together; and of
smiling bitterly and biting off the ends of his new gloves (which is
more than he can really afford, at his salary,) when She softly tells
him that he is making a perfect fool of himself. My picture further
represents him to be continually permeated by a consciousness of such
tight boots as he ought not to wear, even for the Beloved Object, and of
such readiness to have new cloth coats spoiled, by getting hair-oil on
the left shoulder, as shall yet bring him to a scene of violence with
his distracted tailor. It shows him, likewise, as filled with exciting
doubts of his own relative worth: that is, with self-questionings as to
whether he shall ever be worth enough to buy that cantering imported
saddle horse which he has already promised; to spend every summer in a
private cottage at Newport; to fight off Western divorces, and to pay an
eloquent lawyer a few thousands for getting him clear, on the plea of
insanity, after he shall have shot the Other Young Man with More
Property for wanting his wife to be a Sister to him, again, as she was,
you know, when they were Children Together."
EDWIN, despite the coldness of the season, had perspired freely during
the latter part of the Picture, and sought to disguise his uneasiness at
its beautiful, yet severe truth, by a last push of his extended arm
toward the crackers. Quickly observing this, Mr. DIBBLE also made a
final desperate reach after the same object; so that both old man and
young, while pretending to heed each other's words only, were two-thirds
across the table, with their feet in the air and their chairs poised on
one leg each. At that very moment, by some unhappy chance, while nearly
the whole weight of the two was pressing upon their edge of the board,
Mr. BLADAMS abruptly awoke, and raised his elbows from his edge, to
relieve his arms by stretching. Released from his pressure, the table
flew up upon two legs with remarkable swiftness, and then turned over
upon Mr. DIBBLE and Mr. E. DROOD; bringing the two latter and their
chairs to the floor under a shower of plates and crackers, and resting
invertedly upon their prostrate forms, like some species of
four-pillared monumental temple without a roof.
A person less amiable than the good Mr. DIBBLE would have borrowed the
name of an appurtenance of a mill, at least once, as a suitable
expression of his feelings upon such a trying occasion; but, instead of
this, when Mr. BLADAMS, excitedly crying "fire!" lifted the overturned
table from off himself and young guest, he merely arose to a sitting
position on the littered carpet, and said to EDWIN, with a smile and a
rub: "Pray, am I at all near the mark in my picture?"
"I should say, sir," responded EDWIN, with a very strange expression of
countenance, also rubbing the back of his head, "that you are rather
hard upon the feelings of the unluckly lover. He may not show _all_ that
he feels--"
There he paused so long to feel his nose and ascertain about its being
broken, that Mr. DIBBLE limped to his feet and ended that part of the
discussion by hobbling to an open iron safe across the office.
Taking from a private drawer in this repository a small paper parcel,
containing a pasteboard box, and opening the latter, the old lawyer
produced what looked like a long, flat white cord, with shining tips at
either end.
"This, Mr. EDWIN," said he, with marked emotion, "is a stay-lace, with
golden tags, which belonged to Miss FLORA'S mother. It was handed to me,
in the abstraction of his grief, by Miss FLORA'S father, on the day of
the funeral; be saying that he could never bear to look upon it again.
To you, as Miss FLORA'S future husband, I now give it."
"A stay-lace!" echoed EDWIN, coming forward as quickly as his lameness
would allow, and staunching his swollen upper lip with a handkerchief.
"Yes," was the grave response. "You have undoubtedly noticed, Mr. EDWIN,
that in every fashionable romance, the noble and grenadine heroine has a
habit of 'drawing herself up proudly' whenever any gentleman tries to
shake hands with her, or asks her how she can possibly be so majestic
with him. This lace was used by Miss FLORA'S mother to draw herself up
proudly with; and she drew herself up so much with it, that it finally
reached her heart and killed her. I here place it in your hands, that
you may ultimately give it to your young wife as a memento of a mother
who did nothing by halves but die. If you, by any chance, should not
marry the daughter, I solemnly charge you, by the memory of the living
and the dead, to bring it back to me."
Receiving the parcel with some awe, EDWIN placed it in one of his
pockets.
"BLADAMS." said Mr. DIBBLE, solemnly, "you are witness of the transfer."
"Deponent, being duly sworn, does swear and cuss that he saw it, to the
best of his knowledge and belief," returned the clerk, helping Mr. DROOD
to resume his overcoat.
When in his own room, at Gowanus, that night, Mr. DIBBLE, in his
nightcap, paused a moment before extinguishing his light, to murmur to
himself: "I wonder, now, whether poor POTTS confided his orphan child to
me because he knew that I might have been the successful suitor to the
mother if I had been worth a little more money just about then?"
What time, in the law-office in town, Mr. BLADAMS was upon his knees on
the floor, tossing crackers from all directions on the carpet into his
mouth, like a farinacious goblin, and nearly suffocating whenever he
glanced at the disordered table.
(To be Continued.)
* * * * *
THE FREE BATHS.
[Illustration: 'P']
PUNCHINELLO begs to congratulate the Hon. W.M. TWEED upon his
inestimable boon to the public--the Free Baths. With regard to a certain
class--and a very large class--of the public of New York City, it has
sometimes been cynically asked, "Will it wash?" Since the establishment
of Free Baths under the Department of Public Works, that question has
been satisfactorily replied to in the affirmative. Hardworked mechanics
at once recognized the chance for a wash, and went at it with a rush. It
was Coney Island come to town, with the roughs left behind, and the
extortionate bathing-dress men, and the other disagreeable features of
that lovely but desecrated isle. In recognition of the decided success
of the new baths, and of the vast benefit that must be derived from them
by a large portion of the community, PUNCHINELLO begs to invest the Hon.
W. M. TWEED with the Blue Ribbon of the O.F.B., or "Originator of the
Free Baths."
* * * * *
THE PLAYS AND SHOWS.
[Illustration: 'C']
CENTRAL PARK GARDEN is the subject of this article.
It is all very well for the editor of PUNCHINELLO to require me to write
about the Plays and Shows, but how would he like to do it himself, with
the thermometer at 103 degrees, and the Fourth of July only just over?
And then, inasmuch as I am not a white-hatted philosopher, writing of
"What I know about Farming," how can I be expected to write of things
which have no existence? For, with the exception of the CENTRAL PARK
GARDEN, and one or two minor places of amusement, there are no plays and
shows at present in this happy city.
We certainly owe the managers a debt of gratitude for closing their hot
and glaring theatres during this intolerable month. Of course nobody was
obliged to attend them while they were open; but then, when people were
told that the theatres were crowded to an uncomfortable extent, they
felt an irrepressible desire to go and be uncomfortable.
It is one of the peculiar characteristics of Man, as distinguished from
the higher animals, that he will go through fire and water to get into a
theatre which he is told is crammed to the point of suffocation, whereas
he won't deign to enter one where he is sure to find a comfortable seat.
Now the charm of the CENTRAL PARK GARDEN consists in this: that the
visitor can take his vapor bath in the Seventh Avenue cars on his way to
the Garden, and can enjoy the sweet consciousness of being jostled and
sat upon in the search for amusement, while he is still certain of
finding pure air and plenty of room at the GARDEN itself.
By the bye, it has just occurred to me that the Fourth of July is
properly a show. It might be called a burlesque, but for the fact that
it is unaccompanied by the luxury of legs. Indeed, after the celebration
is over, there are always fewer legs in the nation than there were at
its commencement. There is no canon of criticism which would expurgate
legs from the theatrical burlesque, but there are cannons of Fourth of
July which do their best to abolish the incautious legs of patriotic
youth. I reconsider my purpose of writing of the CENTRAL PARK GARDEN,
and will devote this column to the national show.
I have somewhere read--not in BANCROFT'S History, of course; no man ever
did that and lived--that the Fourth of July was established in order to
commemorate our deliverance from a government which taxed us with
stamp-duties. How happy ought we to be when we reflect that, thanks to
our noble fathers who fought and bled at Long Branch. I should say
Nahant,--well, at some watering-place, I really forget precisely
where,--we have no taxes, and know not what a revenue stamp is like!
Thank fortune, we have no share in the national debt of Great Britain,
and have no national debt of our own that is worth mention. Besides, we
are going to found the little debt that we do owe, so that nobody will
ever be bothered about it again.
I like this plan of funding debts; but, curiously enough, sordid
capitalists and miserly landlords don't. I offered the other day to fund
all my personal debts, in the shape of a long loan at three per cent,
but my creditors did not take kindly to the idea. Such is the sordid
meanness which is too sadly characteristic of the merely commercial
mind. But to return to our subject, which is, I believe, the CENTRAL
PARK GARDEN.
It is curious how critics will differ. Here is a case in point. The
other night, at the CENTRAL PARK GARDEN, I sat near a table surrounded
by five well-known musical critics. THEODORE THOMAS had just led his
orchestra through the devious ways of the _Tannhauser_ overture, and I
naturally listened to hear the opinions which the critical five might
express. This is what they really did say.
FIRST CRITIC. "Thank heavens, the music is over for a few minutes. Now,
boys, we'll have some more beer."
SECOND CRITIC. "Not any for me, thank you. I'll have a Jamaica sour."
THIRD CRITIC. "Bring me a claret punch."
FOURTH CRITIC. "Whiskey cocktail"
FIFTH CRITIC. "Well! I'll stick to beer. It's the best thing in this
weather."
What ought a man to think of the _Tannhauser_, after hearing these five
contradictory opinions? For my own part I rather thought the cigars were
a trifle too strong.
And there is just the same difference of opinion about THEODORE THOMAS'S
merits as a conductor. On this occasion there were two aged and indigent
musicians in the audience, who knew more about orchestral music than
even the present President of the Philharmonic Society, and to each of
them did I propound the question, "Is THOMAS a good conductor?"
FIRST AGED PERSON. "My dear sir, he doesn't conduct at all. His
orchestra pays no attention to him, and plays in spite of the absurd and
meaningless passes which he makes with his _baton_."
SECOND A. P. "My dear sir, he is the best conductor of the day. He has
made his orchestra the best in the country,--in fact, the only one. No
man has done more for our musical public than has THEODORE THOMAS."
And as I ordered eleemosynary beer for these Aged Persons, and pondered
their slightly contradictory utterances in my mind, I heard a fair young
creature in a scarlet plimpton and a fleezy robe of Axminster remark,
"O! that dear delightful Mr. THOMAS. He is so Perfectly lovely! and his
coat fits him so divinely! He is ever so much handsomer than CARL
BERGMANN."
While I agree most heartily with everything that I heard at the GARDEN
on the occasion which I have mentioned, I am not quite sure that the
establishment is either a play or a show. On the whole, I don't think I
had better say anything about it. If anybody has a different opinion,
let him express himself. If he don't like to take the trouble, let him
apply to ADAMS Express Company, which will express him to the end of the
world, if he should so desire.
MATADOR.
* * * * *
CRISPIN vs. COOLIE.
For CRISPIN, old CRISPIN, patron saint of all cordwainers, Mr.
PUNCHINELLO has a profound respect. When still a young man, (A.D. 1125,)
he was well acquainted with the venerable gentleman; and the very
beautiful pair of shoes which Mr. P. wears when in full costume, (_vide_
his portrait on the title page,) were heeled and tapped for him by the
hands of CRISPIN himself. They are still in excellent order, although,
in these very shoes, Mr. P. walked his celebrated match against Time,
beating that swift old party and doing his 1000 miles in 24 h., 12 m.,
30 s. Between Mr. P. and shoes there is a well-marked resemblance. The
shoe has a sole and he has a soul; the shoe is both useful and
ornamental, and so is he; the shoe has an upper, and Mr. P.'s motto is,
"Upper and still up." In fact, he is so well satisfied with his
understanding, that he would not stand in any other man's shoes for any
consideration; and so long as the CRISPINS will make him fits which are
not convulsions, and will sew in a way which shall produce no crop of
corns, and remind him, by the neatness of their work, of Lovely PEGGY,
it is the intention of the Senor PUNCHINELLO to patronize the Native
American awl altogether.
For JOHN Chinaman also, the Herr VON PUNCHINELLO has a great admiration.
He never takes tea, having been advised by his physician to drink
nothing but lager-bier, with an occasional beaker of rum, gin, or
brandy, or Monongahela, or whatever may be handy on the shelf.
Nevertheless, as an admirer of the fair sex, 'Squire PUNCHINELLO
believes in Old Hyson and Hyson Jr., in Oolong and Bohea, in Souchong
and Gunpowder, in Black and Green; and if there were Scarlet or Yellow
or Blue Teas, Col. PUNCHINELLO would equally admire, steep, sweeten and
sip them. Nor is Dr. PUNCHINELLO less an admirer of the explosive
fire-cracker, sent to us by JOHN, to assist us in the preservation of
our liberties. The Hon. Mr. PUNCHINELLO declines dogs (in pies,) and
opium (in pipes,) nor can he say whether he approves of bird's nests (in
porridge,) as he has never eaten any, and never wants to; although he
is, in his way, an acknowledged Nestor. But still, Prof. PUNCHINELLO
wishes JOHN well, if for no other reason, at least out of respect for
his old friend CONFUCIUS, with whom, some years ago, he was extremely
intimate--many of the finest things in the books of that venerable sage
having been suggested to him by Don PUNCHINELLO.
The reader, therefore, (if he is of an acute turn of mind,) will easily
perceive that two distinct emotions fill the bosom of plain Mr. P., and
are hitting out at each other with extreme liveliness. He desires for
the Crispins all the wages they can manage to get. He desires for his
friend HI-YAH, a boundless growth of the pig-tail of prosperity; and the
only question is whether this is a vegetable, the growth of which should
be encouraged upon the Yankee Doodle soil. As probably the most profound
Political Economist of this or any other age, after a week's tremendous
thinking upon this subject, after having a thousand times resolved to
give it up, Mr. P. has received the following letter from North Adams,
Mass., which he hastens to lay before his readers:
[Illustration]
Exactly so! Right, JOHN, perfectly right! Our views, exactly! Our mutual
friend, Prof. WHANG-HO, of the University of Pekin, couldn't have put it
more neatly. But don't you think, if you are coming to America at all,
that it would be well to come as the rest come, without selling
yourself, body, soul and pig-tail, to some shrewd Dutch driver, like
KOOPMANSCHOOP, for instance? O JOHN, my Joe JOHN! When you do come, let
it be to freeze to the American Eagle, and with a firm determination to
make him your own beloved bird! When you work, be sure that you get the
worth of your work! No chains and slavery, anything like them! And
especially no nonsense about being sent back in your coffin to the
Central Flowery Kingdom. A country which is good enough to live in, is
good enough to be buried in.
And what is this missive which we have received through the post, and
which we have since kept locked up in a powder-proof safe?
[Illustration]
O ye beloved children of CRISPIN! why send to us these mysterious,
manslaughterous and mortal hieroglyphics? Of course you don't mean to
kill Mr. P., and even if you did, you couldn't do it, for the great P.
is one of the immortals. Neither, if you will but stop to think about
it, will you molest poor HI-YAH because he wears a tail and eats
dog-cutlets fried in crumb. Before you indulge in the luxury of murder,
or even the minor divertisements of mobbing, ducking, hustling, and
stoning, why not try the expedient of making it up with the Bosses?
Mr. PUNCHINELLO has thought of visiting North Adams, Lynn, and other
shoe-sites, for the purpose of offering the help of his eminently
judicial mind in reconciling Employer and Employé; but fearing that he
might get his nose (which is a beautiful and dignified protuberance)
most shamefully pulled for his pains, he has concluded to keep the peace
by keeping out of the scrimmage. But, as there never was a
misunderstanding yet which time and common sense could not clear up, Mr.
P. contents himself with exhorting the Bosses to be considerate, the
Crispinians to be reasonable, and JOHN Chinaman to cut off his tail,
whatever natural tears its loss may occasion.
* * * * *
SEE THE POINT?
EDWIN and ANGELINA took a sail up the lovely Hudson.
As they sailed on and on, EDWIN said to his ANGELINA:
"Dearest love, don't let your cerulean eyes rest upon West Point."
"And why not, darling old tootsicums?" asked ANGELINA.
"Because they have colored pupils in them, light of my life," replied
EDWIN.
* * * * *
[Illustration: No, THIS IS NOT ONE OF THE "BLONDES". THIS IS FITZ
FADDLE, WHOSE CLOTHES WERE STOLEN WHILE HE WAS BATHING, AND WHO HAS
CONVERTED HIS UMBRELLA INTO A TEMPORARY GARMENT, CLOTHED IN WHICH HE IS
MAKING HIS WAY TO HIS HOTEL. THE REASON WHY HE WHISTLES IS TO LOOK AS IF
HE DIDN'T CARE.]
* * * * *
FOAM;[1]
OR
HOW JENKINS WENT SUMMERING.
A LYRICAL DRAMA.
_Played with immense success at the summer residence of_ Gen. GRANT, _at
Long Branch, for one thousand and two nights._[2]
ACT I.
_Scene.--Bed-room in attic of seventh-class boarding-house. Furniture, a
bed, two chairs, and a table. The table is ornamented with a cup of
coffee, a loaf of bread, and a plate of hash; knife, et cetera. (Enter
from the adjoining hall,_ MR. JENKINS CRUSOE, _dressed in a tattered
morning wrapper_.)
JENKINS. (_Loq_.) Phew! I can't stand this hot weather. I must go into
the country. But where shall I go?[3] (_Sings_:)
If I'm any judge of the weather,
The days are refreshingly hot,
Though one place's as good as another,
I think I'll get out of this spot;
But where shall I go?
Where shall I go?
Where shall I go
For the summer?
(_Looks at table_.) Ha, ha! Ho, ho! My breakfast will be cold.
(_Reflectively_.) I guess I'll eat. (_Sits down and hurts the hash.)
(Enter washerwoman, shoemaker, servant-girl, and hatter. They dance
around the table, like English blondes.) (All sing:)_
Poor old JENKINS CRUSOE,
Why did you go for to do so?
JENKINS! JENKINS! JENKINS! JENKINS!
Poor old JENKINS CRUSOE.
SERVANT GIRL. (_Sings_.) Pay for the floor I have scrubbed, sir.
WASHERWOMAN. " Pay for the clothes I have rubbed, sir.
HATTER. " Pay for the hats you have worn, sir.
SHOEMAKER. " Pay for the boots that are gone, sir.
(_All sing_:)
Poor old JENKINS CRUSOE,
Why did you go for to do so?
JENKINS! JENKINS! JENKINS! JENKINS!
Poor old JENKINS CRUSOE.
(JENKINS _rises from the table and sings_:)
I've a castle in Spain,
Filled with ingots of gold,
I've a mine in Golconda,
Whose wealth is untold.
Then dry up your tears,
Come out of your sorrow,
I'll pay what I owe,
I'll pay you to-morrow,
I'll pay you to-morrow,
All that I owe.
(_Servant-girl et al. dance "Shoo Fly," and sing_:)
We feel, we feel, we feel,
We feel like a young typhoon;
We hope, we hope, we hope,
We hope you'll be paying soon.
(_Exeunt Servant-girl, et al_.)
JENKINS. (_Loq._) Well, come soon. Now I must go. I hate to cheat the
provider of that seventh-class hash, but I must beat on somebody. Well,
let them all come, and devil take the hindmost. I'll pack my valise.
(_Puts things in his valise. Sings_:)
It's rich that I am, am I not?
Just look at the fixings I've got;
Here's a brush, here's a comb,
Both are for fixing my dome,
A tooth-brush and collar, that's all,
My baggage's conveniently small.
JENKINS. (_Loq_.) That valise is too thin. No landlord would take me on
that. It's consumptive-looking. I'll fill it with newspapers. Here, this
will do, this triple-sheet _Tribune_, with Mrs. MCFARLAND'S epistle.
That'll fill it. (_Shoves paper in valise_.) Now for my hat and coat.
(_Puts them on_.) Off I go. (_Sings_:)
I'm off, I'm off,
I'm off for Long Branch,
I'll have a jolly old time,
I'll have a jolly old time,
I'll bathe in the surf,
I'll ride on the turf,
Dance with the girls,
Steal all their pearls,
And have a jolly old time.
(_Exit_ JENKINS)
_Curtain_
[Footnote 1: Must not be confounded with "Surf."]
[Footnote 2: The reader will notice that this drama was more popular
than the Arabian Nights, which only ran for one thousand and one
nights.]
[Footnote 3: The music of these songs can be purchased at Timbuctoo.]