It Pays To Advertise
A FARCICAL FACT IN THREE ACTS
BY
ROI COOPER MEGRUE and WALTER HACKETT
COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY ROI COOPER MEGRUE and WALTER HACKETT
COPYRIGHT IN GREAT BRITAIN AND CANADA
COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY SAMUEL FRENCH
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
CAUTION: Professionals and amateurs are hereby warned that “IT
PAYS TO ADVERTISE,” being fully protected under the copyright
laws of the United States, is subject to a royalty, and any
one presenting the play without the consent of the owner or
his authorized agents will be liable to the penalties by law
provided. Application for amateur acting rights must be made to
SAMUEL FRENCH, 28-30 West 38th Street, New York. Applications
for the professional acting rights must be made to the AMERICAN
PLAY COMPANY, 33 West 42d Street, New York.
NEW YORK
SAMUEL FRENCH
PUBLISHER
28-30 WEST 38TH STREET
LONDON
SAMUEL FRENCH, Ltd.
26 SOUTHAMPTON STREET
STRAND
Especial notice should be taken that the possession of this book without
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SECTION 28—That any person who wilfully or for profit shall infringe any
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_Act of March 4, 1909._
GEORGE M. COHAN THEATRE, NEW YORK CITY,
_September 8th, 1914_
COHAN & HARRIS
IT PAYS TO ADVERTISE
A FARCICAL FACT IN THREE ACTS BY
ROI COOPER MEGRUE and WALTER HACKETT
_Staged under the direction of Sam Forrest_
_The characters appear in the order in which they are named_
ORIGINAL CAST
MARY GRAYSON _Ruth Shepley_
JOHNSON _George Schaeffer_
COMTESSE DE BEAURIEN _Louise Drew_
RODNEY MARTIN _Grant Mitchell_
CYRUS MARTIN _John Cope_
AMBROSE PEALE _Will Deming_
MARIE _Cecile Bretone_
WILLIAM SMITH _Harry Driscole_
DONALD MCCHESNEY _W. J. Brady_
MISS BURKE _Vivian Rogers_
ELLERY CLARK _Kenneth Hill_
GEORGE BRONSON _Sydney Seaward_
SYNOPSIS OF SCENES
ACT I. Library at Cyrus Martin’s.
ACT II. The office of The 13 Soap Company
ACT III. Same as ACT I.
IT PAYS TO ADVERTISE
THE CAST
(_In the order of their appearance._)
MARY GRAYSON
JOHNSON _Butler at the Martins’_
COMTESSE DE BEAURIEN
RODNEY MARTIN
CYRUS MARTIN
AMBROSE PEALE
MARIE _Maid at the Martins’_
WILLIAM SMITH
MISS BURKE _Clerk_
GEORGE MCCHESNEY
CHARLES BRONSON
ELLERY
ACT I. The library at CYRUS MARTIN’S.
ACT II. RODNEY MARTIN’S Office.
ACT III. Same as ACT I.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: The advertising statistics used in the play are facts, not
farce.
ACT I
_SCENE: The library of CYRUS MARTIN’S home in New York City: a
very handsome room, in tapestry and dark oak. Doors up left,
down left, and down right. Books, chairs, divans, as necessary.
Down left is an oak typewriting table with a typewriter on it.
It is obviously out of place in the room, and is evidently only
a temporary arrangement. Handsome walnut furniture. Mantel set
on mantel. Fire dogs and irons in fireplace. All-over carpet.
Handsome busts on bookcases. Chandelier and four brackets.
Curtains on windows at back. It is seven o’clock in the
evening—early September._
_AT RISE: MARY GRAYSON is seated at typewriter; she strums the
keys idly and indifferently with one finger. She might hum a
turkey-trot, keeping time with a one-finger accompaniment. In
a moment JOHNSON, a typical English butler, enters from door
upper L._
JOHNSON. I beg pardon, Miss Grayson.
MARY. (_Whirling about eagerly_) What is it, Johnson? Has young Mr.
Martin come in yet?
JOHNSON. No, Miss.
MARY. But I told you not to interrupt me until he did.
JOHNSON. I know, Miss, but it’s that Mr. Ambrose Peale again; he’s called
four times.
MARY. Say that Mr. Martin will be back at eight o’clock.
JOHNSON. Yes, Miss. There’s a lady waiting, too, Miss, to see Mr. Martin
Senior. Here’s her card.
MARY. Mme. la Comtesse de Beaurien. Tell her that Mr. Martin Senior can
see no one.
JOHNSON. I can’t make her comprehend anything I say. She just sits and
waits.
MARY. Oh, bring her in, then. I’ll make her understand somehow, but,
Johnson, don’t fail to let me know the minute young Mr. Martin gets home.
JOHNSON. (_Going to door up L._) Yes, Miss.
(_MARY rises from typewriter, takes off her sleeve-protectors and
smoothes out her skirt._)
JOHNSON. (_Announcing_) Countess dee Beauree-en——
(_The COUNTESS enters from door upper L. She is a very smart-looking girl
of about twenty-six or twenty-seven, typically French in manner and does
not speak a word of English. He exits._)
MARY. (_To COUNTESS_) How do you do?
COUNTESS. (_Advancing to her_) Mam’selle Martin?
MARY. Oh, no, I’m Miss Grayson, Mr. Martin’s secretary.
COUNTESS. (_Blankly_) Sec-ree-taree?
MARY. I’m sorry, but it’s quite impossible for you to see Mr. Martin. He
is confined to the house with a severe attack of gout. If you will write
him I will see that he gets your letter. You can address him here instead
of the office; while he is ill I come here every day for the mail.
COUNTESS. Pardon, mais je ne comprends pas—je ne parle pas l’anglais.
Vous parlez Français peut-être?
MARY. (_Blankly_) You see, Mr. Martin is ill....
COUNTESS. Je répète que je ne parle pas anglais. Mr. Martin est-il ici?
MARY. It’s quite useless for you to talk: I don’t understand French.
COUNTESS. Un moment, Mam’selle—peut-être je parle trop vite.... (_More
slowly_) Je désire parler à M. Martin àpropos des affaires. Je suis
riche. Mais on peut toujours être plus riche. Si je pouvais obtenir
l’agence du savon Martin pour la France ça serait une belle affaire. Je
donnerais cinquante mille francs pour cette agence. Répéter cela à M.
Martin et je suis sûre qu’il me recevra immédiatement. Vous comprenez
maintenant——
MARY. But I really don’t understand French. (_Slowly and loudly_) Mr.
Martin is ill—sick! He can see no one—you’ll have to go—please do——
COUNTESS. Mon Dieu! Vous êtes stupide.... (_Sitting down in chair L. of
table_) J’attendrai M. Martin.
MARY. There’s no use your sitting down. (_She goes to her_) Mr. Martin
doesn’t understand French, either.
COUNTESS. C’est bien, c’est bien, mam’selle; je ne suis pas pressée.
MARY. I don’t understand. Please go—(_She waves her hands_)
COUNTESS. Ah, laissez-moi donc tranquille—vous m’embêtez.
MARY. Oh, dear!
(_JOHNSON enters._)
JOHNSON. Young Mr. Martin’s come in; he’ll be here directly.
MARY. Good Heavens! (_She goes over and makes a wild sweeping gesture_)
Mr. Martin is out—out.
COUNTESS. (_With marked accent_) Out?
MARY. (_Nodding her head_) Oui——
COUNTESS. (_Rapidly_) Oui? Ah vous parlez Français? Je voudrais savoir si
Mr. Martin est ici. Je voudrais lui parler tout de suite.
MARY. Heavens! She’s off again; let’s act it for her. Let’s see—(_She
points to JOHNSON_) That is Mr. Martin.
COUNTESS. Eh?
MARY. We’re pretending that is Mr. Martin.
COUNTESS. (_Shaking her head_) Ah, non, ça ce n’est pas M. Martin.
MARY. We’re pretending—see, pretending? Now, you see—Mr. Martin is
out—see?
(_JOHNSON exits and enters immediately._)
COUNTESS. (_Suddenly_) Ah, Mr. Martin n’est pas ici! Je comprends.
MARY. Heavens, she understands, Johnson! Take her by the arm and lead her
out. (_Crosses L._)
JOHNSON. (_Starting to do so as COUNTESS rises to go out_) Yes, Miss.
COUNTESS. Attendez! A quelle heure M. Martin rentrera-t-il? (_She sits
again_)
JOHNSON. Now what’s the matter? You’d better come quietly, Miss—(_He
takes her by the arm_)
COUNTESS. (_Shaking him off_) A quelle heure rentrera-t-il? (_There
is a blank pause. To MARY_) Maintenant—faites attention à votre tour.
Regardez-moi: je suis M. Martin, vous comprenez? Moi je suis M. Martin——
MARY. (_Nodding_) Mr. Martin.
COUNTESS. (_Going to door_) Mr. Martin n’est pas ici; il est sorti—il
est au bureau. Enfin s’il n’est pas au bureau c’est pas mon affaire.
Maintenant je voudrais savoir à quelle heure rentrera-t-il?
MARY. (_As COUNTESS goes_) Heavens, she’s going. (_She turns at door_)
She’s coming back.
COUNTESS. (_Returning to MARY_) A quelle heure M. Martin rentrera-t-il?
(_There is another pause. Suddenly the COUNTESS takes out her watch_)
MARY. (_Eagerly_) Oh, she wants to know when he’ll be in! (_She runs over
and points to clock_) Eight o’clock—eight—o’clock.
COUNTESS. Oui—Oui, huit heures—je comprends. Merci bien—je m’en vais
maintenant, mais je reviendrai. Au revoir.
MARY. I can understand that! Au revoir—au revoir—good night.
COUNTESS. (_Going_) Merci—merci—à huit heures—bonsoir—bonsoir—(_She
exits_)
MARY. Don’t let her in here again unless you have an interpreter.
JOHNSON. Very good, Miss. (_He exits door upper L._)
(_MARY primps, and sits at typewriter again, and idly touches the keys
with one finger, maintaining an eager watch on the door. She hears
someone coming and hastily and busily bangs away at the typewriter.
RODNEY MARTIN enters door L. He is a young man of twenty-four with a
certain quaint frank charm, in spite of his funny little mustache,
English morning coat, spats and white carnation. He is by no means
brainless, but simply undeveloped by reason of the kind of life he has
led under appallingly frictionless conditions._)
RODNEY. Miss Grayson!
(_MARY’S previous business-like air has entirely disappeared, and she
assumes the fluttering airs of a timid ingenue, overdoing it for anyone
except a boy madly in love with her._)
MARY. What a surprise! (_RODNEY goes and locks both doors L._) Why, Mr.
Martin ... what are you doing?
RODNEY. (_Coming to her and facing her over back of chair_) I want to
talk with you. Mary, will you marry me?
MARY. Why, really——
RODNEY. You love me, don’t you?
MARY. I—I don’t know what to say——
RODNEY. Say Yes.
MARY. (_Shyly_) Yes.
RODNEY. (_Trying to grab her_) You angel!
MARY. (_Eluding him_) Wait!
RODNEY. We’ll be married right away.
MARY. But suppose your father disapproves?
RODNEY. He won’t know anything about it until we’re married, and then
what could he do?
MARY. He might cut you off.
RODNEY. Would you care?
MARY. (_Hastily_) I? No, no, indeed. I was thinking of you, dear.
RODNEY. Don’t you bother about me. We’ll be married to-morrow, and then
come home for the parental blessing.
MARY. Oh, I couldn’t do that. It wouldn’t be square. I’m his private
secretary: he trusts me. To bring me here to his home and then to find
I’d married his son on the sly—we couldn’t do that.
RODNEY. You do make it sound rather bad. I wouldn’t want us to give
father the worst of it; we’ve always been pretty good friends, he and I.
I guess I’d better tell him—in a week or so.
MARY. Why, Rodney, if you love me, we must get this awful suspense over.
RODNEY. But suppose he does object?
MARY. Even then I wouldn’t give you up.
RODNEY. Mary!
MARY. You could go into business, make a big man of yourself, make me
proud of you——
RODNEY. You talk just like the heroine in a play I saw last night.
She wanted the hero to go to work, and he did, and then for four acts
everybody suffered.
MARY. Don’t you want to work?
RODNEY. (_Seriously_) I should say not. Imagine going to bed every night,
knowing you’ve got to get up in the morning and go to business.
MARY. You’d be happier, wouldn’t you, if you had a job?
RODNEY. Please don’t talk like father; he’s preached a job at me ever
since I left college. Why should I work? Father made millions out of
soap and is forever complaining that he’s always had his nose to the
grindstone, that he’s worked fourteen hours a day for thirty years, that
he’s never known what fun was, that it’s all made him old before his
time. I can’t see the sense of following an example like that—I really
can’t. He’s got enough for you, and me, and our children. Yes, and our
children’s grandchildren. I’ve explained all this to him but I can’t seem
to make him understand. But it’s simple: why work when there’s millions
in the family? And why even talk of money when you and I are in love?
Come, kiss me. (_He leans towards her; she moves away to L. He crosses
R._)
MARY. No, you mustn’t—not till you’ve spoken to your father.
RODNEY. You won’t kiss me till I tell him?
MARY. No.
RODNEY. And you will when I do?
MARY. Yes.
RODNEY. Then I’ll tell him right away. (_He goes toward door L. She
crosses R._)
MARY. Oh, Rodney, you’re splendid! And don’t be afraid.
RODNEY. Afraid! (_Pausing_) You don’t think I’d better wait till the
morning?
(_CYRUS MARTIN knocks at the door violently, and says “ouch” in a loud
tone._)
MARTIN. (_Off-stage_) Why is this door locked? What the devil does this
mean?
MARY. If you don’t ask him now, I’ll never marry you.
MARTIN. (_Off-stage_) Open the door.
RODNEY. Coming, father, coming. (_He goes and unlocks both doors_)
MARTIN. (_Loudly_) Ouch, ouch! The devil! (_He enters_) Why was that door
locked?
RODNEY. Was it locked?
MARTIN. You young fool, didn’t you just unlock it? (_Crosses to R._)
RODNEY. (_Nervously_) So I did!
(_MARY has gone to her typewriter and now begins typing._)
MARTIN. Stop that noise! (_She does so. RODNEY looks at her, discouraged.
She motions to him to go on. Meanwhile MARTIN has painfully limped to a
chair down-stage by table and sinks into it. His foot gives him another
twinge._) Ouch! Oh, my poor foot!
(_RODNEY hastily picks up footstool and comes with it to his father._)
RODNEY. I’m afraid your foot hurts.
MARTIN. Not at all—I just pretend that it does!
RODNEY. (_Fervently_) I hoped you were better.
MARTIN. Well, I’m not. What have you got there?
RODNEY. A footstool—I thought it might make you more comfortable.
MARTIN. How much do you want?
RODNEY. Why, nothing, father.
MARTIN. Well anyhow, the answer is not a nickel——
RODNEY. You do me an injustice. I’m just sorry to see you in pain.
MARTIN. Well, you want something, that’s certain.
RODNEY. Why do you say that?
MARTIN. I know you—and whatever it is, you can’t have it.
(_RODNEY turns appealingly to MARY. She ignores him. He turns back to his
father and tries to muster up his courage._)
RODNEY. (_Clearing his throat_) Well, as a matter of fact, I did want——
MARTIN. Now we’re getting to it.
RODNEY. I wanted to have a talk with you—an important talk——
MARTIN. Curious! That’s just what I wanted with you—I’ve wanted it all
day ... and now we’ll have it—Miss Grayson!
MARY. Yes, sir? (_Rises_)
MARTIN. Get out. (_She exits through door upper L., without noticing
RODNEY, who stands looking after her dejectedly. As he hears the door
close_) Now, what do you mean by overdrawing your allowance again?
RODNEY. (_Innocently_) What it simply proves is that I was right when I
told you my allowance was too small.
MARTIN. (_Aghast_) What!
RODNEY. And if my allowance is too small for one, it’s much too small for
two.
MARTIN. For two?
RODNEY. Father, has it ever occurred to you that I might marry?
MARTIN. Of course it has! You’re fool enough for anything.
RODNEY. I don’t consider a man a fool because he’s married.
MARTIN. That’s because you’ve never tried it.
RODNEY. I intend to try it.
MARTIN. Who is the girl?
RODNEY. (_Nervously_) The girl?
MARTIN. Yes, girl—you’re not going to marry an automobile or a polo
pony—you’re going to marry a girl, aren’t you? Some blue-eyed,
doll-faced, gurgling, fluttering little fool. Oh, why doesn’t God give
young men some sense about women?
RODNEY. I object very strongly to your speaking in that way of Miss
Grayson.
MARTIN. Miss Grayson? Miss Grayson? You’re not going to marry a
typewriter?
RODNEY. Yes, sir.
MARTIN. Does she know it?
RODNEY. Yes, sir.
MARTIN. Of course she knows a good thing like you when she sees it!
RODNEY. I won’t listen to you talk of Miss Grayson in that way.
MARTIN. You’ve got to listen. I won’t permit any such absurd, ridiculous
marriage! Thank Heaven, you had sense enough not to elope——
RODNEY. I wanted to, but she wouldn’t. She insisted on your being told,
so you see what an injustice——
MARTIN. Injustice? Can’t you see that she wished me to know, so that if
I disapproved and cut you off, she’d not be stuck with _you_ on her hands.
RODNEY. Please, father—it’s quite useless. (_He starts to go_)
MARTIN. No, my boy, wait a minute. Remember, I’m your friend even if I am
your father. (_Rises, goes to door R. to ring bell_) Don’t you believe
it’s only your money she wants?
RODNEY. I know it isn’t.
MARTIN. (_Pushing bell_) I’ll prove it is.
RODNEY. What are you going to do?
MARTIN. Send for Miss Grayson.
RODNEY. You shan’t humiliate her.
JOHNSON. (_Entering from door upper L._) Yes, sir?
MARTIN. Ask Miss Grayson to come here at once.
JOHNSON. Yes, sir. (_He exits_)
MARTIN. I’ll tell that scheming secretary that if you persist in this
marriage, I’ll disinherit you! Then watch her throw you over.
RODNEY. Even if you are my father, you shan’t insult the girl I love.
MARTIN. Poppycock! You’re afraid to put her to the test: you’re afraid
she will chuck you.
RODNEY. (_Quickly_) I am not afraid.
MARY. (_Entering from door upper L._) You wanted me, Mr. Martin?
RODNEY. (_Going to her, she crosses to C._) Mary!
MARTIN. Wait a minute. My precious son informs me that you and he intend
to marry.
MARY. (_Timidly_) Oh, sir——
MARTIN. And I wish to tell you that if he marries you, he doesn’t get one
penny of my money, and that means he’ll starve.
MARY. Then at least we can starve together. (_They hold hands_)
RODNEY. Mary!
MARTIN. Making a grand-stand play, eh? You think I’m too fond of him not
to relent? Well, you’re wrong. Neither of you can get a nickel from me:
you can both starve together.
RODNEY. We won’t starve.
MARTIN. What can you do? You’re not a producer—you never will be.
(_Crosses to L._) You’re just an idler. You couldn’t earn five dollars
a week, but you’ll have a chance to try. You’ll get out of my house
to-night or I’ll have you thrown out.
RODNEY. Now, father——
MARTIN. Not another word, sir, not another word! (_He kicks chair, and
stamps out angrily, thru lower L. door_)
RODNEY. (_To MARY_) It’s getting more like that play every minute.
MARY. (_Half crying_) Oh, Rodney, Rodney, what have I done? I’m so—so
sorry.
RODNEY. You haven’t done anything—neither of us has. Father didn’t seem
to give us a chance to. He did it all——
MARY. Oh, Rodney——
RODNEY. You were bully the way you stuck up for me. When you said we’d
starve together, I just choked all up.
MARY. (_Genuinely_) Please don’t, Rodney.
RODNEY. Just because he’s got a lot of money he seems to think there
isn’t any left, but I’ll show him. I may not have much at the start, but
watch my finish.
MARY. What are you going to do?
RODNEY. I’m going to work.
MARY. (_Excited_) You are—really? (_Rises_)
RODNEY. Yes, indeed—father couldn’t make me do it, but you have. I’ll
work for you.
MARY. Oh, you are splendid. Will you get a position?
RODNEY. I should say not! Work for someone else? No, sir—I’m going in
business for myself—for you. I’m going to show the stuff that’s in me. Of
course, we can’t get married till I’ve made good. Will you wait?
MARY. (_Shyly_) Yes, dear.
RODNEY. You’re a dandy.
MARY. What business are you going in?
RODNEY. I don’t know yet. I’m going upstairs to pack a suit-case and
think. (_Crosses to R._) I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. (_He grabs her
and kisses her hastily but heartily_)
MARY. Oh, oh—please——
RODNEY. Don’t mind, Mary. You’ll get used to ’em. (_Exits door lower R._)
(_She goes over and raps three times on the door through which MARTIN
left, and backs away from it. She stands there expectantly. In a moment
MARTIN tiptoes in with no trace of a limp. She puts her fingers to her
lips to indicate silence, and points off-stage R. to indicate where
RODNEY has gone. MARTIN tiptoes nearer, nodding his head, questioning and
eager. MARY smilingly nods her head in reply._)
MARTIN. (_In stage-whisper_) You mean our scheme worked?
MARY. (_Delighted_) Yes, yes.
MARTIN. You really have got him to go to work?
MARY. I have!
MARTIN. (_Gleefully_) By George, that’s great!
MARY. Isn’t it!
MARTIN. You’re sure he wasn’t just talking?
MARY. No, he’s gone upstairs to pack and go out and make a name for
himself.
MARTIN. You’re a wise girl. Isn’t it wonderful?
MARY. And you said I couldn’t do it.
MARTIN. I said I didn’t think you could, but you have, and I owe you
$2,500. (_Crosses to chair L. of table to make out check_)
MARY. Oh, there’s no hurry.
MARTIN. Never put off till to-morrow the money you can get to-day.
MARY. Aren’t you proud I’ve been so successful?
MARTIN. Proud? I’m so doggone happy I’m making this out for $5,000.
MARY. Oh, Mr. Martin!
MARTIN. And it’s worth $50,000 to me to have my boy really want to work,
not just to do it to please me. What a difference an incentive makes!
(_Hands her the check_)
MARY. (_Smiling at check_) Doesn’t it?
MARTIN. (_Crosses to L._) Especially if it’s a girl. And to think I
begged and threatened Rodney for months, and then you plan this scheme,
you invent my gout, you rehearse me, you come up here for six short weeks
and—Bing, you get him so he’s in love with you.
MARY. Or thinks he is.
MARTIN. But, say, what about your marriage? (_Sits in chair L. of table_)
MARY. He said he wouldn’t marry me till he’d made good—if I’d just wait.
(_Sits in chair R. of table_)
MARTIN. (_Anxiously_) Do you think perhaps he may really love you?
MARY. Of course not.
MARTIN. It’s the first time he’s actually wanted to marry anybody.
MARY. Oh, it’s just that I’ve been very blue-eyed and baby-faced.
MARTIN. I guess you’re right!
MARY. Of course I am. When I break our engagement he may feel sort of
lonely for a while and give up women forever, but pretty soon some
charming girl of his world will come along—some limousine lady, and
they’ll live happy ever after.
MARTIN. I sort of begin to wish this marriage were going to be on the
level.
MARY. It wouldn’t work out. I’m a business woman. Even if your son did
love me—really love—I wouldn’t marry him. Just now he’s twenty-four with
an India-rubber heart that is easy to stretch and easier to snap back.
All boys at twenty-four are like that.
MARTIN. (_Reminiscently_) I guess so. I remember when I was a young
man, there was a girl ... my heart was broken for a week—perhaps ten
days. I went down to the club one night and got spifflicated—however,
however—(_Abruptly changing the subject_) What’s my son going to work at?
MARY. I don’t know yet.
MARTIN. Do you think he’ll make good?
MARY. He will if he keeps at it. (_Rises and goes R._)
MARTIN. Well, you’ll keep him at it? (_Rises and goes R._)
MARY. That wasn’t our agreement. I only undertook to get him to start to
work.
MARTIN. Hum.
MARY. (_Quickly_) Isn’t that true?
MARTIN. Quite—quite. I was just thinking we might make some new agreement
to have you keep him on the job.
MARY. (_Rubbing her fingers as if handling money_) I’m a business woman.
MARTIN. What strikes you as fair?
MARY. I’d rather the proposition came from you.
MARTIN. What do you say to your present salary, and at the end of the
year I will personally give you a check for twenty-five per cent of what
Rodney has made.
MARY. Oh, that wouldn’t interest me at all.
MARTIN. What’s your proposition, then?
MARY. (_Promptly_) My present salary doubled.
MARTIN. Um—that’s pretty steep.
MARY. You told me what I’d done _already_ was worth $50,000 to you.
MARTIN. Merely a figure of speech, my dear. Let’s see, you’re getting $40
a week, and....
MARY. $50, and I want $100.
MARTIN. Sounds like a hold-up. (_Crosses R._)
MARY. Then let’s drop it. This new contract was your idea, not mine.
Good-evening. (_She starts to go, gets to door, which she bangs as if she
had gone. She remains however in the room_)
MARTIN. Hold on—hold on—(_He turns and sees her, and then chuckles at her
joke on him. She laughs, too_) I was simply figuring. Tell you what I’ll
do: $75 a week and 10 per cent of what Rodney makes.
MARY. Seventy-five a week and 10 per cent of what he makes? All right,
I’ll go you.
MARTIN. Good.
MARY. (_Goes to desk, takes note-book_) Will you just write me a note
stating the facts and the consideration?
MARTIN. You want it in writing? (_Crosses to table R. and sits_)
MARY. Certainly, it’s always safer that way. (_He writes. As he writes_)
As soon as you see Rodney, you’ll have to discharge me.
MARTIN. I will, violently. I make a pretty good actor under your
direction. How did you like that irate father stuff?
MARY. Great! You needn’t make the note long. Just a memorandum.
MARTIN. (_Holding up paper_) How’s that?
MARY. (_Reading_) I think that covers it—if you’ll sign it.
MARTIN. (_Confused_) Didn’t I sign it?
MARY. (_Smiling_) No, and never put off till to-morrow what you can sign
to-day.
MARTIN. (_Signing_) There you are. (_Hands MARY paper_)
MARY. (_Sits on table_) Thanks. Now, Mr. Martin, there’s just one
question I’d like to ask.
MARTIN. Go ahead, I’ll answer you anything.
MARY. Why is it, when Rodney’s been out of college for _two_ years, that
it’s only the last three months you’ve been so persistent about getting
him to work?
MARTIN. It’s like this. You know old John Clark?
MARY. The man you dine with so often?
MARTIN. Yes, friends and rivals for thirty years.
MARY. He’s in Ivory Soap, isn’t he?
MARTIN. (_Emphatically_) I should say he is—one of the big men there.
We’ve fought all our lives over soap, but he’s never been able to lick
me, and—well, I haven’t been able to lick him, either.
MARY. Perhaps that’s why you’re such good friends.
MARTIN. Perhaps it is. Anyhow, as it’s fifty-fifty in business, we’ve
lately narrowed the fight down to a family matter. You know old John
Clark has a son, too: Ellery—nasty, egotistical, self-satisfied young
puppy.
MARY. I know, I’ve talked to him.
MARTIN. Well, old Clark thinks Ellery is the prince of all modern
business, and he kept pitying me so much about Rodney’s being an idler—a
rich man’s son—it got on my nerves, so lately I made a bet with him.
MARY. A bet!
MARTIN. I bet him thirty thousand dollars my son could make more in a
year than his son could. So I had to get Rodney busy, and he’s got to
make good. He can’t be such a pin-head as he looks! If there’s anything
in heredity there must be something of me in him, and we’ve got to find
it—we’ve got to develop Rodney, dig deep, maybe blast. If he doesn’t win
out——
MARY. But he will, I’m sure he will.
MARTIN. It isn’t just the money. I guess I’m a sentimental old fool, but
I’m proud. I want my boy to be Rodney Martin, not just Cyrus Martin’s
son, and I want to show old Clark that as a judge of character he’s a
bigger fool than I am. If I don’t get that bet——
MARY. But you’re going to, I’m sure you are.
MARTIN. By George, Miss Grayson, if I weren’t a bit old and on the
shelf, I’d marry you myself. You and I could clean up all the loose
change in America. (_RODNEY enters R. MARTIN, seeing him, changes his
whole attitude. Rises_) I don’t care to discuss the matter further, Miss
Grayson: consider yourself discharged. Good evening. (_Crosses to L._)
RODNEY. It’s all right, Mary. You can have a job in my office. (_Crosses
to C._)
MARTIN. (_Scornfully_) Your office, ha! (_Suddenly_) Oh, my foot, my poor
foot! (_He limps painfully towards door_) Your office! It’s a joke, young
man!
RODNEY. Oh, you needn’t laugh! I’ll show you. (_Crosses L. C._)
MARTIN. (_Winking at MARY_) Silence, you young puppy. Oh, my poor foot!
(_He exits_)
MARY. Oh, Rodney! (_Sits on sofa_)
(_RODNEY goes up-stage, and passes behind sofa so that he is at the R.
end of sofa._)
RODNEY. Gout’s an awful thing, isn’t it? (_Sits on sofa_)
MARY. Oh, Rodney, I’m afraid I’ve spoiled everything for you—your future——
RODNEY. Nonsense, you’ve made my future. Without you, I’d never have got
the idea, the big idea.
MARY. Idea for what?
RODNEY. The idea to make money out of; that’s all you need. And, just
think, I found it in this book.
MARY. What idea? What book?
RODNEY. It’s a cook-book.
MARY. What on earth——?
RODNEY. Well, you see, when I was packing I stumbled across this book; it
fell open at this page—fate was on the job—it was a hunch. Look!
MARY. (_Looking_) But what is it?
RODNEY. It’s an old family recipe for making cheap soap. It says it’s the
cheapest soap in the world. Cheaper even than the manufacturers make it.
I’m going into the soap business.
MARY. (_Amazed_) What?
RODNEY. Sure. Father did; look at the money he made. Why shouldn’t I?
MARY. (_Rises, goes L._) You’re joking.
RODNEY. I’m in dead earnest. I’m going to buck the trust. (_Rises_)
MARY. But how can you?
RODNEY. I don’t know, but I will. You see, I’ll have all the popular
sympathy: independent young son of soap-king fights father; don’t buy
from the trust.
MARY. But is that very nice to your _father_?
RODNEY. Has he been nice to me? It’s great! Down with monopoly! Hurrah
for the people! I’ve heard political speeches like that. Hurrah for the
people’s soap! That isn’t a bad name, either. The People’s Soap. (_Lays
book on table_)
MARY. But you haven’t any capital.
RODNEY. (_Dejected_) I never thought of that.
MARY. You’d need a lot of money.
RODNEY. (_Bracing up_) Well, I’ll just have to get it, that’s all, and
you’ll be my secretary. Of course, till I make big money I wouldn’t
ordinarily have thought of taking you away from father—but as long as he
discharged you—well, you work for me now. What does father pay you?
MARY. Fifty dollars a week.
RODNEY. I’ll pay you a hundred and fifty.
MARY. But you haven’t any money.
(_JOHNSON enters from door upper L._)
JOHNSON. Beg pardon, Mr. Rodney, but Mr. Ambrose Peale is here to see you.
MARY. For the fifth time——
RODNEY. (_Puzzled_) Ambrose Peale? Oh, yes, I remember. Ask him to come
in.
JOHNSON. Yes, sir. (_He exits door upper L._)
MARY. Who is he?
RODNEY. He’s got something to do with the theater. When I was in Harvard
two years ago I met him one night in the lobby of the theater. I haven’t
seen him since—it was the night we had our egg fight.
MARY. You and Mr. Peale?
RODNEY. No, no, the fellows threw eggs at the people on the stage. You
see, it was a college play——
MARY. Did you throw eggs?
RODNEY. I forgot to bring any. Peale was the manager of the show and was
mighty decent to me—kept me out of jail.
(_PEALE enters from door upper L._)
PEALE. Well, well, Rodney Martin, how are you? (_To MARY_) How are you,
dear lady?
RODNEY. How do you do? Miss Grayson—Mr. Ambrose Peale.
PEALE. Ambrose Peale—that’s me absolutely. Well, I’m still in the show
business. (_To MARY_) Ever see “The Belle of Broadway”? Great show, great
girls, great cast.
MARY. Oh, are you an actor?
PEALE. (_Scornfully_) An actor? I should say not. I’m a press-agent.
MARY. Oh!
PEALE. But, say, be sure to catch that show; it may leave the city
soon—out-of-town bookings, you know—but remember the name: “The Belle of
Broadway.” And now if you’ll excuse me, Miss, I came to talk business
with Mr. Martin.
RODNEY. Business? Surely—surely. (_Winking at MARY_) I’m a business
man—now.
MARY. I’ll be back in a few minutes.
RODNEY. Thank you, Miss Grayson. (_She exits door lower R._)
PEALE. Now, I’m not much on handing myself flowers across the footlights,
but do you happen to remember what I did for you the night of the egg
fight?
RODNEY. You fixed things with the chief of police and kept me from being
expelled.
PEALE. By George, you do remember. And you said any time you could do
anything for me——
RODNEY. That’s still true.
PEALE. You’re immense, son. Now, it’s this way—have a chair. (_He sits.
RODNEY does likewise_) Between you and me, “The Belle of Broadway” is an
awful thing—business gone to pot. Something’s got to be done. Some great
stuff pulled off to give it a boost, and that’s where you come in.
RODNEY. I?
PEALE. You’ve got an aeroplane, haven’t you?
RODNEY. Yes, but——
PEALE. Then everything’s all right. Now you abduct the leading lady,
Julia Clark, to-morrow night, in your aeroplane—elope with her——
RODNEY. What?
PEALE. Sure—some stunt, too—never been done. Julia’ll stand for it—she’s
game for any press gag——
RODNEY. But I couldn’t do that.
PEALE. Certainly you can. I’m telling you Julia’ll stand for it—a bird of
a story—no performance. Why? You’re up in the air with the leading lady.
The next night standing room only to catch a look at the girl you’re
stuck on. I can see the headlines now: Soap King’s Son Takes New Star
Among the Stars—with flashlights.
RODNEY. But it’s out of the question. (_Rises, takes chair to table_)
PEALE. What’s the matter with it?
RODNEY. I wouldn’t do it, that’s all.
PEALE. Gee, that’s tough!
RODNEY. I’m not backing down—anything in reason, but you see, there’s
someone who might object.
PEALE. A girl? (_RODNEY nods_) Her? (_Pointing to where MARY exited_)
RODNEY. Yes.
PEALE. (_Rises and puts chair back_) I guess it’s cold: girls are funny
about their beaux doing a little innocent thing like eloping with some
other girl.
RODNEY. Why don’t you try somebody else?
PEALE. I have! You were my last card. Well, I’m fired!
RODNEY. Fired?
PEALE. Sure, that stunt would have kept us going, but now, on the
level—well, the show’s so bad, people won’t even go see it on a pass.
We’ll close Saturday and I’m out——
RODNEY. A fake story like that would really have helped?
PEALE. Helped a whole lot: given us a fresh start, and then I’d have
pulled off some new stunts and saved my job.
RODNEY. Oh, nonsense. If that were true, I’d feel mighty uncomfortable
at not being able to oblige you, but an obvious trumped-up lie like that
can’t be any good.
PEALE. It can’t, eh?
RODNEY. Oh, I know it’s advertising——
PEALE. You bet it’s advertising. What made Anna Held? Milk baths. What
made Gaby Deslys? A dago king.
RODNEY. But that kind of advertising can’t be of real value. (_Sits_)
PEALE. Oh, you’re one of those guys who don’t believe in advertising, are
you? Now, don’t get me talking advertising. That’s where I live, where
I have my town house and country estate, my yacht and motors. That’s my
home. Maybe you think love is important? Piffle. Advertising, my boy, the
power of suggestion, the psychology of print; say a thing often enough
and hard enough and the other chap’ll not only believe you, he’ll think
it’s his own idea, and he’ll fight for it. Some old gink, a professor of
psychology, showed forty Vassar girls the other day two samples of satin,
one blue, one pink, same grade, same value, same artistic worth. One he
described as a delicate warm old rose, the other a faded blue. He asked
them to choose their favorite. Thirty-nine out of the forty picked the
old rose. Why? Because they’d been told it was warm and delicate; no
faded blue for theirs! What did it? The power of suggestion—advertising!
RODNEY. (_Amused_) You seem to know something about it——
PEALE. I not only seem to, I do. You heard me tell that girl of yours a
few minutes ago that “The Belle of Broadway” was the biggest hit in town.
Ask her to go to the theater. Give her her choice and I’ll bet you four
dollars to a fried egg she picks “The Belle of Broadway.” Advertising!
RODNEY. I don’t believe it.
PEALE. Well, try it—and say, what makes you go to the theater yourself?
I’ll tell you—it’s what you’ve read about the play or what some fellows
told you.
RODNEY. (_Beginning to be convinced_) Why, I suppose that’s true.
PEALE. And what he tells you, some other guy has told him. Ninety-seven
per cent of the public believe what they’re told, and what they’re told
is what the other chap’s been told—and the fellow who told him read it
somewhere. When you see a thing in print about something you don’t really
know anything about, you come pretty near believing it. And all the
advertiser has to do is to tell you right and you’ll fall.
RODNEY. But I never read advertisements.
PEALE. Oh, you don’t, eh? I guess you do. If I say His Master’s
Voice, you know that advertises a phonograph. You’re on to what
soap “It Floats” refers to. There’s a Reason—Uneeda—Quaker
Oats—Phoebe Show—Children Cry For it—Sapolio—Grape Nuts—Peruna—The
Road of Anthracite—Spearmint—Pierce Arrow—57 Varieties—Kodak—White
Seal—Gold Dust Twins—He Won’t Be Happy Till He Gets It—Bull
Durham—Pianola—Cuticura—Melachrino—Clysmic—Goodyear—Steinway—
Thermos—Coca-Cola—The Watch that Made The Dollar Famous. I suppose
you don’t know what any of them mean?
RODNEY. (_Amused_) Why, I know what they all mean.
PEALE. You bet you do. What kind of garters do you wear?
RODNEY. Why, let me see: Boston.
PEALE. Exactly. What do you know about ’em? Nothing. Are they any better
than any other garter? You don’t know—I don’t know—but all my life, every
magazine I’ve ever looked into has had a picture of a man’s leg with a
certain kind of garter on it—Boston—so when I go into a store to buy a
pair of garters I just naturally say Boston; so do you. What do you know
about Mennen’s Talcum Powder? Nothing, except that it has the picture
of the homeliest man in the world on the box and it’s so impressed your
imagination, you just mechanically order Mennen’s. If I say to you, E.
& W., you don’t think it’s a corset, do you? If I say C. B., you don’t
think it’s a collar, and what about the well-known and justly famous B.
V. D.’s? You don’t read advertisement? Rot!
RODNEY. But——
PEALE. No ‘but’ about it: advertising’s responsible for everything.
When a department store advertises a seven-dollar shirt-waist for four
dollars, you don’t believe it’s on the level, do you?
RODNEY. No, I don’t.
PEALE. Neither do I, but there’s a hell of a lot of women who do. When
Bryan advertised the Grape Juice Highball, do you know that its sale went
up 652 gallons a day?
RODNEY. How do you know it was 652?
PEALE. I’ll let you into a little secret: I don’t know. I don’t know a
damned thing about grape juice, and as long as my health and strength
keep up, I hope I never will, but if I said I’d read in a newspaper that
the sale had gone up 652 gallons, you wouldn’t have doubted it, would you?
RODNEY. No, I suppose I wouldn’t.
PEALE. And you’d have told somebody else and he’d have believed you, too.
Say, do you drink much?
RODNEY. No.
PEALE. Can you tell the difference between a vintage wine and last year’s
champagne? Sure, you can: it costs more. Son, the world is full of bunk.
Ninety-seven per cent of the people are sheep, and you can get ’em all by
advertising.
RODNEY. You are gradually making me come to the conclusion that you
believe in publicity.
PEALE. Believe in it! It’s my life. What kind of eggs do you eat?
RODNEY. Why, hen’s eggs, of course.
PEALE. Why “of course”? Did you ever eat a duck’s egg?
RODNEY. Why, no.
PEALE. Do you know anything against the duck?
RODNEY. No.
PEALE. Exactly. When a duck lays an egg it’s a damn fool and keeps quiet
about it, but when a hen does, my boy—cluck-cluck all over the place!
She’s advertising. So you eat hen’s eggs.
RODNEY. You’re beginning to convince me.
PEALE. If I’m beginning to convince you, that’s advertising, too. Say,
are you for Roosevelt or against him?
RODNEY. I’m for him strong.
PEALE. I’m against him. I read one paper, you read another. I think he’s
a faker, you think he’s a great man. But does either of us really know
anything about him except what we’ve read? Have you ever met Roosevelt
or talked to him or known anybody who did know him? I haven’t, but the
point is, whatever we may think, good or bad, we’ve heard a lot about
him, because he’s the best advertiser in the world. And that, my son, is
the whole secret of it: get ’em talking about you, get ’em praisin’ if
you can, or get ’em cussin’, but for the love of Heaven, don’t let ’em
be quiet. Mention your name—have ’em argue about you—boost or knock—be a
hero or a villain, but don’t be a dub. Why, give me the money, a little
time, a few pages of advertising, and I can sell you shares in the
Atlantic Ocean!
RODNEY. (_Excited_) You really believe that with proper advertising you
could build up a great business?
PEALE. Believe! Look around you: everything’s doing it.
RODNEY. And you are out of a job.
PEALE. Unless you do the aero-elopement.
RODNEY. (_Rises_) Then you’re out of it. Do you want to work for me?
PEALE. Sure.
RODNEY. When can you begin?
PEALE. Now.
RODNEY. What’s your salary?
PEALE. I’ve been getting $60, but I’m worth $75.
RODNEY. I’ll give you a hundred.
PEALE. What is your business? Counterfeiting?
RODNEY. No, it’s——
PEALE. Don’t tell me. As long as it don’t send me to state’s prison or
the chair, it’s all right. Could I have about $25 advance on my salary
now?
RODNEY. Is that customary?
PEALE. It is with me.
RODNEY. Oh, all right. (_He gives him the money_)
PEALE. Just as an evidence of good faith. (_He counts money_) Well, now
I’m working for you, what business are you in?
RODNEY. The soap business.
PEALE. (_Grinning_) Nice clean business. With father?
RODNEY. Against him!
PEALE. Oh!
RODNEY. My father and I have had a quarrel.
PEALE. I know, I know: fathers are very unreasonable these days.
RODNEY. I’m going to fight the soap trust.
PEALE. Well, you’re no piker. You’ve picked out a nice refined job. How
long have you been at it?
RODNEY. Twenty minutes.
PEALE. How’s it going?
RODNEY. Fine, since I got an idea from you.
PEALE. They grow all over me—help yourself.
RODNEY. I’m going to get a factory, advertise like the very dickens: Soap
King’s son fights father—and licks him, too, by George!
PEALE. Wait a minute, wait a minute, do you know why your father is the
soap king?
RODNEY. I suppose because he controls all the soap business in the
country except Ivory.
PEALE. Exactly, and the way he keeps control of it is by buying out all
his live competitors. Now, here’s a blue-ribbon champion of the world
scheme. Why don’t we make good and sell out to father?
RODNEY. No, I don’t care to do that. I want to make good myself.
PEALE. Well, if father is forced to buy you out, isn’t that enough? What
do you want?
RODNEY. I’ve got to be a success on my own. I’ve got to show father,
and—Miss Grayson.
PEALE. (_Comprehending_) Oh! Making good with the dame, eh?
RODNEY. You see, father says I can’t earn five dollars a week.
PEALE. He isn’t right, is he?
RODNEY. No, sir, you’ll see.
PEALE. I hope so. Pretty tough if you couldn’t. Some job trying to sell
soap if father’s against us.
RODNEY. I suppose it is.
PEALE. I tell you: why not make such a hit with the soap, advertise it so
strong, he’ll just have to back you?
RODNEY. Now that’s settled, we’re going to lick father.
PEALE. Yes, that’s settled. What do I do?
RODNEY. You write the ads that make us.
PEALE. It’s my chance. Think, I’ll never have to see “The Belle of
Broadway” again! I’ll write ads, I’ll conduct a campaign that’ll keep
your father awake, and in three months at the most he’ll be begging for a
chance to back us.
RODNEY. I believe we’ll do it.
PEALE. Come on, come on. Let’s get busy. What’s the name of the soap?
RODNEY. It hasn’t been named.
PEALE. Well, what is there about it that makes it different from any
other soap?
RODNEY. I don’t know.
PEALE. Well, what could there be about some soap that was different from
some other soap?
RODNEY. Well, let’s see.
PEALE. Where did you get it from?
RODNEY. From this cook-book.
PEALE. Are you kidding me?
RODNEY. No. Half an hour ago I decided to go in to business, and I
happened to find this recipe for soap in a cook-book—it’s the cheapest
soap in the world. (_Reflecting_) That’s not a bad title: the cheapest
soap in the world. (_A pause. They reflect_)
PEALE. You’re wrong, son. There’s an awful bunch of people that buy a
lot of expensive stuff, not because it’s better, but because it costs
more—and the poor nuts think it ought to be better—so can that cheap
stuff.
RODNEY. Well, how about The Most Expensive Soap in the World?
PEALE. My boy, I could kiss you. A pupil after my own heart—fifty cents a
cake.
RODNEY. A dollar, and we’ll make it a warm delicate old rose.
PEALE. Each cake in a separate box with a paper rose on the lid.
RODNEY. Great.
PEALE. But what’ll we call it?
RODNEY. Old Rose.
PEALE. Rotten—doesn’t mean anything.
RODNEY. Let’s think.
PEALE. I am thinking. I never stop.
RODNEY. The Soap that Made Pittsburg Clean.
PEALE. Too long, and no good anyway, because Pittsburg isn’t clean. You
need something catchy.
RODNEY. I had an idea a while ago: The People’s Soap.
PEALE. Not if you’re going to catch the rich boobs.
RODNEY. That’s true.
PEALE. We need something that’s universally appealing. What is it? What
is it?
RODNEY. (_Looking off-stage toward where MARY went_) Love.
PEALE. Slush.
RODNEY. Money.
PEALE. (_Suddenly_) I’ve got it: Superstition—everybody’s superstitious.
RODNEY. Rot! I’m not.
PEALE. I say, there’s a bit of luck for us right at the start—a pin with
the head toward you. (_RODNEY stoops to pick it up_) See, you were going
to pick it up! Everybody is superstitious. Oh, they say they’re not, just
as you did, but did you ever meet a guy who, if he didn’t mind walking
under a ladder, didn’t hate to spill salt, or else he wanted to see the
moon over his right shoulder—or he picked up pins, or carried a lucky
coin, wouldn’t do things on Friday? Why, the whole world’s superstitious.
Get something on that and you hit everybody. I’ve got eighty-six
horseshoes home myself. I never saw a gink that would sit thirteen at
table. We’re all crazy. (_They pause and think. They both sit on end of
table_)
RODNEY. Could we—?
PEALE. What?
RODNEY. No. (_They pause_)
PEALE. Suppose we—?
RODNEY. What?
PEALE. No—(_Pause_)
RODNEY. Wait! Wait—listen! The Thirteen Soap—Unlucky for Dirt.
PEALE. (_Coming over and kissing RODNEY on the brow_) Son, it’s all over:
the old man’ll be on his knees in a month.
RODNEY. We open the office Monday.
PEALE. Where’s the office?
RODNEY. Let’s get one.
PEALE. With furniture and everything. Say—(_MARY enters from door lower
R. Seeing her_) There’s the dame; ask her to go to the theater, just to
prove what I say. See for yourself. (_He goes up-stage_)
RODNEY. (_Turning to her_) Oh, Mary, to celebrate, let’s go to the
theater to-morrow night?
MARY. I’d love to.
RODNEY. What do you want to see?
MARY. I hear “The Belle of Broadway” is very good.
(_PEALE yawns and stretches out his arms complacently._)
PEALE. (_To RODNEY_) I guess I don’t know about advertising, eh? (_To
MARY_) My last official act is giving you a box for to-morrow night. (_He
writes_)
MARY. Oh, yes, you’re with that play, aren’t you?
PEALE. I am. (_Handing her pass_) Er—I was.
MARY. But isn’t it an imposition?
PEALE. Not on us, it isn’t.
MARY. Thank you. (_Crosses to RODNEY. To RODNEY_) I didn’t mean to bother
you, but I’m so interested: I thought, regarding Mr. Peale’s business,
I’d like to hear——
RODNEY. It’s all settled, Mary. Mr. Peale, my general manager. Mr. Peale,
my secretary. Mary, here it is: The Thirteen Soap—Unlucky for Dirt: The
Most Expensive Soap in the World.
MARY. (_Genuinely_) Why, that’s perfectly wonderful—who thought of it?
(_Looking at PEALE_)
RODNEY. I did.
MARY. (_Turning to him_) You did, really? Why, you’re splendid.
PEALE. Youth, brains, efficiency—that’s our motto.
RODNEY. We’ll make a hundred thousand dollars the first year—sure.
MARY. (_Reflectively_) And ten per cent of that is——
RODNEY. What?
MARY. (_Quickly_) Oh nothing, nothing—I was just figuring.
RODNEY. We’re going to make our soap famous by advertising, and then
force father to back us.
MARY. That sounds bully, and at the start you won’t need much capital.
RODNEY. Capital?
PEALE. With fifty thousand dollars I can make the Great American People
have hysterics for the Thirteen Soap.
RODNEY. Fifty thousand dollars, and I’ve got only a thousand. Oh! (_Sits
on chair R. of desk_)
MARY. Oh! (_Sitting on sofa_)
PEALE. (_Sitting in arm-chair L. of table_) But can’t you raise it?
RODNEY. (_To PEALE_) How?
PEALE. Don’t ask me. Raising money is the only thing I never got on to——
RODNEY. Peale, you’re fired.
PEALE. Well, it was a good job while it lasted.
RODNEY. (_Rises_) Gimme back that $25.
PEALE. (_Rises, take out money and returns it to RODNEY_) Good-bye, old
pal.
MARY. (_Rises, and comes down-stage between RODNEY and PEALE_) But
couldn’t you start with less?
RODNEY. Of course we could. Couldn’t we, Peale?
PEALE. Not and do it right. No use wasting money piking when you
advertise. Splurge, my lad, splurge or let it remain dormant.
RODNEY. I’ve got a thousand in the bank; the aeroplane’s worth four—it
cost eight.
PEALE. Then if you’re lucky it might sell for two.
RODNEY. The motors ought to bring another four. That’d be seven, isn’t
that something?
PEALE. Seven thousand is not to be spoken of venomously, but in
advertising—well, going easy, it might last you a week.
MARY. I have a——
PEALE. Some money?
RODNEY. We couldn’t take money from you.
MARY. No, I know a—a man that might put in five thousand.
RODNEY. That’s twelve.
PEALE. (_Suddenly_) Does your father advertise much?
RODNEY. I don’t think so; does he, Mary?
MARY. Not very much: he’s conservative. He doesn’t believe in reckless
advertising.
PEALE. Nothing sensational or exciting?
MARY. No.
PEALE. Why, he’s licked now, and I’ll tell you why. We can advertise just
for your father’s benefit alone.
RODNEY. I don’t quite understand your plan?
PEALE. Why, plaster this neighborhood with Thirteen Soap advertisements.
Do the same around your father’s office so that every time he went out or
came in he’d see Thirteen Soap. We could advertise only in the newspapers
he reads. We’d send him circulars every mail. I could make a splurge just
for him that would look like we were giving up $10,000 a day. Within a
month he’d think that Thirteen Soap was the only soap in the world.
RODNEY. How much would it take?
PEALE. Five thousand a week.
RODNEY. And you could land him in a month.
PEALE. My boy!
RODNEY. And we’ve got one thousand—all cash, and eleven thousand in
prospects. Go ahead.
PEALE. You mean I’m hired again?
RODNEY. Sure you are.
PEALE. Gimme back that $25.
RODNEY. (_Giving it back_) Certainly.
PEALE. The best thing you ever did was to engage me.
RODNEY. Peale, we’ll be rich men.
PEALE. With your money and my ideas, I’ll be a millionaire.
RODNEY. Well, I hope I will, too.
MARY. Me, too.
JOHNSON. (_Entering from door upper L._) Countess de Beou—ree—enn.
MARY. Oh, that dreadful woman again.
COUNTESS. (_Entering and coming over to RODNEY. To RODNEY_) Vous êtes M.
Martin?
RODNEY. (_Nods_) Yes.
COUNTESS. Ah, cher M. Martin—je suis enchantée de vous voir.
PEALE. The dame’s looney.
MARY. No, she’s French.
PEALE. Same thing.
RODNEY. What’s all this, anyhow?
MARY. She wanted to see your father, and she doesn’t speak English.
RODNEY. Well, let her speak to me. Fire ahead.
PEALE. Say, can you speak French?
MARY. (_Surprised_) Can you?
RODNEY. No, but I can understand it. (_Going to COUNTESS_) Fire ahead.
COUNTESS. Eh?
RODNEY. Let me see—oh, yes. Parlez.
COUNTESS. Ah, mon Dieu—enfin, quelqu’un qui comprend Français.
RODNEY. Oui.
COUNTESS. Puis-je vous parler pour cinq minutes?
RODNEY. Oui.
COUNTESS. Merci bien.
RODNEY. Oui——
PEALE. You’re immense, kid.
COUNTESS. (_Quickly_) Je suis madame la comtesse de Beaurien. Je désire
parler à M. Martin àpropos des affaires du savon. Je voudrais obtenir
l’agence du Savon Martin pour la France.
RODNEY. Wait a minute—wait a minute.
MARY. What did she say?
PEALE. She’s a speedy spieler all right.
RODNEY. (_To COUNTESS_) Would you mind saying that over and say it slow?
COUNTESS. Comment?
RODNEY. Oh.... Répétez ça s’il vous plait—pas vite.
COUNTESS. Je suis madame la comtesse de Beaurien. Je désire obtenir
l’agence du Savon Martin pour la France. Je peux donner cinquante mille
francs pour cette agence. Et enfin, voulez-vous arranger cette affaire
pour moi? Je suis riche, j’ai beaucoup de recommendations—je suis bien
connue à Paris.
RODNEY. Wait a minute. Wait a minute. (_To PEALE_) She wants the agency
for father’s soap for France and is willing to pay 50,000 francs for the
concession.
PEALE. How much is that in money?
RODNEY. Ten thousand dollars.
MARY. Had I better tell your father? (_Goes to door lower L._)
RODNEY. (_Inspired. Crosses to MARY_) No, no, why not keep father out of
this? We’ll sell her the agency for the Thirteen Soap—that’d be another
$10,000 for us. Peale, she’s a gift from the gods! (_Goes to COUNTESS_)
PEALE. She is. Go to it.
MARY. But how can you sell her your agency?
RODNEY. I don’t know—how can I?
PEALE. A pipe. Ask her if she’s superstitious?
RODNEY. Oh, if I only knew how to talk French!—Madame—êtes-vous
superstitious?
COUNTESS. Eh?
RODNEY. I mean—superstitieuse? (_COUNTESS looks blank_)
PEALE. She doesn’t get you.
RODNEY. No.
PEALE. (_He goes and takes the COUNTESS’ parasol_) Pardon me....
(_Starts to raise it. With a cry of protest: “Faites pas ça”, she stops
him_) She’s superstitious, all right—(_To her_) It ought to be a pipe to
land you.
RODNEY. Listen: je suis le fils de Museer Martin—vous savez?
COUNTESS. (_Delightedly_) Oui, oui.
RODNEY. (_Slowly_) Nous manfacturons, I mean manufacturong—un nouveau
savon—see? Savon Treize—(_He holds up his fingers to indicate thirteen_)
COUNTESS. Oui, oui.
PEALE. (_Impressed_) It must be great to have a college education.
RODNEY. Savon Treize—pas—bon—pour—what the deuce is dirt?
MARY. I don’t know.
RODNEY. Oh, yes—sal—pas bon pour sal——
COUNTESS. (_Laughing_) Savon Treize—pas bon pour sal—c’est bien—c’est
bien.
PEALE. (_Gleefully_) She likes it—she likes it.
RODNEY. Je start—je begin—je commence—un nouveau compagnie—le très grande
compagnie de la universe—je suis le president.
PEALE. Je suis le advertising agent. (_After laugh, JOHNSON enters from
door upper L. with a letter, and exits door lower L._)
RODNEY. I’m the whole thing, see—and if we can do business with you for
the French agency——
(_MARIE enters._)
COUNTESS. Mais non, mais non, mais non, monsieur, je ne comprends pas.
MARIE. I beg pardon.
MARY. What is it, Marie?
MARIE. (_In French dialect_) Where is M. Martin?
RODNEY. Marie! Another gift from Heaven.
MARIE. Mr. Smith to see your father.
RODNEY. That’s a man I might get money from. (_JOHNSON enters from door
lower L._) He’s a great friend of the family. Used to dangle me on his
knee, and all that sort of thing. (_He sees JOHNSON_) Oh, Johnson.
JOHNSON. Yes, sir?
RODNEY. Mr. Smith is downstairs—in one minute bring him up here.
JOHNSON. Yes, sir. (_He exits door upper L._)
RODNEY. Now, Marie, tell the countess you speak French.
MARIE. Je parle Français, Madame.
COUNTESS. Mon Dieu—enfin quelqu’un qui parle Français! Je suis Madame
la Comtesse de Beaurien—et je désire parler avec monsieur àpropos des
affaires du Savon Treize.
MARIE. (_Back at her quickly_) Ah mais oui—je comprends parfaitement. Je
dirai à monsieur ce que vous avez dit. Ah je suis ravie d’avoir trouvé
aux Etats Unis une compatriote avec laquelle je pourrai parler ma belle
langue de France. (_They talk together violently in French, and at the
end of the speech, the COUNTESS kisses MARIE_)
RODNEY. Mary, take them away—take them into the library. Explain to Marie
about the agency—Mary can translate your slang to Marie and she can turn
it into French.
MARY. I’ll do my best. Come, Marie. (_Crosses to door lower R., and opens
it_) Bring the Countess.
MARIE. Madame la comtesse, je vous montrerai le chemin——
COUNTESS. Bien.
(_MARIE and COUNTESS, chattering volubly in French, followed by MARY,
exit door lower R._)
PEALE. (_Looking after them_) Paris must be a hell of a place.
RODNEY. I’ll tackle Smith for a loan of $10,000.
PEALE. Will he fall?
RODNEY. (_Grandly_) My father’s oldest friend. Why, the way I’ll handle
him, ten thousand ought to be easy.
PEALE. Good luck.
(_Enter MR. SMITH from door upper L._)
RODNEY. Hello, Mr. Smith. That’s all now, Mr. Peale.
PEALE. Yes, sir, I understand. (_Winking_) He takes 50,000 shares at par.
RODNEY. Quite right.
(_PEALE exits door lower R._)
SMITH. Who the deuce is that, Rod?
RODNEY. One of my staff.
SMITH. (_Amazed_) One of your what?
RODNEY. Staff—I’ve gone into business.
SMITH. (_Laughing uproariously_) You’ve done what?
RODNEY. I’m a business man.
SMITH. That’s the funniest thing I ever heard of.
RODNEY. What’s funny about it?
SMITH. You in business! (_He laughs again_)
RODNEY. And as a business man I’d like to talk to you regarding a very
interesting business proposition in which I am now interested.
SMITH. Nothing doing.
RODNEY. (_Gulping_) I thought I’d like to borrow ten—say a few thousand
dollars.
SMITH. No.
RODNEY. Perhaps five thousand.
SMITH. If it was a new club or some tomfoolery, in a minute—but to put
money into your business—it’d be just throwing it away. Why don’t you get
your father to back you?
RODNEY. Father and I don’t agree on the value of advertising.
SMITH. Oh, that’s it, and you expect me to do what your father won’t?
RODNEY. Well, I thought as a friend of the family——
SMITH. You were wrong. Where is your father?
RODNEY. In there, I guess. (_Indicating door lower L._)
SMITH. I’ll bet he’ll think this as funny as I do. (_He exits L. RODNEY
sinks down dejectedly into a chair. PEALE enters with contracts_)
PEALE. Well?
RODNEY. (_Rises_) He wouldn’t give me a cent.
PEALE. He wouldn’t? Well, he sounds like your father’s oldest friend.
RODNEY. What about the Countess?
PEALE. (_Proudly_) I got her.
RODNEY. You did? $10,000?
PEALE. Fifteen thousand.
RODNEY. Holy jumping Jupiter.
PEALE. Pretty good, what?
RODNEY. Good? Why—why—I’ll have to raise your salary.
PEALE. Thanks, I supposed you would.
RODNEY. Where’s the money?
PEALE. Oh, we don’t get it till next week.
RODNEY. (_Dejected_) Oh!
PEALE. But it’s all right. We’re going to sign the contract with her
to-night.
RODNEY. But we must have some more cash to start with.
MARY. (_Entering_) The Countess wants to know how much longer she must
wait?
PEALE. Coming now. Sign the contract.
RODNEY. Sure, I’ll sign anything—I’ll sign it twice. (_Signs_)
PEALE. You know, this has got the show business beat a mile. (_He exits
door lower R._)
MARY. Oh, Rodney, did Mr. Smith lend you any money?
RODNEY. He did not.
SMITH. (_Re-entering_) Oh, Rod—(_Seeing MARY_) I beg your pardon.
RODNEY. That’s all right—you needn’t go, Mary. Mr. Smith, this is the
future Mrs. Martin.
SMITH. (_Crosses to MARY_) You don’t say so? Well, well, a thousand
congratulations!
RODNEY. I suppose you and father had your laugh?
SMITH. No, I didn’t tell him.
RODNEY. Thanks for that, anyhow.
SMITH. Of course, it sounded funny to me at first, but when I thought
things over, after all, why shouldn’t you be a success in business?
RODNEY. (_Amazed_) What?
SMITH. You have been in everything else you’ve tried.
RODNEY. Yes, yes, certainly—sure.
SMITH. Of course, you haven’t tried much. But as you said, I am an old
friend—and I figured if you gave me your word that you’d return the money
within a year—perhaps after all it would only be the act of an old friend
to take a chance. That’s what friends are for.
RODNEY. Why, that’s simply great of you, by George!
SMITH. How much was it you wanted?
(_MARY holds up fingers of both hands._)
RODNEY. (_Promptly_) Ten thousand dollars.
SMITH. But, didn’t you say—?
RODNEY. Oh, I’m sure I said $10,000—that’s the very least.
SMITH. Um—well I’ll mail you a check to-night.
(_MARY squeaks. SMITH looks sharply at her. She stops._)
RODNEY. (_Enthusiastically_) I’ll never forget it. I tell you, old
friends do count. Thanks, thanks.
SMITH. (_Embarrassed_) That’s all right—don’t thank me. Good-night, Miss
Grayson, and I hope you’ll be very happy.
MARY. Good-night.
RODNEY. Good-night. Good-night. (_SMITH exits door upper L. At door,
calling after him_) Oh, Mr. Smith, have you your car with you?
SMITH. (_Off-stage_) Yes.
RODNEY. Well, tell the chauffeur to drive slow and careful. (_RODNEY
grabs MARY by her two hands and dances around excitedly_) Ten
thousand—and he lent it to me. Oh, isn’t it great? (_He kisses her_) Wait
till I tell Peale. (_Exit door R._)
COUNTESS. (_Off-stage, to RODNEY_) Oh, Monsieur, c’est une affaire
magnifique. (_She enters, followed by MARIE—to MARIE_) Je vous remercie,
Marie, de ce que vous avez fait. Ah, les Américains ce sont des gens
d’affaires superbes mais les dames—oh, là, là, qu’elles se fichent au
diable! (_Exits door upper L._)
MARY. (_To MARIE_) What did she say?
MARIE. She said the American men are splendid but the women were crazy
and they could all go to hell. (_Exits door upper L._)
MARY. Oh! (_She goes over and knocks three times at door L._)
MARTIN. (_Entering_) Well, how goes it?
MARY. Oh, Mr. Martin, he’s perfectly splendid. So full of energy, hustle
and ideas. He’s a different man already. You were right: he only needed
development.
MARTIN. Good! Good! You’re not saying this to flatter an old man’s vanity?
MARY. Indeed, I’m not. We won’t have to blast.
MARTIN. (_Shrewdly_) Would you rather take a guarantee of $2,500
additional and give up that 10 per cent of his profits?
MARY. I should say not.
MARTIN. You know, Miss Grayson, you’re making me believe we’ll win that
$30,000 from old John Clark. (_Crosses down R._)
MARY. Oh, indeed we will: you should have just seen Rodney borrow $10,000
from Mr. Smith, without the least trouble.
MARTIN. (_Smiling_) Oh, that was my money.
MARY. What?
MARTIN. When Smith told me Rodney tried to touch him—well, I thought the
least I could do was to back my son, so I sent Smith to make good with
him.
MARY. That was nice of you.
(_RODNEY enters from door R., with dress-suit case._)
MARTIN. Well, I owed the boy a chance, anyhow. (_Seeing RODNEY, turns to
him, crossly_) So you’re still here, are you?
RODNEY. Yes, sir, but I’m going. Come, Mary. (_Crosses to MARY_)
MARTIN. Really going into business, eh? Well, when you fail, don’t come
sniveling back here! You can’t count on a dollar from me.
RODNEY. I won’t snivel—and I don’t want your money. I don’t need it. Why,
I’d have gone to work long ago if I’d known how easy it is to raise
$10,000.
MARTIN. (_Grinning at MARY_) You would, eh? Well, what soft easy-going
business have you picked out?
RODNEY. The soap business.
MARTIN. (_Genuinely annoyed_) What? Why, he can’t make any money out of
soap. (_Crosses to MARY_) That takes brains.
RODNEY. Oh, yes, I can.
MARTIN. I control all the important soap business in the country.
RODNEY. I know you do, but I am going to take it away from you.
MARTIN. What?
RODNEY. Yes, sir, I’m going to manufacture the Thirteen Soap: Unlucky for
Dirt: The Most Expensive Soap in the World! I’m going to break the trust;
I’m going to attack monopoly. I’m going to appeal to the American people
for fair play against the soap trust. You’ve always wanted me to go into
business. Well, I’m in, and forgive me, father, but I’m going to put you
out of business. I’m going to advertise all over the world.
MARTIN. You can’t fight the soap trust with advertising: we’re
established.
RODNEY. Yes, yes, we can: think what advertising means: the power of
suggestion—the psychology of print. Why, 97 per cent of the public
believe what they’re told, and what they’re told is what the other
chaps have been told, and the fellow who told him read it somewhere.
Advertising is responsible for everything. People are sheep, and
advertising is the way to make ’em follow your lead. (_He is beginning to
forget the speech_) Say, what makes you go to the theater? (_PEALE enters
from door R. MARTIN starts to speak_) Don’t tell me: I’ll tell you. It’s
what you’ve read of the play or what some fellows told you, and the
fellow that told him, read it—in a newspaper. (_Remembering—rapidly_)
And that, my boy, is the whole secret of it. You’ve got to be talked
about—get ’em praisin’ or cussin’, but don’t let ’em be quiet. I want to
tell you; what kind of duck eggs do you eat?
MARTIN. (_Aghast_) What?
(_The curtain begins to fall._)
RODNEY. Do you know anything against the duck? No, you don’t, but when
a duck lays an egg it’s a damn fool and keeps quiet, but when a hen
does—cluck, cluck, all over the place! Advertising!
(_The curtain is down._)
(_The Second curtain:—PEALE and RODNEY on either side of MARTIN, are
talking advertising, while MARY has her fingers to her ears._)
(_The Third curtain:—MARTIN is protesting angrily to MARY, while RODNEY
and PEALE are talking gleefully to each other and shaking hands._)
_Curtain._