_Scene same as at end of ACT I._
_At rise of curtain there should be shown on a transparency
set, well down stage, a picture of the end of the last act,
the snow scene and HORACE bending over the TRAMP and THE
MESSENGER soaring homewards. At the same time HORACE himself
is seen sleeping in his chair, breathing heavily. With the
first clanging of the fire-engine bell and HORACE waking up,
the lights increase at back and the dream scene fades away.
The lamp is now seen to be lighted again, the fire burning
brightly, and an “Extra” evening paper lying on table, close
to HORACE. After sufficient pause after curtain is up, a fire
engine is heard rumbling past from R. to L. outside, and this
disturbs HORACE, who begins to wake, as the transparency
picture fades away._
HORACE. (_Looks about him, bewildered, then at his clothes. Gives a short
laugh and grunt, and leans back, smiling, with closed eyes._) What a
nightmare!
(N.B. _If the statue of the Messenger is not used in performing
the play, the following will be the correct speech, but if the
figure is now on the lamp-stand, reference may be made and
addressed to him in the second person._)
HORACE. Marsy, old boy, you have a lot to answer for! Fancy my dreaming I
was hungry! Comes of eating a heavy dinner. (_With a sudden thought._)
By Jove! (_Searches his pockets for his money. Finds it with a sigh of
relief. Counts his notes carefully._) Ten, twenty, fifty, and one. All
there. (_Pulls out some silver from his trousers pocket._) Even the
silver. Very careless, very careless of me. I can hardly be trusted out
at night with so much. I might in a weak moment hand it over to some
hospital amid the admiring cheers of the populace. I must watch myself.
(_Loud clang of fire-engine bell as it passes from R. to L. startles him,
and involuntarily he shouts out._)
HORACE. Fire! (_Then he checks himself._) Hope nobody heard me. My
nerves are all on edge. I wish old Marsy would tell me whether that
inventive vagabond got over his troubles or peacefully expired in the
snow. Poor devil! I almost wish I could meet him again. We call such
fellows riff-raff, rabble, but, if the truth were told, might not some of
us be found to be the real loafers in the snug corners of Easy Street,
of little good to anyone, cumbering up the way till that old patrolman,
Death, steps up and bids us “Move on”?
(_Enter BELLA abruptly and alarmed, R._)
BELLA. Oh, sir, did you call?
HORACE. Call? (_Innocently._) Call what?
BELLA. Fire, sir. Fire.
HORACE. Fire is all right. Burning nicely.
BELLA. Yes, sir. Perhaps it was the fire engine going by.
HORACE. Very likely. Very likely. Did one go by?
BELLA. Yes, sir—and I was half dozing, and——
HORACE. You must have been dreaming, Bella. That’s very wrong. You
shouldn’t. It’s a bad habit to get into. However, as you are sleepy you
needn’t wait up. I shan’t sleep again. I mean I don’t think I shall feel
like going to sleep at all.
BELLA. (_Aside_) As if I didn’t see him asleep. I think I would like to
go to bed, sir, if you think Miss Minnie won’t want anything. They can’t
be long now, sir.
HORACE. No. You go to bed. By the way, did you fill the lamp?
BELLA. Yes, sir, and made up the fire, and brought you in your “Extra.”
HORACE. Extra? (_Almost reeling with nervousness._)
BELLA. Yes, sir, I put it on the table. Oh, sir, are you ill?
HORACE. Ill? No. What an idea!
BELLA. You were so—so busy, sir, when I came in with the oil, I didn’t
like to wa—— to disturb you, sir. Good night, sir.
HORACE. Good night, Bella. (_She exits R._) Then there was an Extra in
reality. That was not all dream. There it is. What made me dream of the
bank smash if nothing had been said about it? I dreamt of Mars. I had
been reading of Mars. At this moment, great heavens, I may be, in very
fact, a ruined man! (_Seizes paper with trembling hands and finds the
place. Reads._) Not a word! (_Wipes his forehead._) Not a word, but
_there might have been_! And why should this house not be burning as well
as the one that is? What would I do? Cut my throat! An arrant coward’s
refuge, after all. Ah, from the beggar’s point of view, wealth seemed so
flinty hearted, while charity was natural and easy to the poor. (_Fire
engine._) Evidently no false alarm this time. Somebody sick with anxiety
and dread to-night. Heaven help them, whoever they are! What a rap Marsy
would give me for that speech. He’d say, “Help them yourself. Don’t
overtax Heaven.” Pshaw, I’d only be in the way. We have an excellent
fire department. Best in the world. And there are so many need helping.
How many lines of this paper tell of suffering, and how much may we read
between the lines! (_Skims over paper._) “Wanted, plain sewing, to do at
home.” “Young man wants work. Will do anything honest.” Honest? He is
particular for these days. And I swore to Marsy that I wouldn’t take back
my money except to share it with others. He might have made favorable
terms with me just then. (_Sees ring on table._) Minnie’s ring. My trying
to bully her. It was the act of a cur! I’ll tell her so. I’ll—(_Fire
engine passes._) Another! It must be serious. (_Looks through curtains
of window C._) What a sheet of flame! It must be in the next street.
It may reach here. (_Looks intently._) No, the wind’s the other way.
(_Relieved._) That tenement house, I’ll be bound! Poor people, what will
they do this bitter night if they are burnt out? I don’t know what I
could do if I really wanted to. I think I’ll put on my coat and hat and
go and see. Don’t suppose I’ll do much harm looking on. (_Fire-engine
bell again. He looks out again._) Ladder escape. (_Dresses a little
quicker now._) I might take an extra coat for some one. (_Goes to closet
containing several overcoats and takes one. Hesitates and then puts
another over his arm. Is going R. when another engine passes._) I can’t
stand it! (_Snatches the last overcoat. Leaves the closet door open and
rushes out with coats over his arm R._)
(_Considerable pause, when front door bell rings. Pause, and then knock
heard. Further pause, and knock and bell heard. Voices heard. After
further pause, vigorous knocking and ringing heard, and voices in
expostulation. Knocking and ringing suddenly stop as door is opened,
and then enter AUNT, followed by MINNIE and DICEY, and last by BELLA, in
hastily thrown on gown. They gather round the fire._)
AUNT. Really, Bella, I don’t understand you! We have been fully ten
minutes battering at that door, and getting our deaths. I declare my
teeth are chattering.
MINNIE. So is your tongue, Auntie.
AUNT. Don’t be disrespectful to your elders.
MINNIE. Sorry, Auntie. Only a joke.
AUNT. And quite without a point.
MINNIE. (_Aside_) It seemed to prick, though.
BELLA. If you please, Madam, Mr. Parker told me to go to bed.
AUNT. Very considerate of him as regards you.
MINNIE. Perhaps he meant to lock us out for our sins. It does look like
it.
AUNT. Mr. Dicey, you must wait awhile till you get warmed up.
DICEY. It is very late, and I must not intrude. You are safe home now.
AUNT. I am sure we poor deserted females have much to be grateful for to
you. You see how the master of the house treats us. Have you any idea
where Mr. Parker is?
BELLA. No, Madam. He said he was going to sit up for you, and that is why
I went to bed. I dressed as quick as I could, Madam.
MINNIE. Oh, it is not your fault, Bella.
AUNT. I’ll warrant he has gone to bed. Just like his utter want of
thought for anybody. I hope he is sound asleep. He shall explain and
apologize. This is going a little too far. Locking us out. Excuse me a
moment. (_BELLA and AUNT exeunt R._)
MINNIE. Have a little something till Auntie comes back. Horace ought to
be here to thank you for doing his duty.
DICEY. I’m afraid I’m keeping you up.
MINNIE. I am too much awake now. I shan’t sleep till daylight. Oh, here
are some cigars. Have some?
DICEY. Some? If you are sure I am not trespassing upon your good nature,
I’ll start one here and finish it on my way home. (_MINNIE strikes a
light._) Oh, you are too good.
MINNIE. We must do something by way of return.
DICEY. Just order the car as if it were your own. I wish it was. It
couldn’t have a fairer owner.
MINNIE. I was going to pour you out a glass—but I’m a little afraid——
DICEY. All the wines of Bacchus would be less intoxicating than my last
waltz with you.
MINNIE. Then we must certainly swear off dancing!
DICEY. I’d as soon swear off living.
MINNIE. Do you only live to dance?
DICEY. I think I only live to dance with you.
MINNIE. Mr. Dicey!
DICEY. Minnie!
MINNIE. I wonder what has become of Horace?
DICEY. (_As she turns away on pretence of turning the lamp up, aside_)
Always Horace. Heigho! I must really be going, and thank you so much for
all the pleasure—and pain you have given me. (_Re-enter AUNT R._)
AUNT. He is not in his room. I hammered on his door till my arm ached,
and then thinking he was keeping up his joke, I lit a match and marched
in. His bed wasn’t crumpled, even. Must you go?
DICEY. I must, indeed; the richer by a cigar, however—(_Shakes hands with
AUNT and turns to MINNIE_)—the poorer by a heart! Good night.
AUNT. I’ll see you out myself. (_Exit with DICEY R._)
MINNIE. I like him, but I don’t love him. How strange it is. He
would do anything for me, while—well—I don’t suppose _he_—(_Meaning
HORACE_)—would, unless a mountain fell at his feet to start him into
action. (_Enter AUNT._)
AUNT. A very nice young man, but hardly correct of him to come in at such
an hour.
MINNIE. Oh, Auntie, we made him. But where can Horace be, then? His coat
has gone. (_Pointing to chair below fireplace where it had been. AUNT
notices closet open and empty._)
AUNT. Oh! There have been burglars here! Coats all taken. He has pursued
them.
MINNIE. He couldn’t wear all his coats at once.
(_Sounds of voices at front door heard, growing louder and louder._)
AUNT. They are returning for more plunder.
(_Enter R. a crowd of poor people, preceded by a burly working man, half
dressed, carrying a child. He advances well to C., the ladies retreating
in alarm before him, slightly screaming. He stops short._)
WORKING MAN. Gent told us to come in, ladies. We’re all burnt out by the
fire.
MINNIE. He has been to the fire!
AUNT. Gather round the fire. Bring the children to the front. This is
terrible! Poor little ones!
(_The crowd consists of the following: First the man described, whose
face is partly blackened by smoke, his child wrapped in a bit of
blanket; then a woman wearing HORACE’S fur coat over her night dress,
and carrying a baby. An old couple, woman wearing a gray overcoat of
HORACE’S; a girl wearing HORACE’S mackintosh over nightclothes; she
leads a boy in knee pants, no stockings, and one shoe on; a little girl
carrying a baby. She tries to get to fire, but is blocked off by others,
so dives under the table with her charge. Others, men and women, may be
added, one wearing another of HORACE’S overcoats. Then comes in HORACE
and the TRAMP, carrying an unconscious youth whom they place on the sofa
C. BELLA also comes in, looking rather bewildered._)
HORACE. Ah, that’s right, Bella, stir up the fire. Then call all the
servants and start fires in all the bedrooms. We must find places for
these unfortunate people. Has the doctor come yet? I am awfully afraid
this lad is beyond his aid.
AUNT. What is the matter with him, Horace?
HORACE. Half an arm burnt away.
MINNIE. These tiny tots! Would a little wine help them or you?
FIRST WORKING WOMAN. You set us hoping, Miss, so you do. We ought to be
thankful for our lives and our babies. Some didn’t get out. I don’t know
how many.
MINNIE. (_Giving wine_) Try and not worry. We’ll do what we can.
HORACE. Yes, cheer up, folk! We’ll see you on your feet again.
FIRST WORKING MAN. Thank you, Mister. That’s a kind word, no mistake.
HORACE. No doctor yet? I’ll go myself. Where is our doctor? (_He lifts
his fur cap off a child’s head and gets his scarf from another._)
MINNIE. Dr. Chapman is only a few doors down on the right. You’ll know
the house by the red light. (_HORACE is going R. A knock on front door
heard._) Perhaps that is the doctor.
(_HORACE goes out and brings DR. CHAPMAN in R._)
HORACE. This is the worst case, Doctor.
(_DR. CHAPMAN goes to lad on sofa. Enter BELLA R._)
BELLA. Some of the rooms are ready, sir.
HORACE. Will you dispose them, Auntie? (_Apart to her_) I ought to
apologize to you for bringing in all this crowd without asking you, but
you see what a deplorable——
AUNT. (_Patting his shoulder_) Nephew, I am proud of you!
HORACE. Funny! I thought she’d kick.
AUNT. Let this old couple come first, and the children, and you. (_AUNT
MARTHA shepherds about half the crowd off R. and exits._)
TRAMP. (_To HORACE_) Boy is in a bad way, Guv’ner, but Doctor thinks he
can pull him through.
MINNIE. You brought him in. I thought he was your son.
TRAMP. No, Miss, I ain’t got no son, only a daughter.
MINNIE. Has he no friends?
TRAMP. His mother was burnt up, Miss, to-night. (_MINNIE nearly faints,
and HORACE catches her. She gently removes herself from his arms._)
Excuse me, Miss, I was too blunt with it.
HORACE. There, Minnie, don’t give way. They will need your help.
BELLA. (_Enter R._) The other rooms are ready, sir.
MINNIE. Can you walk now better? Don’t cry, we will get you some clothes
in the morning.
SECOND WORKING WOMAN. God bless your kind heart, Miss, and you, sir. We’d
have died if you hadn’t come.
(_MINNIE shows them off with BELLA R., and exits with crowd._)
HORACE. What is to be done, Doctor?
DR. CHAPMAN. Well, if you wish to turn your house into a hospital, all
right. To save his life, he must be put to bed at once, and kept there.
(_Enter AUNT MARTHA R. Sees lad on sofa._)
AUNT. Oh, how could I? I have forgotten the principal sufferer, and there
is not another room left.
HORACE. Have you used mine?
AUNT. Horace!
HORACE. Let him have that. May it save him is all I say! Now how to move
him.
DR. CHAPMAN. Carry him as he is, sofa and all. That will save a good deal
of strain.
(_DR. CHAPMAN, HORACE and TRAMP carry out boy on sofa R. MINNIE enters as
they exeunt._)
MINNIE. Where can they be going to put that poor boy?
AUNT. Horace insists upon giving up his bed and room to him.
MINNIE. (_Astounded_) No!
AUNT. (_Sharing her wonderment_) Yes. (_They look at each other for a
moment in silence._)
MINNIE. Well, I can believe it after what he has been doing at the fire.
AUNT. Do you know, Minnie, I hardly think you should call a man, with a
mind rather above social small talk, selfish, because he doesn’t care to
go to your balls with you.
MINNIE. It was you who said he was selfish. I was willing to give up the
dance.
AUNT. I don’t dance. You have misjudged him. He is the soul of
generosity. Do you know, he actually began excusing himself to me for
bringing the poor people in out of the cold.
MINNIE. Fancy those babies sleeping through it all! Weren’t they sweet?
(_Enter TRAMP and HORACE R._)
AUNT. And you, my poor fellow! I must find a corner for you somewhere.
You have no home now, I suppose.
TRAMP. No, ma’m. I’ve done without a home for several moons. So I’m used
to it, but it’s tough on those who get it sudden.
HORACE. I’m interested in this man. I showed him scant courtesy this
evening, and felt sorry for him afterwards. We met again at the fire. He
is an inventor, moreover.
TRAMP. Ah, Guv’ner, if they had only had my fire-escape there would have
been no killed.
HORACE. Have you an idea for a fire-escape? By Jove, we’ll patent it!
Meanwhile——
TRAMP. Will you give me the job of cleaning the snow from your front
walks?
HORACE. Yes, and I will pay you in advance.
TRAMP. Needn’t do that, Guv.
AUNT. You will find a shovel in the coal shed, if not——
HORACE. A bit of board will do.
TRAMP. Shovel’s best, Guv’ner——
HORACE. I mean, of course—oh, yes, a shovel, by all means. The servants
are up, and if you don’t object to eating before retiring, for there’s no
hurry about the snow——
TRAMP. I doesn’t object.
AUNT. Will you show him the way to the kitchen, Minnie?
TRAMP. Minnie? Is that her name?
AUNT. Why, yes.
TRAMP. I’m looking for a daughter of that name.
HORACE. Who were Minnie’s parents, Aunt? Do you know? Can it be possible
that——
TRAMP. That this young lady is mine? Lor’, no, Guv’ner! My daughter would
only be about twelve years old.
HORACE. Why, you said she was the image of your——
TRAMP. Me? Never, Guv’ner. Never saw this lady before.
HORACE. Not you, no, I remember. It was someone else.
AUNT. Your mother knew both Minnie’s parents. Her father was a clergyman.
TRAMP. And I ain’t exactly.
MINNIE. I am sure you have a brave as well as a kind heart, for I have
heard from others what risks you took in carrying them out.
HORACE. Well, take a substantial supper—or breakfast, whichever it may
be called—and presently we’ll clear that snow off together. (_Exit TRAMP
with MINNIE R._)
AUNT. What do you mean by clearing the snow together?
HORACE. I fancy the exercise will stimulate thought.
AUNT. My dear Horace, I am truly ashamed of the abuse I heaped upon you
this evening. Do forgive me.
HORACE. Why, Aunt, I’m sure I had well earned it.
AUNT. What a noble reproof you have administered by this turning of your
house into a common lodging place, you who so dislike being disturbed,
and I thought abominated the lower class. I’m afraid I should have
hesitated long before I invited them in.
HORACE. Not if you had seen them as I did. Oh, Auntie, why have we so
little Otherdom?
AUNT. Other—what, dear?
HORACE. That is, philanthropy, benevolence, altruism.
AUNT. I am sure you have done your full share to-night.
HORACE. It can only be because we never realize how the poor live. In the
wise days of old, when men were nearer nature, fast days were instituted,
that the Fat might remember the Lean. Now our Fasts are feasts. I
wonder what a bonafide all-round forty-eight hour starve, once a year
even, would do for our rich friends. Make that a fad, Auntie. You’d
revolutionize the world.
AUNT. You are quite right, Horace. We do fall far short of our whole
duty. But where are you going to sleep? Will you go to a hotel?
HORACE. Perhaps, or in the chair. Don’t bother about me.
AUNT. Kiss me, Horace. Heaven bless you. You have made me very happy
to-night. (_Exit._)
HORACE. The sofa gone. I see nothing for it but to camp on the hearthrug
or in the chair. Don’t want that any more. (_Turns out lamp._) I wish
I could have made my peace with Minnie. But she hasn’t forgotten so
readily. She shrank away from me when I caught her. I must just hope for
the best. (_Settles down in chair._)
(_Enter MINNIE R._)
MINNIE. Light out—then I am too late. He has gone to some hotel. I wonder
how the fire is doing? (_Goes to window and pulls curtains away, when
the morning light falls upon her. HORACE, aroused, sees her._)
HORACE. I might be dreaming again. Ah, I can read it now! She is my
guide—my Marsy—my conscience! Minnie!!
MINNIE. (_Startled_) Horace?
HORACE. Forgive me, Minnie! I was a brute to you.
MINNIE. I wronged you, Horace. I know I did.
HORACE. Never! Never! It was your spirit that changed me, and my purpose
in life. Help me to continue.
MINNIE. What can I do?
HORACE. (_Picks up ring from table_) Let me put it back on its finger.
(_Sounds of scraping of shovel outside._)
MINNIE. (_Goes to window and looks out_) It is that poor inventor man
shoveling the snow.
HORACE. There is good in him, and we will bring it out.
MINNIE. And shall we help him to find his Minnie, now that you have found
yours?
HORACE. That we will, dearest. (_Puts on ring._) There it is again, my
love, my Minnie!
(_TRAMP comes into view through window shoveling the snow cheerily._)
CURTAIN
FRENCH’S
Standard Library Edition
Includes Plays by
Clyde Fitch
Booth Tarkington
William Gillette
J. Hartley Manners
Augustus Thomas
James Forbes
George Broadhurst
James Montgomery
Edward E. Kidder
Wm. C. de Mille
Percy Mac Kaye
Roi Cooper Megrue
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Edward E. Rose
Louis N. Parker
Israel Zangwill
R. C. Carton
Henry Bernstein
Alfred Sutro
Harold Brighouse
Richard Harding Davis
Channing Pollock
Sir Arthur W. Pinero
Harry Durant
Anthony Hope
Winchell Smith
Oscar Wilde
Margaret Mayo
Haddon Chambers
A. E. W. Mason
Jerome K. Jerome
Charles Klein
Cosmo Gordon Lennox
Henry Arthur Jones
H. V. Esmond
A. E. Thomas
Mark Swan
Fred Ballard
Grace L. Furniss
Cyril Harcourt
Marguerite Merrington
Carlisle Moore
Hermann Sudermann
Ernest Denny
Rida Johnson Young
Laurence Housman
Arthur Law
Harry James Smith
Rachel Crothers
Edgar Selwyn
Martha Morton
Augustin McHugh
H. A. Du Souchet
Robert Housum
W. W. Jacobs
Charles Kenyon
Madeleine Lucette Ryley
C. M. S. McLellan
French’s International Copyrighted Edition contains plays, comedies and
farces of international reputation; also recent professional successes by
famous American and English Authors.
Send a four-cent stamp for our new catalogue describing thousands of
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SAMUEL FRENCH
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28-30 West 38th Street, NEW YORK CITY
Golden Days
A comedy of youth, in four acts, by Sidney Toler and Marion Short. 7
males, 10 females. Three interior scenes. Costumes modern. Plays 2½ hours.
“Golden Days” is a play with all the charm of youth. It enjoyed a run of
sixteen weeks in Chicago with Patricia Collinge in the leading role, and
was then brought to the Gaiety Theatre, New York, with Helen Hayes in the
part of “Mary Anne.”
Price, 75 cents.
Come Out of the Kitchen
A charming comedy in 3 acts, adapted by A. E. Thomas from the story of
the same name by Alice Duer Miller. 6 males, 5 females. Three interior
scenes. Costumes, modern. Plays 2½ hours.
“Come Out of the Kitchen,” with Ruth Chatterton in the leading role, made
a notable success on its production by Henry Miller at the Cohan Theatre,
New York. It was also a great success at the Strand Theatre, London. A
most ingenious and entertaining comedy, and we strongly recommend it for
amateur production.
Price, 75 cents
His Majesty Bunker Bean
A farcical comedy in four acts. By Lee Wilson Dodd, from the novel by
Harry Leon Wilson. 12 males, 6 females. Four interior scenes. Costumes,
modern. Plays 2½ hours. Those who have laughed immoderately at Harry Leon
Wilson’s story will be greatly amused by the play, which tells the story
of a cowed and credulous youth who became kingly when he was tricked into
believing himself a reincarnation of Napoleon. “His Majesty Bunker Bean,”
with Taylor Holmes in the title role, was brought to the Astor Theatre,
New York, after a run of 25 weeks in Chicago. A delightful and wholesome
farce comedy with no dull moments.
Price, 75 cents
A Full House
A farcical comedy in three acts. By Fred Jackson. 7 males, 7 females.
One interior scene. Modern costumes. Plays 2½ hours. This newest and
funniest of all farces was written by Fred Jackson, the well-known short
story writer, and is backed up by the prestige of an impressive New York
success and the promise of unlimited fun presented in the most attractive
form. A cleverer farce has not been seen for many a long day. “A Full
House” is a house full of laughs.
Price, 75 cents
The Charm School
A fascinating comedy in three acts by Alice Duer Miller and Robert
Milton. 6 males, 10 females. (May be played by 5 males and 8 females).
Any number of school girls may be used in the ensembles. Scenes, two
interiors. Costumes, modern. Plays 2½ hours.
The story of “The Charm School” is familiar to Mrs. Miller’s readers. It
relates the adventures of a handsome young automobile salesman scarcely
out of his ’teens who, upon inheriting a girl’s boarding school from a
maiden aunt, insists on running it himself, according to his own ideas,
chief of which is, by the way, that the dominant feature in the education
of the young girl of to-day should be CHARM.
The situations that arise are teeming with humor—clean, wholesome humor.
In the end the young man gives up the school and promises to wait until
the most precocious of his pupils reaches a marriageable age.
“The Charm School” has the freshness of youth, the inspiration of an
extravagant but novel idea, the charm of originality, and the promise of
wholesome, sanely amusing, pleasant entertainment. We strongly recommend
it for high school production.
“The Charm School” was first produced at the Bijou Theatre, New York, and
then toured the country. Two companies are now playing it in England.
Price, 75 cents.
Daddy Long-Legs
A charming comedy in four acts, by Jean Webster. The full cast calls for
6 males, 7 females and 6 orphans, but the play, by the easy doubling of
some of the characters may be played by 4 males, 4 females and three
orphans. The orphans appear only in the first act and may be played by
small girls of any age. Four easy interior scenes. Costumes modern. Plays
2½ hours.
The New York Times reviewer, on the morning following the Broadway
production, wrote the following comment:
“If you will take your pencil and write down, one below the other, the
words delightful, charming, sweet, beautiful and entertaining, and then
draw a line and add them up, the answer will be ‘Daddy Long-Legs.’ To
that result you might even add brilliant, pathetic and humorous, but the
answer even then would be just what it was before—the play which Miss
Jean Webster has made from her book, ‘Daddy Long-Legs,’ and which was
presented at the Gaiety last night. To attempt to describe the simplicity
and beauty of ‘Daddy Long-Legs’ would be like attempting to describe the
first breath of Spring after an exceedingly tiresome and hard Winter.”
“Daddy Long-Legs” enjoyed a two-years’ run in New York and was then
toured for over three years, and is now published in play form for the
first time.
Price, 75 cents.
BILLETED.
A comedy in 3 acts, by F. Tennison Jesse and H. Harwood. 4 males, 5
females. One easy interior scene. A charming comedy, constructed with
uncommon skill, and abounds with clever lines. Margaret Anglin’s big
success. Amateurs will find this comedy easy to produce and popular with
all audiences.
Price, 60 Cents.
NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH.
A comedy in 3 acts. By James Montgomery. 5 males, 6 females. Costumes,
modern. Two interior scenes. Plays 2 and ½ hours.
Is it possible to tell the absolute truth—even for twenty-four hours?
It is—at least Bob Bennett, the hero of “Nothing But the Truth,”
accomplished the feat. The bet he made with his business partners,
and the trouble he got into—with his partners, his friends, and his
fiancée—this is the subject of William Collier’s tremendous comedy hit.
“Nothing But the Truth” can be whole-heartedly recommended as one of the
most sprightly, amusing and popular comedies that this country can boast.
Price, 60 Cents.
IN WALKED JIMMY.
A comedy in 4 acts, by Minnie Z. Jaffa. 10 males, 2 females (although any
number of males and females may be used as clerks, etc.). Two interior
scenes. Costumes, modern. Plays 2 and ½ hours. The thing into which Jimmy
walked was a broken-down shoe factory, when the clerks had all been
fired, and when the proprietor was in serious contemplation of suicide.
Jimmy, nothing else but plain Jimmy, would have been a mysterious
figure had it not been for his matter-of-fact manner, his smile and his
everlasting humanness. He put the shoe business on its feet, won the
heart of the girl clerk, saved her erring brother from jail, escaped that
place as a permanent boarding house himself, and foiled the villain.
Clean, wholesome comedy with just a touch of human nature, just a dash of
excitement and more than a little bit of true philosophy make “In Walked
Jimmy” one of the most delightful of plays. Jimmy is full of the religion
of life, the religion of happiness and the religion of helpfulness, and
he so permeates the atmosphere with his “religion” that everyone is
happy. The spirit of optimism, good cheer, and hearty laughter dominates
the play. There is not a dull moment in any of the four acts. We strongly
recommend it.
Price, 60 Cents.
MARTHA BY-THE-DAY.
An optimistic comedy in three acts, by Julie M. Lippmann, author of the
“Martha” stories. 5 males, 5 females. Three interior scenes. Costumes
modern. Plays 2 and ½ hours.
It is altogether a gentle thing, this play. It is full of quaint humor,
old-fashioned, homely sentiment, the kind that people who see the play
will recall and chuckle over to-morrow and the next day.
Miss Lippmann has herself adapted her very successful book for stage
service, and in doing this has selected from her novel the most telling
incidents, infectious comedy and homely sentiment for the play, and the
result is thoroughly delightful.
Price, 60 Cents.
(The Above Are Subject to Royalty When Produced)
SAMUEL FRENCH, 28-30 West 38th Street, New York City
New and Explicit Descriptive Catalogue Mailed
Free on Request