SIR POSHBURY PUDDOCK (_a haughty and high-minded Baronet_).
VERBENA PUDDOCK (_his Daughter_).
LORD BLESHUGH (_her Lover_).
SPIKER (_a needy and unscrupulous Adventurer_).
BLETHERS (_an ancient and attached Domestic_).
ACT I.--SCENE--_The Morning Room, at Natterjack Hall, Toadley-le-Hole;
large window open at back, with heavy practicable sash._
[Illustration]
_Enter_ BLETHERS.
_Blethers._ Sir POSHBURY'S birthday to-day--his birthday!--and the
gentry giving of him presents. Oh, Lor! if they only knew what _I_ could
tell 'em!... Ah, and _must_ tell, too, before long--but not yet--not
yet! [_Exit._
_Enter_ Lord BLESHUGH _and_ VERBENA.
_Verb._ Yes, Papa is forty to-day; (_innocently_) fancy living to _that_
age! The tenants have presented him with a handsome jar of mixed
pickles, with an appropriate inscription. Papa is loved and respected by
every one. And I--well, I have made him a little housewife, containing
needles and thread.... See! [_Shows it._
_Lord Blesh. (tenderly)._ I say, I--I wish you would make _me_ a little
housewife!
[_Comedy love-dialogue omitted owing to want of space._
_Verb._ Oh, do look!--there's Papa crossing the lawn with, oh, such a
horrid man following him!
_Lord B._ Regular bounder. Shocking bad hat!
_Verb._ Not so bad as his boots, and _they_ are not so bad as his face!
Why doesn't Papa order him to go away? Oh, he is actually inviting him
in!
_Enter_ Sir POSHBURY, _gloomy and constrained, with_ SPIKER, _who is
jaunty, and somewhat over-familiar_.
_Spiker (sitting on the piano, and dusting his boots with a
handkerchief)._ Cosy little shanty you've got here, PUDDOCK--very tasty!
_Sir P. (with a gulp)._ I am--ha--delighted that you approve of it! Ah,
VERBENA! [_Kisses her on forehead._
_Spiker._ Your daughter, eh? Pooty gal. Introduce me.
[_Sir_ POSH. _introduces him--with an effort_.
_Verbena. (coldly)._ How do you do? Papa, did you know that the sashline
of this window was broken? If it is not mended, it will fall on
somebody's head, and perhaps kill him!
_Sir. P. (absently)._ Yes--yes, it shall be attended to; but leave us,
my child, go. BLESHUGH, this--er--gentleman and I have business of
importance to discuss.
_Spiker._ Don't let us drive you away, Miss; your Pa and me are only
talking over old times, that's all--eh, POSH?
_Sir P. (in a tortured aside)._ Have a care, Sir, don't drive me too
far! (_To_ VERB.) Leave us, I say. (Lord B. and VERB. _go out, raising
their eyebrows_.) Now, Sir, what is this secret you profess to have
discovered?
_Spiker._ Oh, a mere nothing. (_Takes out a cigar._) Got a light about
you? Thanks. Perhaps you don't recollect twenty-seven years ago this
very day, travelling from Edgware Road to Baker Street, by the
Underground Railway?
_Sir P._ Perfectly; it was my thirteenth birthday, and I celebrated the
event by a visit to Madame TUSSAUD'S.
_Spiker._ Exactly; it was your thirteenth birthday, and you travelled
second-class with a half-ticket--(_meaningly_)--on your thirteenth
birthday.
_Sir P. (terribly agitated)._ Fiend that you are, how came you to learn
this?
_Spiker._ Very simple. I was at that time in the temporary position of
ticket-collector at Baker Street. In the exuberance of boyhood, you
cheeked me. I swore to be even with you some day.
_Sir P._ Even if--if your accusation were well-founded, how are you
going to prove it?
_Sp._ Oh, that's easy! I preserved the half-ticket, on the chance that I
should require it as evidence hereafter.
_Sir P. (aside)._ And so the one error of an otherwise blameless boyhood
has found me out--at last. (_To_ SPIKER.) I fear you not; my crime--if
crime indeed it was--is surely condoned by twenty-seven long years of
unimpeachable integrity!
_Sp._ Bye-laws are bye-laws, old buck! there's no time limit in criminal
offences that ever _I_ heard of! Nothing can alter the fact that you,
being turned thirteen, obtained a half-ticket by a false representation
that you were under age. A line from me, even now, denouncing you to the
Traffic Superintendent, and I'm very much afraid----
_Sir P. (writhing)._ SPIKER, my--my dear friend, you won't do that--you
won't expose me? Think of my age, my position, my daughter!
_Sp._ Ah, now you've touched the right chord! I _was_ thinking of your
daughter--a nice lady-like gal--I don't mind telling you she fetched me,
Sir, at the first glance. Give me her hand, and I burn the compromising
half-ticket before your eyes on our return from church after the
wedding. Come, that's a fair offer!
_Sir P. (indignantly)._ My child, the ripening apple of my failing eye,
to be sacrificed to a blackmailing blackguard like you! Never while I
live!
_Sp._ Just as you please; and, if you will kindly oblige me with writing
materials, I will just drop a line to the Traffic Superintendent----
_Sir P. (hoarsely)._ No, no; not _that_.... Wait, listen; I--I will
speak to my daughter. I promise nothing; but if her heart is still her
own to give, she may (mind, I do not say she _will_) be induced to link
her lot to yours, though I shall not attempt to influence her in any
way--in _any_ way.
_Sp._ Well, you know your own business best, old Cockalorum. Here comes
the young lady, so I'll leave you to manage this delicate affair alone.
Ta-ta. I shan't be far off.
[_Swaggers insolently out as_ VERB. _enters_.
_Sir P._ My child, I have just received an offer for your hand. I know
not if you will consent?
_Verb._ I can guess who has made that offer, and why. I consent with all
my heart, dear Papa.
_Sir P._ Can I trust my ears! You consent? Noble girl! [_He embraces
her._
_Verb._ I was quite sure dear BLESHUGH meant to speak, and I _do_ love
him very much.
_Sir P. (starting)._ It is not Lord BLESHUGH, my child, but Mr. SAMUEL
SPIKER, the gentleman (for he is at heart a gentleman) whom I introduced
to you just now.
_Verb._ I have seen so little of him, Papa, I cannot love him--you must
really excuse me!
_Sir P._ Ah, but you will, my darling, you _will_--I know your
unselfish nature--you will, to save your poor old dad from a terrible
disgrace ... yes, _disgrace_, listen! Twenty-seven years ago--(_he tells
her all_). VERBENA, at this very moment, there is a subscription on foot
in the county to present me with my photograph, done by an itinerant
photographer of the highest eminence, and framed and glazed ready for
hanging. Is that photograph never to know the nail which even now awaits
it? Can you not surrender a passing girlish fancy, to spare your fond
old father's fame? Mr. SPIKER is peculiar, perhaps, in many ways--not
quite of our _monde_--but he loves you sincerely, my child, and that is,
in itself, a recommendation. Ah, I see--my prayers are vain ... be
happy, then. As for me, let the police come--I am ready! [_Weeps._
_Verb._ Not so, Papa; I will marry this Mr. SPIKER, since it is your
wish. [Sir POSH. _dries his eyes_.
_Sir P._ Here, SPIKER, my dear fellow, it is all right. Come in. She
accepts you.
_Enter_ SPIKER.
_Sp._ Thought she would. Sensible little gal! Well, Miss, you shan't
regret it. Bless you, we'll be as chummy together as a couple of little
dicky-birds!
_Verb._ Mr. SPIKER, let us understand one another. I will do my best to
be a good wife to you--but chumminess is not mine to give, nor can I
promise ever to be your dicky-bird.
_Enter_ Lord BLESHUGH.
_Lord B._ Sir POSHBURY, may I have five minutes with you? VERBENA, you
need not go. (_Looking at_ SPIKER.) Perhaps this person will kindly
relieve us of his presence.
_Sp._ Sorry to disoblige, old feller, but I'm on duty where Miss VERBENA
is now, you see, as she's just promised to be my wife.
_Lord B._ _Your_ wife!
_Verb. (faintly)._ Yes, Lord BLESHUGH, his _wife_!
_Sir P._ Yes, my poor boy, _his_ wife!
[VERBENA _totters, and falls heavily in a dead faint_, R.C., _upsetting
a flower-stand_; Lord BLESHUGH _staggers, and swoons on sofa_, C.,
_overturning a table of knicknacks_; Sir POSHBURY _sinks into chair_,
L.C., _and covers his face with his hands_.
_Sp. (looking down on them triumphantly)._ Under the Harrow, by Gad!
Under the Harrow! [_Curtain, and end of Act I._
* * * * *
[Illustration: STRIKING HOME.]
_Punch loquitur:_--
WELL, you have got your way, my lad,
And may it prove good all round.
Liberal pay is your right, I say,
For your grim work underground.
Rise of pay and a shorter day?
Excellent things, belike,
Yet would they were sought in another way
Than the cruel road of a Strike.
I see you've been having a smoke, my lad;
What did you see in the smoke?
Why, some things good, and many things bad,
And nought that is matter for joke.
At every puff there's a picture of gloom,
A moral in every pull.
Motionless wheels and idle loom,
What is their meaning in full?
Capital's greed and Labour's need
These be fair matters for fight.
_Must_ Trade, though, suffer and poor hearts bleed?
_Must_ wrong be the road to right?
Glad there is talk of a better way,
Truly 'tis worth the search;
For little you'll profit by higher pay
If Commerce be left in the lurch.
* * * * *
[Illustration: PROSPECTS FOR THE COMING SEASON.
THE LIONS ARE DECIDEDLY SMALL THIS YEAR, BUT THE BEAUTIES ARE FINER,
LARGER, AND MORE LIKE EACH OTHER THAN EVER.]
* * * * *