Barlow. I couldn't think of it, Mrs. Bradley. I've got as much as I can do remembering what lines I have learned.

Perkins. It would take you a week to forget your old part completely enough to do the other well. You'd be playing both parts, the way Irving does when he's irritated, before you knew it.

Yardsley. I'm sure I don't know what to do.

Perkins. Give it up, eh? What are you stage-manager for? If I didn't own the house, I'd suggest setting it on fire; but I do, and it isn't fully insured.

Mrs. Perkins. Perhaps Miss Andrews and Mr. Yardsley could do their little scene from Romeo and Juliet.

Mrs. Bradley. Just the thing.

Yardsley. But I haven't a suitable costume.

Perkins. I'll lend you my golf trousers, and Bess has an old shirt- waist you could wear with 'em. Piece it out a little so that you could get into it, and hang the baby's toy sword at your side, and carry his fireman's hat under your arm, and you'd make a dandy- looking Romeo. Some people might think you were a new woman, but if somebody were to announce to the audience that you were not that, but the Hon. R. Montague, Esq., it would be all right and exceedingly amusing. I'll do the announcing with the greatest of pleasure.

Really think I'd enjoy it.

Miss Andrews. I think it would be much better to get up Mrs.

Jarley's waxworks.

Perkins. Oh dear, Miss Andrews, never. Mrs. Jarley awakens too many bitter memories in me. I was Mrs. Jarley once, and--

Yardsley. It must have been awful. If there is anything in life that could be more horrible than you, with your peculiar style of humor, trying to do Jarley, I--

Perkins. Oh, well, what's the odds what we do? We're only amateurs, anyhow. Yardsley can put on a pair of tight boots, and give us an impression of Irving, or perhaps an imitation of the Roman army at the battle of Philippi, and the audience wouldn't care, as long as they had a good supper afterwards. It all rests with Martenelli whether it's a go to-night. If he doesn't spoil the supper, it'll be all right. I have observed that the princ.i.p.al factors of success at amateur dramatics are an expert manipulation of the curtain, and a first-cla.s.s feed to put the audience in a good-humor afterwards.

Even if Martenelli does go back on us, you'll have me with the curtain--

Mrs. Perkins. Thaddeus!

Yardsley. By Jove! that's a good idea--we have got you. You can read Henderson's part!

Perkins. What--I?

Barlow. Certainly.

Bradley. Just the very thing.

Miss Andrews. Splendid idea.

Perkins. Oh--but I say--I can't, you know. Nonsense! I can't read.

Yardsley. I've often suspected that you couldn't, my dear Thaddeus; but this time you must.

Perkins. But the curtain--the babies--the audience--the ushing--the fire department--it is too much. I'm not an octopus.

Barlow (taking him by the arm and pushing him into chair). You can't get out of it, Ted. Here--read up. There--take my book.

[Thrusts play-book into his hand.

Bradley. Here's mine, too, Thaddeus. Read 'em both at once, and then you'll have gone over it twice.

[Throws his book into Perkins's lap.

Perkins. I tell you--

Mrs. Perkins. Just this once, Teddy--please--for me.

Yardsley. You owe it to your position, Perkins. You are the only man here that knows anything about anything. You've frequently said so. You were doing it all, anyhow, you know--and you're host--the audience are your guests--and you're so clever and--

Perkins. But--

Enter Jennie.

Jennie. Dinner is served, ma'am. [Exit.

Yardsley. Good! Perk, I'll be your under-study at dinner, while you are studying up. Ladies and gentlemen, kindly imagine that I am host, that Perkins does not exist. Come along, Mrs. Bradley. Miss Andrews, will you take my other arm? I'll escort Lady Amaranth and the maid out. We'll leave the two Featherheads to fight it out for the Lady Ellen. By-by, Thaddeus; don't shirk. I'll come in after the salade course and hear you, and if you don't know your lesson I'll send you to bed without your supper.

[All go out, leaving Perkins alone.

Perkins (forcing a laugh). Ha! ha! ha! Good joke, confound your eyes! Humph! very well. I'll do it. Whole thing, eh? Curtain, babies, audience, host. All right, my n.o.ble Thespians, wait!

(Shakes fist at the door.) I _will_ do the whole thing. Wait till they ring you up, O curtain! Up you will go, but then--then will I come forth and read that book from start to finish, and if any one of 'em ventures to interfere I'll drop thee on their most treasured lines. They little dream how much they are in the power of you and me!

Enter Jennie.

Jennie. Mrs. Perkins says aren't you coming to dinner, sir; and Mr.

Yardsley says the soup is getting cold, sir.

Perkins. In a minute, Jennie. Tell Mrs. Perkins that I am just learning the last ten lines of the third act; and as for Mr.

Yardsley, kindly insinuate to him that he'll find the soup quite hot enough at 8.30.

[Exit Jennie. Perkins sits down, and, taking up two books of the play, one in each hand, begins to read.

[CURTAIN]

A PROPOSAL UNDER DIFFICULTIES

CHARACTERS:

ROBERT YARDSLEY, } suitors for the hand of Miss Andrews.

JACK BARLOW, } DOROTHY ANDREWS, a much-loved young woman.

JENNIE, a housemaid.

HICKS, a coachman, who does not appear.

The scene is laid in a fashionable New York drawing-room. The time is late in October, and Wednesday afternoon. The curtain rising shows an empty room. A bell rings. After a pause the front door is heard opening and closing. Enter Yardsley through portiere at rear of room.

Yardsley. Ah! So far so good; but I wish it were over. I've had the nerve to get as far as the house and into it, but how much further my courage will carry me I can't say. Confound it! Why is it, I wonder, that men get so rattled when they're head over heels in love, and want to ask the fair object of their affections to wed? I can't see. Now I'm brave enough among men. I'm not afraid of anything that walks, except Dorothy Andrews, and generally I'm not afraid of her. Stopping runaway teams and talking back to impudent policemen have been my delight. I've even been courageous enough to submit a poem in person to the editor of a comic weekly, and yet here this afternoon I'm all of a tremble. And for what reason? Just because I've co-come to ask Dorothy Andrews to change her name to Mrs. Bob Yardsley; as if that were such an unlikely thing for her to do. Gad! I'm almost inclined to despise myself. (Surveys himself in the mirror at one end of the room. Then walking up to it and peering intently at his reflection, he continues.) Bah! you coward!