Waiting at The Church

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| Waiting at the Church

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Waiting at the Church
A Farce in One Act
By
FRANZ AND LILLIAN RICKABY
Authors of “Who Kissed Barbara 2" and Other Plays
NOTICE
This play is published for free performance by amateurs

only. Professional companies are forbidden the use of it in
any form or under any title, without the consent of the au.
thor, who may be addressed in care of the publishers.
ſūEſt
BOST ON
WALTER H. BAKER COMPANY
I 923
CHARACTERS
MARY ELLICE BLACK, the bride.

BEATRICE DEANE, the bridesmaid.
DUDLEY CAMERON, the groom.
Robert DEANE, the best man, brother to Beatrice.
Dorothy CLARK, a poor little rich girl, aged nineteen.
HARold CARPENTER, Dorothy's temporary fiancé.
J. A. CLARK, Dorothy's father.
OLE JERGENSEN, the janitor.
SCENE.—A room in an Episcopal Church.

TIME.—The latter part of the afternoon.
CopyRIGHT, 1923, BY FRANZ AND LILLIAN RICKABY

As authors and proprietors
Professional stage and moving picture rights reserved

---------------~~~~==============
MAR1 ELLICE and BEATRICE
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CHARACTERISTICS
MARY ELLICE BLACK. The bride. A girl of the quiet

sort, perhaps twenty-four; inclined to be retiring, but
capable enough in such activities as the more conserva
tive of us regard as belonging to woman. She would
hardly confess herself to be one of the clinging type;
but if there were any clinging to be done in her home,
she would be rather the one to do it. She belongs to
that host who like to sit silent before an open fire and
see pictures in the flames.
BEATRICE DEANE. The bridesmaid. About the same
age as Mary Ellice, but slighter. Quick, decisive, prac
tical in every detail. Snaps her fingers at that antique
legend about “woman's sphere.” Probably has a career
of some sort in view. Is highly attractive, and dressed
in good taste. She finds an open fire very agreeable, but
prefers a screen before it so the sparks won't be popping
out on the rug. She would not be ill-tempered about it,
however.
DUDLEY CAMERON. The groom. A successful Ameri
can business man, about twenty-eight or thirty. Has
been called “practical" by people so long that he thinks
he is. Normally good-natured, but at present very deeply
in love and proportionately prone to be vexed at any
thing which might seem to jeopardize his happiness in
it. This probably accounts for his harsh attitude toward
his best man in the pages which follow. He hasn't a
great deal of use for an open fire inasmuch as it is a
known fact that about eighty-five per cent. of the heat
goes up the chimney.
Robert DEANE. The best man. Beatrice's brother,
and a lifelong friend of Dudley's. About Dudley's age,
or perhaps a year or two younger. The opposite of his
sister: not dreamy exactly, but lives steeped in romance
day and night. A perfect knight-errant in his seem
ingly continual search for romantic escapade. Gives
much in friendship; expects much from it. Rather hand
5
6 CHARACTERISTICS
some, jolly by nature, quick witted, well dressed. He

likes an open fire for what it suggests. That's all.
DOROTHY CLARK. A “poor little rich girl,” aged nine
teen. Lithe, petite, impulsive, pretty. By nature affec
tionate; quick to resent a wrong, and quick to forgive it.
Not especially deep, but possessed of a brave supply of
womanly grace just the same.
ARNOLD CARPENTER. Dorothy's temporary fiancé. A
small-town Apollo. Good enough in his way, but his
way is peculiar. Affects a somewhat loud style of dress
and clips his English very badly. He is by no means a
tough, however, and, met casually, would be voted a
rather pleasant fellow. But closer inspection reveals that
his life-ideals are a bit low, and that his character lacks
a certain subsoil known as strength.
J. A. CLARK. Dorothy's father. About fifty. A very
wealthy man of the farmer-merchant-banker type, who
has been entirely wrapped up in his wealth, for his daugh
ter's sake, as he thinks. Inclined to be fiery-tempered;
not accustomed to defeat. He has considerably more
affection for his daughter than he knew about. But his
affection needed exercise—and got it!
OLE JERGENSEN. The janitor, of Swedish extraction.
Tall, angular, clean-shaven; slow and somewhat awk
ward. Has small sky-blue eyes, rather gaunt complex
ion, and light sandy hair. Religious to the point pf sanc
timoniousness. Painstaking, ultra-polite, soft-voiced,
gossip-loving. The most marked features of his lingo
are his sibilant “s,” and his oily up-and-down-hill in
flection in such expressions as “ya-ah-ah" and “excy
use me.” He is a character, however; not a caricature.
SCENE.—A room in an Episcopal church building in a

medium-sized city somewhere in the middle west.
There are two entrances: one, a curtained arch, about
the C. at the back, opening into a hall or corridor; and
the other, an ordinary door, at the R., (the actor's
right) opening into the church auditorium. There is
a generous window up stage L., nicely curtained with
material matching that in the doorway. There is a
library table down stage, somewhat R. of center; a set
tee in the upper R. corner; and a hall-tree or rack, in
the corner opposite, on which hang several articles of
clothing, among them a rector's hat, vest and coat.
The table has on it a few magazines, books, papers,
and writing materials. Perhaps a vase of flowers.
There are a number of chairs about the room. Two
of these are of the larger type: one near the left end
of the table; the other near the window. The rest are
straight chairs and are placed variously about the room.
There are a few pictures on the walls: two or three
framed photographs of men in vestments, evidently
rectors; one of some choir-boys, and one or two of a
general ecclesiastical type.
The room is evidently a sort of general utility room, used
by the choir, the vestry, committees, etc. It has an air
of comfort.
The time is in the latter half of the afternoon, some day
in late spring, perhaps in June. The window is open.
(At the rise of the curtain we see MARY ELLICE seated
on the settee toying nervously with a glove, her face
7
8 WAITING AT THE CHURCH
wearing a composite expression of disappointment,

impatience, and worry. BEATRICE is at the window,
holding a curtain aside and looking out, evidently
watching for someone. On her face is written
nothing of anxiety, but much of impatience, even of
vexation. Both girls wear summer dresses, and they
have not removed their hats. A dainty parasol and
a pair of light gloves lie on a chair near the hall-tree.
They later prove to belong to BEATRICE. After a
moment MARY ELLICE speaks.)
MARY. Nothing of them yet?

BEATRICE. Nothing. (Another pause.)
MARY (with a sigh). I wonder what could be delay
ing them.
BEA. It doesn't take much to delay a man. And it
takes less than half as much to delay two men.
MARY. Something may have happened. Acci
dents
BEA. Oh, I dare say. (Turning and going toward the
table.) Something happens every minute—to boys like
them. It might be interesting to guess who happened to
them this time.
MARY. Now don't be unpleasant, Bea.
BEA (sits in the chair near the table and thumbs aim
lessly through a magazine she has taken up). That's a
good deal to ask, even of me, Mary Ellice. A man ought
to be punctual at his wedding anyway.
MARY. Oh, well, Dudley will be that. This isn't his
wedding.
BEA. Excuse him, by all means !
MARY. There isn't ever much attraction in a rehear
sal,—especially a wedding rehearsal. If Dudley and Bob
don't particularly care for it, I can't say I blame them
a great deal. Marriage doesn’t appeal to me as a thing
to be rehearsed, any more than the proposal,—or the an
swer. The whole crazy idea was yours, Bea. What did
you ever suggest a rehearsal for in the first place?
BEA. I suggested rehearsal in the interests of a good
final performance. You made the mistake when you de
waiting AT THE church 9
cided to have a wedding ceremony as elaborate as a

coronation.
MARY. Well, I'll be married only once, and I want
that once to be pretty.
BEA. (gently, looking up from her book). And I want
it to be done well.
MARY (rises, smiling, and comes down to BEATRICE,
putting her arms about her). Then between us we'll have
a beautiful wedding, won't we ?
BEA. Yes; that is, if we can get the bridegroom to
act as he ought to.
(MARy's face resumes something of its previous worry,
and she goes toward the window. BEATRICE turns
back to her book.)
MARY. I do wish they would come. (Pause.)
(OLE appears quietly in the door, R., dressed in drab
overalls and jumper.)
OLE. Excy-use me. (The girls turn.) Doctor Shaw
he says can you come now. He vill vaiting for you there.
MARY. I’m so sorry, Ole, but Mr. Cameron and Mr.
Deane have not come yet. We expect them any minute
110W.
OLE. Ya-ah-ah. (Retiring.) I will telling him.

(Very sympathetically.) It's tew bad—tew bad. [Exit.
BEA. (veredly, closing her magazine and dropping it
on the table). Ole's right. A mean shame, I call it.
(MARY goes slowly back to the settee. BEATRICE glances
at her wrist watch.) Half an hour late right now, with
us due at the dressmaker's in ten minutes.
MARY. She could wait a
BEA. (quietly, but with meaning). Oh, I see. We
can wait. Doctor Shaw can wait. Ole can wait. The
dressmaker can wait. The President of the United
States can wait. Time and tide can wait. But Dudley
and Bob
OLE (right). Excy-use me. Doctor Shaw says all
right, he vill stepping over to hees house a minute vile
yew are vaiting.
IO WAITING AT THE CHURCH
BEA. Thank you. We'll let you know when they

CO111C.
(Pause. OLE has pulled a grimy dust-rag from one

of his capacious pockets. He uses it ostentatiously
here and there, apparently not wishing to leave.)
OLE. Something must haf happened to those men.
There vos tew men run of r by a runavay wagon 'nd
horses only yust yesterday.
BEA. (politely). Is that so?
OLE (very seriously). Ya-ah-ah. Von of the horses
vos hurt purty bad tew, I guess. (BEATRICE conceals a
smile. MARY is deeply concerned. Pause. OLE dust
ing.) Ya-ah-ah. Von day last veek tew I saw an auto
mobeel vith von of its places in front all bent up. I ain't
heard who it vos it hit. (Pause. OLE continues dusting.
BEATRICE is amused. But MARY is touched, and has
taken out her handkerchief, being plainly on the point
of tears. BEATRICE rises and goes to the window.) Ya
ah-ah. (In an awed voice.) There is danger efery
where. The Lord calls in many ways. Ve better be pre
pared all the time. It's bad enough tew die when yew’re
ready for it; but when yew ain’t, geeſ it's fierce.
(A distinct sob from MARY. BEATRICE goes toward
her, speaking.)
BEA. The dusting seems to affect Miss Black's eyes,
Ole.
OLE (putting up his rag guiltily). Ya-ah-ah. Dust is
bad on the eyes, when ve get tew much of it in them.
(Starting out, rear.) Vell, vell, I wonder where those
111en
(Breaks off wondering, and goes out humming a

hymn.)
BEA. (shaking MARY gently). Shame on you, child !
To let that fanatical old Swede make you cry. Now you
listen to me. I know mighty well nothing serious has
happened to that pair, and you ought to know it. They've
WAITING AT THE CHURCH II
just gotten themselves into some kind of a foolish fix

that's made them late. (Coming down to the table.)
And I don't think for one minute it was Dudley's fault.
It's that brother of mine. You know Bob's never been
able to go anywhere or do anything without some roman
tic dawdling on the way. He's a regular meandering
ninny. How Dudley can put up with his idiocy is be
yond me. College friendships must be terribly enduring.
(Turns decisively.) Now you and I have waited our
bit; those loiterers can wait theirs. They'll be along in
a minute or two, as humble as grass. We'll go on to the
dressmaker's. Let them entertain each other a while.
(Goes toward the chair to take up her gloves and para
sol. As she passes the window, she looks out, and speaks,
but without any trace of excitement.) There they are
now. (MARY removes traces of tears.) Let's see which
way they come in, and we'll go out the other. I know
they'll enjoy waiting.
MARY. But maybe they—he won't wait.
BEA. (watching out the window). Humph! He'll
wait ages. I can tell by the way he's walking. He's run
ning old Bob nearly to death. There. They’ve turned in
the vestry entrance. You and I go out through the
church.
MARY (uncertainly, but preparing to go). It seems an
awfully mean thing to do; and I think, a little risky. You
know how men are.
BEA. I surely do. (Seiges MARY by the hand.)
Come on. He'll wait—and good dressmakers are scarce.
(Ereunt R. As they go out, an outer door slams and
almost immediately, DUDLEY's voice, raised in vera
tion, outside.)
DUD. (outside). I didn't want to have anything to do
with the infernal business in the first place. (Enter
DUDLEY and RoBERT, rear; the former excited and
flustered, the other reasoning, debonair, romantic. The
men are nicely dressed for walking. DUDLEY wears a
cutaway coat, and, for the benefit of this story, a straight
collar.) Now, here we are, and they're gone | Might
(), QF fil. LIB,
I2 WAITING AT THE CHURCH
have known they’d be gone. (Looks at his watch.) Due

at four, and here it's four-thirty-five and after. It
would serve me right if she broke the engagement.
ROB. It certainly would, the way you're making the
grand fool of yourself over a rehearsal. She probably
hears you doing it, too. They're hid out around here
somewhere. Women are always up to some crazy trick.
(Sits, L.)
DUD. Good right you’ve got to accuse anyone of do
ing crazy tricks! You've never done anything else as
long as I’ve known you. (Lays cane and hat on the table
nervously. More angrily.) Only, I wish you'd lose the
habit of ringing me in on them. You started doing that
in college, and I guess you'll keep it up as long as you
live—or as long as I live.
ROB. (straightening up). Now, Dud, keep your shirt
on, or I'll lose my temper too. I’ve asked you a dozen
times: What would you have done? Left her in that
fix, I s'pose, and let her spend the night in jail some
where?
DUD. (a little sullenly). The way things have come
out for me, I don’t know but what
RoB. (his chivalry up in arms). I tell you, Dud, you're
a chump! She was in a predicament.
DUD. Well, there are two of us in one now.
ROB. Oh, I see. I've made two blades grow where
only one grew before.
DUD. (with a low exclamation of disgust walks nerv
ously to the window, and turns back). I don't mind say
ing that I think gallantry that covers lawbreakers just
because they happen to be pretty—or rather, physically
attractive—isn't a very admirable sort.
ROB. She hadn't been breaking the law; she'd only
been speeding. But thanks anyway.
DUD. Thanks P
ROB. For granting that she was pretty.
DUD. (frigidly). I changed that expression, you no
ticed.
ROB. But you didn't change your mind.
WAITING AT THE CHURCH I3
DUD. (slightly nettled). Well,—pretty, then. A lot of

them are that.
Rob. And a lot of them aren't, I’ve observed. And
the kind that aren't are usually able to take care of them
selves. But the others, Dud, they need—well, I don’t
know exactly how to say it—but—you know what it is—
the vine, frail, tender, flower-laden—and the great oak
that sort of thing. (Turning earnestly.) I mean it, Dud.
That seems beautiful to me.
DUD. (has returned from a hungering peep through
the door R., and stands back of the table regarding
Robert scornfully). Yes. I've seen those vines, that
you call frail and tender. They cling just like that.
(Holds out his hand and closes his fingers tightly.)

Rob. (turning away). Why be ugly about it?
DUD. I'd risk a little ugliness if I thought it would
break the back of that foolish sentimentalism of yours.
(More quietly.) You've seen something of life, Bob.
Look back and recall how many women of the right kind
you know who have been arrested for speeding? The
word “fast" isn't a very agreeable one in that connec
tion.
ROB. That doesn't prove anything—here.
DUD. Look back, I say
ROB. My memory isn't working, at least not any fur
ther back than a couple of hours ago. (Turning, seri
ously.) I tell you, Dud, I studied her. There wasn't a
brazen thing about her.
DUD. Having studied her at so great a length, you
know a good deal about her, of course !
ROB. This much at least: there was some good reason
behind her speeding this afternoon.
DUD. (significantly). Of course there was
ROB. That isn't what I meant. A good reason, I said.
DUD. And she had a good opportunity to say what it
WaS.
Rob. But no particular reason for using the oppor:

tunity. It wouldn't have saved her anything.
*
I4. WAITING AT THE CHURCH
DUD. It might have saved me something. (With

grim finality.) Well, anyway, her fine's paid.—I wonder
whose car she was driving. Some man's, most likely.
RoB. If there is a man, and there well may be, I'm
sure she doesn’t love him.
DUD. (he is again over toward the window, where he
glances out uneasily. Except for his more intense mo
ments in this scene, he has continually a restless, pre
occupied air). Probably not; though I imagine he thinks
she does.
ROB. She loves me.
DUD. (stunned). You! -
ROB. Me.
DUD. Did she tell the Chief that?
ROB. Naturally not.
DUD. She told you, then.
ROB. She didn’t need to.
DUD. (disgusted almost beyond endurance). I don't
know whether to laugh at you, or
ROB. Try crying, Dud; it would become you better.
(A pause. DUDLEY glances at his watch; then speaks,

strangely softened, coming down toward ROBERT.)
DUD. Bob, old man, I–we—I wish you could see this
thing as I do.
RoB. Sorry, Dud. But I don't believe your eyesight
is very good.
DUD. (still quiet). Somehow I can't get used to your
being such a confounded knight-errant. Clap-trap senti
ment is going to get you in wrong sooner or later.
(Slowly rising temperature as he gets back toward this
special instance.) And you can be such a conceited,
romantic ass. This idiotic business to-day is going to let
you in for public scandal, and the Lord only knows what
else. I feel it. (Still rising.) And remember, when you
get let in this time, I get let in too; and along with me,
Mary Ellice. (Back at his original heat.) You see
where you've got us all. And while I’m talking, here's
something else.
ROB. Now you're going to be personal.

DUD. A moment ago you mentioned the vine cling
ing to the oak. Don't flatter yourself I’ve seen many a
vine clinging to a plain ordinary stick. For most cling
ing vines, anything going their direction will do to cling
to, for the time being.
ROB. Dud, if I didn't know you for what you are,
better than you know yourself, a workaday, hide-bound
old puritan, whom people flatter by calling a “practical"
man, I'd tell you to “go to ” and be your own best man
to-morrow. First of all you are unpleasant in the matter
of helping a bit of a girl out of trouble. Then you in
timate that the girl I love is in all probability a crook.
And finally you explain clearly to me that the man she
loves isn't an oak at all, but just a plain ordinary stick.
DUD. (still afire). If you want a figure of speech to
express the ideal domestic relationship, a modern, sane,
practical relationship of strong manhood and womanhood,
I’ll give you one. No vine, if you please. But two elms,
growing side by side, each living its own life, in its own
strength, sharing sunshine and storm alike. That con
ception makes marriage entirely different from the spine
less clinging of something weak to something not quite
so weak. If some of you fellows would only grow sensi
ble, there wouldn't be so many of us imposed on by your
clinging vines who are strong enough, all right, but who
still go about clinging as a matter of principle.
RoB. Two elms. I’ll remember that, Dud.
DUD. I wish to the Lord you'd abide by it.
ROB. Don't expect too much of a beginner, old man.
(A pause. DUDLEY goes to the settee where he sits dis
consolately, after glancing through the door near by.
RoBERT looks at his watch and continues brightly.)
Four-fifty It runs in my mind those girls have kept us
waiting long enough. You know, wedding rehearsals
don't interest me much anyway. It seems too much like
explaining your own joke. (Rises emergetically.) Well,
I'm going in to haul them out here. The rector will be
wondering who broke the engagement, the bride or—the
best man. [Exit, R.
(DUDLEY sighs deeply, glances at his watch, and shifts

his position slightly, miserably. Flicks some dust
from his shoes with his handkerchief, and settles
his collar and tie. Takes a miniature from his
pocket and is studying it raptly when OLE appears
at the rear.)
OLE. Excy-use me. (The miniature disappears
hastily.) Doctor Shaw has come back. He vill waiting
for you now, Meester Cameron.
DUD. Oh!—Ah—thank you. (Rises.) I am sorry,
but the ladies have not come, I should say, have not
returned yet. They may be back any time, I think.
OLE. Ya-ah-ah. They were waiting for yew some time
teW.
DUD. Yes, I — Were they? Did they—er—wait
very long?
OLE. Ya-ah-ah. A qvite long time, ay thank.
DUD. Is that so |
OLE. Ya-ah-ah. (Slight pause.)
DUD. And how did they seem? That is—ah—were
they
OLE. Oh-o-oh. They seemed all right tew.
DUD. I mean, did they—were they—did they seem to
be impatient, or—angry maybe 2
OLE (scratches his head slowly, nodding). Oh-o-oh.
Von of them, Mees Black
DUD. (with poorly concealed eagerness). Yes?
OLE. Vell, yew see, I vos dusting here, thees vay.
(Business.) Mees Black she vos sitting of ºr there. I
vos making yust so little dust as I could. But the dust it
got in Mees Black's eyes, an’ she vos crying.
(The last word very softly.)
DUD. (stabbed). Crying !
OLE. Ya-ah-ah. Ain't that tew bad? Vell, I will go
telling Doctor Shaw now. [Exit.
DUD. (helplessly). Crying ! Crying ! That's a nice
go! (Robert is heard dolefully whistling “Here Comes
the Bride.”) All on account of that sentimental fool.
WAITING AT THE CHURCH 17
Damn it anyhow ! I ought to break his neck! Poor

little woman. She may be at home crying now. (He
strides to the table and takes up his hat and cane, and
turns as though to go out. Changes his mind and lays
them down again. Jerks his watch out, glares at it, and
returns it.) Poor little woman | Poor little wo —
(He stops suddenly as he happens to glance out the win
dow. His jaw drops and he swallows painfully. Looks
dagedly about him and turns to look again. Ejaculates
in a voice hardly his own: “Ye gods!” Turns swiftly
to the church entrance and calls.) Bob! Bob ' (To
himself.) I knew it!—Bob (As ROBERT appears.)
She-she’s out there !
RoB. Well, it's about time, if there's going to be any
rehearsal.
DUD. (wildly). It's that infernal woman we kept out
of jail!
ROB. (bristling). That what kind of a woman?
DUD. She's got the man with her
ROB. The man 2 What man 2
DUD. (looking again). My God! She's bringing him
in here! (Turning, enraged.) Now, you see
ROB. (with affected unconcern). Aw, Dud, quit your
fooling.
DUD. Do I look like I was fooling? Here, see for
yourself. (ROBERT does so at some length.) You—you
ass! I know their little game, whether you do or not.
They work it on gulls like you. He pretends to be her
husband. Do you get the rest of it?
Rob. No, I don't.
DUD. She's the innocent little thing. He accuses you
of–of–all kinds of things, anything that's against the
law, and demands his price. Now do you see what
you've put us up against?
ROB. (dully). I don't believe a word of it.
DUD. You'll believe it all in a few minutes. Got your
check-book?
RoB. (plainly worried). No.
DUD. Here's mine, And look here, you pay him his
price quick, and get them out of here. (Goes nervously
R.) I tell you now, if this scrape comes between me and

Mary Ellice, you'll have to settle with me as well as him;
and you'll not do it with a check-book.
(A door opens and shuts outside.)
Rob. (takes a few steps toward the table. Speaks
more to himself than to DUDLEY). I’ll pay—if this is all
true.
(Both watch the rear entrance. ARNOLD CARPENTER

and DoROTHY CLARK enter. The girl is dressed for
automobiling. The man stops for a second in the
doorway as he glances at the occupants of the room,
then speaks.)
CARPENTER. Ah, howdy-do, gen'1'men. (He advances
several paces, taking off his hat and mopping his brow,
speaking as he does so. DOROTHY remains standing just
inside the door. A look of surprised recognition visits
her face for a moment; then she drops her gaze before
that of Robert, which searches her eagerly.) 'Scuse our
haste; but which one of you gen’I'men 's the preacher?
Er—mebbe both of 'em 's one. (Turning his head.)
Hey, Dot? Ha, ha!
DUD. (stiffly). Unfortunately neither of us is.
DoR. These are the gentlemen, Arnold, who
CAR. (turning). How's 'at?
DoR. These are the gentlemen who helped me—us
this afternoon.
CAR. (with excessive surprise). Y’ don't say so! (He
comes charging up to ROBERT, hand extended.) I wanta
thank ya, Mister, Mister—I don't believe I have y'r
11a1116.
RoB. (taking the other's hand briefly). Deane is my

name; Robert Deane. And this is Mr. Dudley Cameron.
CAR. (going to DUDLEY as he had to RoBERT). Happy
ta meet ya, Mister Cameron. Carpenter's my name. An’
this (He half turns in Dorothy's direction and finishes
by jerking his thumb in her general direction.) is Miss
Dor'thy Clark, my fyancee. (DOROTHY bites her lip, but
smiles as the men bow.) It cert'nly was royal of ya to

help th’ little lady out of 'er difficulty this aft. We'll
send ya a check fºr th’ amount th' first o' th'—er—as
soon as we get back from th’ little ol' trip we've planned.
RoB. (infinitely relieved by now). That's all right, old
man. Suit your own convenience. I guess what obliga
tion there is goes to Mr. Cameron. He was the one who
provided what seemed to be needed. (With mischief.)
I’m sure he was only too glad
DUD. (relieved also, but still some distance from af
fability. Speaks as CARPENTER turns to him). For once
Mr. Deane is right. It was a pleasure.
RoB. Won't you sit down, Miss Clark?
(Indicates the settee.)
DoR. (softly). Thank you; but we really haven't
time —
CAR. No. Ya see, ’s like this. Our native heath is
Edgeworth, third tank west on th’ C. M. an’ Saint P.
But just now we're fleein' th' wrath tº come, as they say
in th’ good book. An' we expect 'im now 'most any ol’
time. (Cranes his neck to look out the window.) That's
why th’ hurry. Hey, Dot?
DOR. (also glances apprehensively out the window).
Do hurry, Arnold.
CAR. Hurry's right. Well, in other words, we're
elopin'; elopin' on th’ gallop, Sota speak. I came in on
th’ train this A. M.; got th’ license an’ all. (Pats his coat
pocket.) Ev'rything perfeckly regular, an’ all that. Th’
lady (Business of jerking thumb.) ran over later in 'er
car. Somehow 'r other J. A.—that's th' ol' gen'1'man—
got wind of it, an’ it was simply a question o' who got
here first. Th’ lady was comin't' meet me when she had
'er trouble this aft.
DOR. (nervously, looking out). Arnold —
CAR. Yeah. Well, th’ preacher don't happen tº be in,
I spose?
DUD. Yes; I believe you will find him in his study,
the second door -
RoB. No; he isn't in there now, Dud.

2O WAITING AT THE CHURCH
DUD. (in surprise). But I thought he was

ROB. He was. But I saw him passing through the
corridor there on his way out just before Miss Clark and
Mr. Carpenter came in.
(At an opportune moment he shakes his head savagely
at DUDLEY, who is silenced.)
CAR. Well, in that case we’ll hafta be twirlin' on t'
look up another. We can't give J. A. th’ slip all week.
Hey, Dot? (Going.) Mighty glad to've met ya, gen'1'
men. Y’ll pardon our lack o' formality, but hasty's th’
word with us now. Beglad tº see ya any time ya happen
inta Edgeworth. Hey, Dot?
DOR. Yes; awfully glad.
CAR. (with a lavish gesture). Well, so long, gen'1'men.
(They go quickly out. There is a pause. Then
ROBERT takes DUDLEY’s check-book and returns it
with an elaborately significant bow.)
DUD. That's all right, Bob. I acknowledge my mis
take. It's to be seen whether or not you acknowledge
yours.
ROB. Mine?
DUD. Yes. I suggest that for a woman in love with
you, she maintains a pretty close attachment to another
man. Not a particularly high type of man either, I
should say.
ROB. I’ve just put one crimp in that attachment.
There's room for several more in it. (Takes up his hat.)
Ah—may I use your car a little while?
DUD. You may not! I thought this would be enough
for you. Don't be a complete ass!
RoB. (pleadingly). Couldn't you think of something
to call me besides “ass"? That grows awfully monot
OnOllS.
DUD. If you had heard one-tenth of the things I’ve

called you the last two hours, you’d commit suicide!
RoB. Not on your life, I wouldn't! I've got too much
to do. (As he goes.) I'm sorry I can't rehearse with
you. I may get back for the wedding
WAITING AT THE CHURCH 2I
(A door opens and slams hastily outside. Scurrying

steps, and DOROTHY's voice raised in anarious fear.)
DOR. Oh, Arnold, did he see us? What'll we do?
What will we do? (ROBERT retires down stage. The
elopers enter precipitately, DOROTHY first. She seems to
go instinctively toward ROBERT as she speaks, almost in
anguish, wringing her hands.) Father's just coming up
the street. Oh, he'll be terrible !
(Falls abjectly into the large chair near the window.
CARPENTER steps toward window, out of which he
watches. He is badly shaken, though he attempts
levity from time to time.)
RoB. Did he see you?
DOR. Oh, I think so.
ROB. (going to window). If he didn't, he may go on
past.
DOR. I don't think he will. He'll know the car. We
left it right out in front.
CAR. Yeah. That was another mistake, too: leavin'
that car out there.
Rob. That's right. You certainly should have brought
it in with you!
DoR. (moans). Oh, I wish we could have hurried.
ROB. There's a car stopping out there now. (Turns
to DOROTHY.) A Packard?
DoR. Yes—yes; that's it.
CAR. (looking). Yeah, that's him.—He's spoiled th’
day f'r us. Hey, Dot?
DOR. (rising and going to the table). Please, Arnold,
don't say that again! (Tearfully, to ROBERT.) Can't
we—can't I hide, or something? I'm afraid. Father's
so violent.
CAR. (goes to DOROTHY and puts an arm around her).
Tha's all right, girlie.
(The girl is unresponsive; Robert frowns, at which
DUDLEY smiles and retires a few steps toward the
settee to watch developments.)
RoB. There. He's coming in.

DoR. Oh-h. I wish I hadn't
Rob. (turning decisively). Well, something's got to
be done, and done quick. No use trying to hide. He
knows you're here. Nowhere to hide anyway.
CAR. (gravely). I might get out th' back some
where
ROB. Maybe so. But I guess we won't do that. (His
eye has fallen on the garments hanging on the hall-tree.
He inspects them hurriedly as he speaks.) You two
started this trouble, but we'll all take a hand and help
finish it.
CAR. (limply). Good-night !
DOR. Oh-h-h.
(OLE appears innocently at the door, rear.)

OLE. Excy-use me.
ROB. (turning on him joyfully). That's all right, Ole.
Come right in (Pulls him inside.) Look here. There's
an old gentleman coming up the vestry walk. An old
gentleman with a grey mustache and wearing a linen
duster, overcoat. See? (OLE mods slowly.) He's
looking for us. Get this now. He mustn't find us! Get
that?
OLE (blandly). Ya-ah-ah. But
Rob. No “buts,” my dear fellow. You help tha
gentleman look for us. Take him everywhere about the
place before you come here. (Checks off places on his
fingers.) To the Parish House, the Guild Hall, the Sun
day School room, the Chapel, the Church—everywhere.
Understand?
OLE. Ya-ah-ah. But maybe he vont—
ROB. Oh, yes he will. He's got to 1 (Thrusts his
hand into his pocket.) Hang it! (Turning.) Dud, lend
Iné a (Changes his mind and turns to CARPENTER.)
Here, this is your funeral. Got any money on you?
CAR. I’ll say I have. (Draws a fistful of crumpled
bills from his trousers pocket.) How much ya want?
ROB. First thing you come to. (Grabs a bill and
thrusts it into OLE's hand.) There; that'll help. Buy

yourself a new hymn-book, and don't bring that man in
here until you have to. (Drags OLE out, giving him a
final shove on the word “have.”) Now you people listen
to me. (They do so, DOROTHY the most successfully.)
We've got a few minutes leeway, maybe, and you've got
to do as I say.
DoR. Yes—oh, yes!
ROB. Hiding's no good. And if you try to get away,
you'll be more than likely to run right into him. You're
going to have to meet him right here. It's probably go
ing to be pretty unpleasant any way you meet him. The
only way we can ease matters any is to make him help
less.
DUD. (sternly). Look here, Deane, no violence
Rob. Not unless you make it necessary. (Begins un
buttoning his vest and loosening his tie as he speaks.) I
want your collar, Dud.
DUD. My collar! For God's sake, Deane, haven't
you made enough trouble for one day?
Rob. Your collar, and hurry.—Here. (Lays his
own collar and tie on the table.) Here’s mine. Put it on.
DUD. I refuse, in the name of decency.
Rob. And I ask—in the name of friendship.
DUD. (as, after a brief pause, he begins loosening his
tie). Humph! Your brand of friendship covers a mul
titude of sins.
Rob. (returning from the hall-tree with the Rector's
vest and coat). That's the only kind of friendship worth
speaking about.
DUD. There ! (He throws his collar and tie on the
table and takes up ROBERT's. ROBERT dons the straight
collar, reversed, and the Rector's vest and coat, the latter
garments a little too large for him, perhaps, but not im
possible. He hangs his own coat and vest, and DUDLEY’s
tie, on the hall-tree.) I suppose you know that what
you're up to now makes you liable to a jail sentence.
And for my part, I hope you get it.
Rob. (coming down to DoRot}IY and CARPENTER).
All right. Just step around here, please.
24. WAITING AT THE CHURCH
(Indicates a position down stage. DOROTHY comes at

once.)
CAR. (hesitating). Look here, now. This thing's
gotta be regular, y'know. I'm on th’ square.
RoB. Yes, I think you are. Otherwise I’d—do some
thing else. Remember, if you hope to get out of here
with even half a skin, you've got to do as I tell you.
(With ministerial dignity.) Around here, please, beside
the-ahem—bride. (CARPENTER comes.) Now, Dud,
you're the witnesses. Stand there.
(Indicates a position to the R. of the table.)
DUD. I can see plenty from here, thanks.
ROB. Now here's the plan: The wrath-to-come, as he
has been called, is about on us. But he can’t do much
more than storm a bit if his daughter, who is of legal age
—ah—er—you are, aren't you, Miss Clark? -
DOR. (who has never taken her eyes from him, answers
softly). Yes; nineteen. -
ROB. Good. If his daughter, I say, has of her own

free will apparently become the wife of—of-the man of
her choice. You can really get married later, if you are
still so minded. My idea is to let Mr. Clark hear the
final words (A door slams outside. CARPENTER
jumps. DoRothy involuntarily reaches out a hand to
ward Robert, who finishes hastily.) Now, remember,
don’t balk at anything. Don't betray us, no matter what
happens. And above all, do as I say. (Suddenly.)
Good Lord! I’ve got to have a Bible or a Prayer Book,
or whatever it is they use. (Rummages wildly about on
the table.) National Geographic. That won't do. (Slaps
his breast—and side-pockets.) Nothing.—Dud, hurry up
—a memorandum book—something !
(DUDLEY searches his pockets with an expression of
resignation, and produces a small black bill-folder.)
DUD. Here. My bill-book's all I’ve got. And that's
about empty, thanks to you.
ROB. You're welcome. (Gets back into his place,
folding the bill-book to resemble a small prayer book.)

Let's see—hang it! What are the last words of the cere
mony “I pronounce you —”
CAR. (enlivened by the approach of success). Some
thin’ like “hanged by th’ neck until dead" would be 'bout
right. Hey, Dot? (DOROTHY shudders.)
DUD. (sourly). “Bless you, my children’’ sounds fa
miliar.
(Another door slams outside. The wedding party

stiffens to attention, all except DUDLEY.)
RoB. (watching the rear entrance from the corner of
his eye, his right hand raised). Steady now !
OLE (is saying as he appears). Ya-ah-ah. Ay thank
so mebbe tew. (In the door, facing back. Affected sur
prise.) They are all in here, Meester
(He is rudely thrust aside by CLARK, who takes in the
situation in an instant, and roars.)
CLARK. Stop it! Stop it, I —
(Stands as one dazed.)
ROB. (somorously, amid deathly silence). . . . sol
emnly pronounce you legally joined in the—ah—sacred
rites of matrimony—let no man put asunder—until death
do you part—in the name of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.
Amen. (His face breaks into a benign smile as he con
tinues.) Bless you, my children. And now, Mr. Car
penter, I know you will not begrudge one the ancient and
firmly established custom of bestowing upon the bride the
pastoral kiss.
(Notwithstanding an uneasy move on CARPENTER's
part, there occurs here a strange though perhaps en
lightening phenomenon. The bride, remembering
only too well the injunction not to balk at anything,
instead of presenting a blushing cheek to receive the
pastoral gift, raises her lips with the evident inten
tion of making it an even trade. This is consider
ably more than even a dominie could expect, and it is

ROBERT, therefore, who balks, but only for the slight
est fraction of a second, before making good his
promise. The old and firmly established custom is
celebrated just as the FATHER's monumental wrath,
for which he is justly famed, breaks forth. He
rushes down. The bridal couple retreat to the left;
ROBERT remains near the table.)
CLARK. What kind of an infernal, licentious perform

ance is this?
DOR. (shocked). Father |
CLARK. Fatherl Tell me, are you married to this
Soda-fountain artist, this loafer P Tell me that Are
you?
DOR. (after a moment in which she seems to steel her
self). If I am
CLARK. Then don't call me father. (To RoBERT,
who has been standing wearing a look of injured dignity
and surprise.) And you, young whippersnapper, who
ever you are, I’ve a mind to take you over my knee.
ROB. Sir, you seem to forget that you are in a church.
CLARK. Some of the things that come to pass nowa
days in the church make that mighty easy to forget.
ROB. These young people have attained the age where
they are legally entitled to know their own minds and be
guided by the same.
CLARK. Minds ! They haven't any; neither one of
'em.
RoB. I had no evidence of that fact.
CLARK. No evidence? Look at 'em! What more
evidence would any fool need? (CARPENTER shifts his
gaze, but DOROTHY's meets that of her father.) I'll show
you what their minds amount to.—You, young lady.
You've married this good-for-nothing. You've married
him in a hurry, as though there were a hundred other
women after him. You, who could have had the best,
have taken this You've gone crazy; that's what you've
done.
DOR. No.
CLARK. Yes! And now I'll tell you what I've done.
I’ve turned you out into the road, for all of me. I've
saved and managed from the very first that you might
some day have it all, for you and yours. But I'll melt it
all up and pour it down a hole before I'll furnish you and
this loafer of yours a cent.
DoR. We are prepared to live without it.
CLARK. And live what on f Love, I suppose?
DOR. On what Arnold can earn.
CLARK. On what he can earn Look here. The love
of a man like that is little enough; but what he can earn
is a mighty sight less than that.
CAR. (perhaps stirred by the prospect of pauperism).
Come now, Mister Clark. You've no call tº be sa rough
on y'r daughter.
CLARK. My daughter? She isn't my daughter. She's
your wife, and you've got to support her. How did you
plan to do it?
CAR. Well—er—t’ tell th’ truth, I rather expected t'
take up with some work. I gotta job in sight.
CLARK. To tell the truth, you didn't expect to do any
thing of the sort. You've hung around our young set
long enough for me to know that. It didn't seem to
make any difference to you—to either of you—that I pre
ferred you to stay out of sight. It only made things
worse. I might have known it.—But as for goin' to
work, when a man hasn't begun to amount to something
by the time he's as old as you are, he's not goin' to
amount to anything afterward.
CAR. I—we didn't know, too, but there'd likely be
sumthin' in th’ way of a position on one o' your farms.
CLARK. So! Just what position could you hold on
any farm, say nothing of one of mine? You don't know
a seeder from a harrow. You don't know anything !
And how this woman could ever have done what she's
done, I don't know.
DoR. (quietly). If you wish to know, why don't you
ask her?
CLARK. I do ask her—now.
DOR. Before she tells you, she would like to request
that there be no discussion as to whether she has made a

mistake. If she has made one, it's her own, and she will
carry it.—It would hardly be strange if the first impor
tant deed of her own planning and doing was a mistake.
CLARK. What kind of a thing is that to say to a father
like I’ve been to you?
DOR. It's the kind of a thing that explains why your—
why this woman has done the thing she's done.
CLARK. Where's the reason in that? You’ve had the
planning and doing of everything you wanted to do, so
far as I know.
DOR. (quickly). Of everything except what amounted
to anything.
CLARK. Amounted to anything? What was there to
do that amounted
DOR. That's exactly right. There wasn't anything
left. Others did everything. On the farms it was your
superintendents and foremen. In town it was managers
and partners. And at the house, where I might have
been superintendent, manager, and partner to you, it was
the housekeeper.—You reminded me a moment ago that
you had saved and planned for me, and I guess it's kept
you busy; but as for me, I got sick to death of it. I
knew you were worth two millions, or more—I don't
know exactly; you never told me. I finally realized that
people were looking at a dozen or so men, some of them
worth while, most of them not, and wondering which one
would marry me, and your money. I knew you were
watching out that I and that money might be well cared
for.—Now what did I ever do or say that made anyone
think I had to be taken care of, that I couldn't take care
of myself, and of property—or at least learn to? That
I couldn't run my own house, and above all, that I
couldn't help and cheer and sympathize with the father
whose whole family I am?
CLARK (sits in the chair near the left end of the table).
I guess I never thought of it quite that way.
DOR. I'm pretty sure you never did. You never let
me come close enough to you for that. Servants, hired
people, have done for you, have been your helpers since
Mother died; and I’ve driven my car, dawdled around

socially with people I didn't care that (Snaps her fingers.)
about, gone places, done something now and then for
others, but never anything for my own, simply because
my own was so busy taking care of me.
CLARK. If you'd just have said something about
it
DoR. I tried that. If I were able to tell you how
many times I resolved to introduce you to your daughter,
you'd never believe me. You were too busy to listen to
me. So I finally decided to do the thing that, whatever
else it did, would make you listen to me.—I’ve done it.
CLARK. But why this man?
DOR. Because in my anger I thought I could love for
ever anyone who was poor. I never wanted to see a rich
man again, and I knew you well enough to know that if I
married Arnold, we would most likely stay poor. Arnold
had asked me to marry him. He said he would steady
down. I don't know whether I exactly believed him or
not, but on the strength of it I suggested that he might
have work on the farms, not at the top, but at the very
bottom. I imagined he might consider me worth work
ing hard for.
(This amounts to an acid test for CARPENTER, who
shifts uneasily, giving one the impression that this
was perhaps not exactly the position on the farms
that he had thought of.)
CLARK. It seems to me that you gave up a good deal
to try to make something out of him. There's two sides
to every bargain: what were you to get out of this one?
DOR. (coolly). Not much, Daddy. Just a little atten
tion in my own home, for a while at least.
CLARK (straightening up and speaking more vigorously
and more kindly). Well, it isn't often my policy to pay
a man in advance for work I'm pretty certain he won't
do; but as he seems to have collected in spite of me, I’ll
acknowledge that I’ve been wrong, Dotty. I'm always
willing to make my mistakes right. I accept your mar
riage. (CARPENTER smiles blandly, a fact which ROBERT
#:
3o * WAITING AT THE CHURCH
notices.) The grain is coming ripe and we need men in

the fields. Carpenter can have his wages and his labor.
I'll see that he's advanced,—if he earns it. (CARPENTER
looks uneasy and unconsciously rubs his hands tenderly.)
You can live in the little house on the home place, so you
won't be so very far from me. It isn't much, but it'll be
a home for you; and maybe it's best for young people to
start that way after all.
DoR. (turning to CARPENTER with the winningest of
smiles). It is, isn't it, Arnold 2
CAR. (without spirit). Yeah. (More brightly.) But
I was just wonderin', though. Abe Marblestein's gotta
steady place open f'r me in his gent's furnishings at sev
enty-five an' commissions. (They turn away from him.)
That kinda appeals tº me. -
CLARK. I thought so !
CAR. It 'ud leave us more time t'gether. We c’d
scrape along. Hey, Dot?
DOR. (as she hears the fatal “Hey, Dot?” gives a
smothered exclamation of horror, turns to her father and
falls to her knees beside his chair, clinging to him). Oh,
Daddy, take me away from him Take me away, before
he says that again.
CLARK. Why—why—Dotty —
DOR. I’m not married to him. Truly I’m not, Daddy!
Oh, I’m so glad |
CLARK. Not married?
CAR. (as one falling). Aw, see here, Dot! You're
not playin' th' game
CLARK (leans forward in his chair. DOROTHY rises).
Not married. Not playing the game. (With growing
mistrust and anger.) What game? (To ROBERT.) You,
sir! What is this game? You ought to know, I take it.
RoB. (beginning to shed his borrowed weeds). Yes,
sir; I'm afraid I know. I invented it; that is, I invented
the beginning of it. It seems to have come out about
right though.-Come on, Dud; I just loaned you that
collar and tie, you know. (DUDLEY begins removing his
collar and tie.) When I think how close I came to study
ing for the ministry I shiver.
WAITING At THe CHURCH 3I
DUD. I shiver whenever I think of your doing any

thing !
(There is perhaps a slight pause in the dialogue as the
men go about earchanging, CLARK watching as though
unable to believe his eyes. At the height of Rob
ERT's disrobing, unobserved by either DUDLEY or
RoBERT, MARY and BEATRICE enter quietly through
the church entrance, just as CLARK speaks.)
CLARK (limply). Well, all I can say is: will someone
tell me what kind of a dream this is:
BEA. (looking at ROBERT). Yes; I wish someone
would !
Rob. (quietly, without turning). Finally got here, did
you, Sis:
(MARY has rushed to DUDLEY, who holds her close, not
having quite time to adjust his tie, an action more
eloquent than any words.)
BEA. From the looks of the dream, I imagine there is
only one person present who could have been responsible
for it.
CAR. (still lost). Well, take it from me
DoR. Let them take it from me first, Arnold.—I’m
afraid this has been a terrible intrusion into other people's
plans. But I apologize, for I am the one who is respon
sible for all of it. Providence has been very good to a
foolish girl. (To CARPENTER.) For I guess we both
see, Arnold, that as a wife—as your wife—I’d be pretty
sure to be a failure. I would have been sure of that be
fore if I had been thinking about that instead of about
getting revenge on (Mischievously.) the wrath-to-come.
(She goes to run her fingers through her father's hair and
finds that he still has his hat on. She takes it off and lays
it in his lap, saying sweetly.) You must always take
your hat off in the house, Daddy.
ROB. (brightly). I suppose thirst for revenge wouldn't
be a very good substitute for love, would it, Miss Clark?
DOR. I think it is a very good substitute; but it doesn't
seem to last.
MARY (looking up into DUDLEY’s eyes, with infinite

solicitude). Were you worried, dear?
DUD. (one hundred per cent. tenderness). I can't tell
you how much, sweetheart.
(This couple has become perfectly oblivious to the ex
istence of the rest, and the rest kindly take no notice
of this bit of saccharine dialogue, except RoBERT,
who somehow or other finds a bit of quiet amuse
ment in it. Perhaps it strikes him that this is not
very elm-like behavior.)
CAR. (looking down and fingering his hat). Well—I
guess I might 's well be goin', Dot. I gotta a few things
t’ attend to 'fore I go back. I wanna 'phone Abe on that
job, too. (Awkwardly.) I guess it would 've been kinda
unfortunate if our little lark hadda gone through, Dot.
I c'd see things wasn't gettin' any better as we went on,
anyway not as far as you an' I was concerned. I’m sorry
I got ya inta all this trouble.
DoR. Sh-sh-sh! You didn’t do it; I did.
CAR. (laughing shortly). All right, then.
(Turns as though to leave.)
RoB. (extending his hand). Good-bye, Mr. Carpenter.
I'm glad to have been of service to you.
CAR. (probably getting ROBERT's point). Don't men
tion it, Mister Deane. Drop in at Marblestein's when
you're in Edgeworth.
ROB. Certainly will.
CAR. (at the rear entrance). Well, so long, ever'body.
(Earit. DOROTHY waves her hand at him and blows
him a little kiss just after he disappears.)
CLARK (in gentle reproof). Dotty
DOR. Never fear, Daddy. He's safe from now on.
And you're going into Abe's right to-morrow and buy
yourself some new ties. This one you're wearing is a
perfect fright. ( Suddenly.) Oh, yes! You must meet
a friend of ours. This is Mr. Deane.
ROB. (stepping forward gladly. CLARK rises). I'm

more than glad to meet you, Mr. Clark.
CLARK (speaks brusquely, though not unpleasantly).
Dorothy's friends always interest me—in one way or an
other. So it's to you I'm to look for the explanation of
this freak wedding:
Rob. (smiling). I'm afraid so. I’ll do my very best,
too. Meanwhile, Mr. Clark and Miss Clark, meet Miss
Black, and my sister, Miss Beatrice Deane. (He indi
cates them. CLARK bows, repeating the names; the ladies
bow and mod cordially.) And that noble elm standing
yonder, whom Miss Clark has already met, is my tried
and trusty friend, Mr. Dudley Cameron.
DUD. (as they shake hands). How-do-you-do, Mr.
Clark.
CLARK. Glad to know you, sir.
DUD. I suppose, being claimed as friend by this fel
low, I really ought to return the compliment by vouching
for his sanity. There's a kind of destiny that persists in
shaping his ends for him. But I’m bound to admit that
the very love I bear him has made it possible for him to
lead me into some extraordinary situations.
DoR. Not the least extraordinary of which occurred
this afternoon, when he paid a fine for me.
CLARK. A fine! Ye gods on earth ! What next?
DOR. (coyly). I was driving too fast—to meet my
love. But not so fast to meet my love, Daddy, as to keep
ahead of you.
CLARK (to DUDLEY). And what was the amount, sir?
I wish to return it. (Reaches for his purse.)
DOR. It was twenty-five dollars, your Honor. (As
CLARK extracts the bills.) Let me return it. (She does
so.) And thank you.
DUD. (bowing gallantly). The pleasure was mine.
ROB. (dryly). That wasn't quite the impression you
gave me, Dud.
BEA. Bob
DUD. Bob, you're an a
Rob. (holding up a warning finger). Hold, Brutus !
Don't you call me that again. There are ladies present,
and one of them (Bowing to BEATRICE.) is indignant.—

You see, Mr. Clark, Mr. Cameron is under a very severe
strain. And speaking of weddings reminds me that I
have one to explain. We've all got weddings more or
less on the brain, for Mr. Cameron and Miss Black are
to be married to-morrow. In fact, we are to have a re
hearsal of the same there in the church this afternoon, if
we can ever get everyone concerned in the one place at
the same time.—Personally I prefer the unrehearsed va
riety, such as Miss Dorothy was contemplating. Our ap
pointment was for four, but an unforeseen engagement at
the police court (Glancing at DOROTHY.) detained Mr.
Cameron and me for over half an hour. Meanwhile,
Miss Black and Miss Deane, I imagine, grew faint and
stepped out for refreshments, so that when we came we
began waiting out our term. We hadn’t waited long
when Mr. Carpenter and his bride-to-be rushed in de
manding a minister. I persuaded them that he wasn't in
just then, and they were leaving to find another when you
appeared, and they couldn't escape. No one must ask me
why I suggested the thing I did, because I couldn't an
swer the question. It was simply one of those rare
schemes I concoct occasionally. My sister calls it ge
nius; though I modestly disclaim it—for Dudley's sake.
Anyway, I had a feeling from the first that there was a
mistake in the signals somewhere. The mock ceremony
was merely a sparring for time, though I must confess I
didn't see exactly how it was going to set matters any
nearer right. But—well, I guess there's many a hero
made just that way.
BEA. Our modest little Robert |
MARY (appealingly). But Bea just made me go to the
dressmaker's, dear. -
DUD. I know, sweetheart.

(And again they would have sunk into oblivious rap
ture had it not been for OLE.)
OLE (appearing silently in the rear entrance). Ex-cy
use me. Doctor Shaw has come back now. He says he
vill hafing another engagement at seex.
MARY. We mustn't keep him waiting any longer,

Dudley.
ROB. No. Our two elms must practice standing side
by side, each in its own strength.
MARY. What does he mean, dear?
DUD. Robert is trying to be funny, little woman.
(To CLARK.) You'll not misunderstand our asking to be
excused. Our Rector has been waiting on us since four
o'clock.
CLARK. Not at all. We'll have to be getting on, too.
DUD. We are very glad to have had the pleasure of
meeting you.
BEA. (as she joins DUDLEY and MARY). And we con
gratulate you that Bob's wild scheme got away from him
and came out happily.
CLARK. Thank you, thank you.
(Robert and DoRot}IY smile.)
DUD. (to OLE, who has “hesitated around,” true to
form). Tell Doctor Shaw that we are going right into
the church now. [Eveunt DUDLEY, MARY and BEATRICE.
OLE (steps over to ROBERT and speaks confidentially).
But—here, Meester Deane. (Hands him something.)
ROB. A dollar? What's that for 2
OLE. Vell, yew see, that fife-dollar bill.—There vos
five places I vos tew take heem, an' he wouldn't go to only
four. He wouldn't go in the Sunday School room.
(Solemnly.) Eet ees ve-ry wrong tew take money ven
ve don't dew the vork. (CLARK is convulsed.)
RoB. (embarrassed for an instant). Oh-yes; well—
er (Firmly.) Ole, take this dollar and get out of
here !
OLE (shaking his head righteously). Na-ah-ah.
ROB. Here. You're earning it. See? I’m paying
you to leave this room—quick!
OLE (enlightened). Oh! Ya-ah-ah.
(Takes the money and goes out.)
CLARK. Bribery, eh? I suspected there was some
-
thing the matter with him, the way he dragged me

around. I thought he must be mighty proud of the
place.
ROB. Ole's all right, except that he is much too honest
to be working around a church. He ought to be in the
Government somewhere. (General laugh.)
CLARK (taking up hat). Well, Dotty, we mustn't hold
up this rehearsal any longer. I don't know, young man,
just how much credit is really due you for what's hap
pened here this afternoon. (Extends his hand, which
ROBERT takes.) I'm afraid it wasn't very pleasant for all
of you to see a rather seamy side of our little family.
ROB. I guess it might have been a good deal worse,
Mr. Clark.
CLARK. Yes, I guess so. And, things being as they
are, I suppose you're to be commended rather than
blamed. Dotty's got a different father now from the one
she had this morning.
(The men have turned toward the rear entrance. At
an opportune moment DOROTHY steals several steps
over to the table and lays on it her leather purse;
then steps back unnoticed by the others.)
ROB. Thank you. I'm mighty glad. Things have a
way of working themselves out for us a great deal more
than we ever suspect. As for me and my credit, I'm
perfectly willing to let that take care, of itself too—at
least for the present.
DOR. (going up to ROBERT). I want to thank you for
myself, Mr. Deane. There's credit due somewhere, and,
personally, I'd just as soon give it to you as anyone.
(Extends her hand.)
RoB. That's kind of you.
DoR. I’m sure Daddy and I would love to have you
call on us—sometime. (Her gage drops before that of
ROBERT and she finishes in an embarrassed way.)
Wouldn’t we, Daddy?
CLARK. Be glad to see you any time, sir. (Glances
at watch.) Come, Dotty, it's getting late.
DoR. Good-bye.
RoB. Good-bye.
(Ereunt CLARK and DOROTHY ROBERT stands for a
moment in a reverie, interrupted by DUDLEY, who
looks in through the church entrance and calls
cheerily.)
DUD. Waiting for you, old boy.
Rob. (starting). Oh! I'll be right in, Dud. (Exit
DUDLEY. Robert turns and goes to the window.) Hang
it! I ought to have asked her when.
(He turns again and starts for the church meditatively.
Seeing the purse on the table, he takes it up, looks at
it carefully, and is holding it as DOROTHY appears
silently at the rear entrance. She stops suddenly as
she sees what he is doing and smiles. As ROBERT
drops the purse into his pocket, she makes a little
grimace, retires a few steps, reappears, and speaks.)
DOR. Excuse me.
Rob. Certainly Did you learn that from Ole?
DoR. (laughing softly). Isn't that what one says?
Rob. That depends upon what one has been doing.
DoR. Oh, I see. Well, I seem to have lost or mis
placed my purse. It didn't have anything in it to speak
of, but I shouldn't care to lose it.
RoB. (business of searching). Is that so? I’m sure I
haven't seen it. What kind of a purse was it? Did it
have my—I mean, your name in it?
(DOROTHY nearly breaks out laughing as his back is
turned, but sobers immediately.)
DOR. It was made of brown tooled leather, and had
my name and address on the inside. So there would be
no excuse for anyone not returning it—if he found it.
ROB. I’ll look for it more thoroughly this evening
after the rehearsal. (He stops hunting.)
DOR. That will be so good of you.
(She also stops hunting.)
Rob. If I were to find it, might I return it?

DOR. I think you might.
ROB. What I mean is, would you let me bring it back
to you?
DOR. Yes, indeed. I would be glad to have it back at
any price.
(He looks sharply at her, but she betrays nothing.)
ROB. If I were to find it to-night, or to-morrow, could
I bring it to you, say, to-morrow evening?
DoR. Yes, indeed.
ROB. I’ll certainly do my best to find it. You may
have dropped it somewhere in the corridor. I’ll look
there. -
DOR. I’m very grateful.

CLARK (outside). All ready, Dotty. Can't you find
it?
DOR. (raising her voice slightly). I guess not, Daddy.
I'm coming. (To ROBERT, offering her hand.) Good
bye again, then, until to-morrow evening at—seven
thirty? (In the door she turns.) You'd better run on
in to that rehearsal now. You need it.
(She is gone. Robert stands, feeling the pocket where

the purse is, with the look of one struggling with a
perplexity.)
CURTAIN
THE MAN WHO WENT
(Originally produced under the title “The Black Feather.”)
A Play in Four Acts
By W. A. Tremayne
Seven males, three females. Scenery, one interior and one exterior,
Costumes, modern. Plays a full evening. Royalty, $10.00 for the first
and $5.oo each for other immediately succeeding performances. An ex
ceptionally stirring and effective play of the Great War, produced with
great success in Canada as the successor of the popular “The Man Who
Stayed at Home.” Jack Thornton, a King's Messenger, entrusted with
important state papers for delivery in Vienna, is robbed of them through
his attachment to a lady in the Austrian secret service, and his career
fº. but by the cleverness and daring of Dick Kent, of the Eng
ish secret service, who is in love with his sister Evelyn, the plot is frus.
trated in a series of thrilling scenes, and all ends well. An exceptionally
well built drama, full of sensations, ending in a strong last act full of
“puneh.” A good play for any purpose, but ideally suited to the temper
of the present. Plenty of comedy, easy to stage, and confidently secon
mended. Price, 35 cents
CHARACTERS
Dick KENT, in the English Secret Service.

JACK THoRNTON, a King's Messenger.
BARON VON ARNHEIM, in the German Secret Service.
SIR GEORGE CAxton, in the British Foreign Office.
HoGUE, a German spy.
BARNES, a chauffeur.
PATToN, a keeper.
EvelyN THoRNTon, jack's sister.
CountESS WANDA Von HoltzBERG, in the Austrian Secre” Service.
LADY VENETIA CAxton, Sir George's wife.
The action of the play takes place in the early summer of roſy.
SYNOPSIS
Act I., Jack Thornton's chambers in Portman Square, London.
Dealing the cards. “Beware of the dog.”
Act II. A retired corner of Sir George Caxton's estate in Kent.
Dick takes the first trick. “The son of his father.”
ACT III. Jack Thornton's chambers. A bold play. " Drive
like the devil, Barnes—we've got to make Charing Cross by nine.”
ACT IV. Jack Thornton's chambers. Dick wins the game.
“Tightening the bonds of Empire.”
OUTWITTED
A Comedy Dramatic Novelty
By Harry L. Wewton
One male, one female. Scene, an interior; costumes, modern. Plays
twenty minutes. Sherman, a United States Secret Service man, encoun
ters Sophie, supposed to represent the enemy, and a duel of wits ensues.
Very exciting and swift in movement, with an unexpected ending. Good
work and well recommended. Price, 25 cents
TURNING THE TRICK
A Dramatic Comedy in Three Acts
By 7, C. McMullen
Six males, five females. Scene, a single interior. Plays a full even
ing. When Mary Ann Casey takes up shimmy dancing and wants to find
her affinity, Patrick simply has to assert himself. Incidentally he is in
strumental in unearthing a gang of diamond smugglers who, in the char
acter of “society’” people, are a part of Mrs. Casey's fashionable set.
Good Irish comedy leads, both male and female, French comedy part,
“Bolshevik’” adventuress, comedy maid and janitor—all parts good.
A rice, 35 cents
CHARACTERS
PATRICK CASEY, a retired contractor.
MARY ANNE, his wife.
MICHAEL, his son.
*} his daughters.
GEORGE DRAKE, a friend of the family.
EILEEN, the maid.
“HUMPy” STEELE, the janitor.
JIM DOUGHERTY, of the U. S. Treasury Department.
MADAM ANNA BAIRSKI, a bolshevik.
ARMAND FRANCOIS BONI AIME DE LovieR, a modiste.
SYNOPSIS
ACT I.—3: oo P. M., a Monday afternoon in June.

ACT II.—4: oo P. M., Tuesday afternoon.
AcT III.—Midnight, Tuesday.
THE MODERN DRAMA SERIES

THE RED LIGHT OF MARS
Or
A Day in the Life of the Devil

A Philosophical Comedy in Three Acts
By George Bronson–Howard
Fifteen males, three females. Costumes, modern ; scenery, a single
interior. Plays a full evening. Acting rights controlled by The John
W. Rumsey Co., New York. Price, 75 cents
MOTHER NATURE — PROGRESS

Two Belgian Plays
By Gustave Vangype
MOTHER NATURE.—A Comedy in Three Acts. Five males, five
females. Modern costumes; same scene for all three acts. Plays two hours,
PROGRESS.—A Play in Three Acts. Six males, three females,
Costumes, modern; scenery, two interiors. Plays two hours.
Price, 75 cents
THE HOUSE IN LAUREL LANE
A Comedy in Two Acts
By Gladys Ruth Bridgham
Six female characters. Costumes, modern ; Scenery, two interiors
Plays an hour and a quarter. No royalty demanded. Anice and Wil.
ifred, two sophomores, are elected to membership in the “Red Hearts,”
the swell secret society of Lake View Seminary, and are put through a
thrilling initiatory ceremony, which they do not recognize as such until it
is all over, to test their pluck and desirability. One of the most ingen
iously interesting and exciting plays for all ladies that we have ever pub
lished and is strongly recommended. All the parts are good and effective.
Price, 25 cents
CHARACTERS
JosephinE ARNOLD
IRENE HUMPHRIES
CLAUDIA WAINWRIGHT juniors,
MARGUERITE HASTINGS
ANICE WAINWRIGHT
WILIFRED BLAKE Sophomores.
SYNOPSIS
ACT I.-Josephine and Irene's room—Lake View Seminary.

An afternoon in May.
ACT II.—The hous” in Laurel Lane—evening of the same day.
I GRANT YOU THREE WISHES

A Fantasy in One Act
Can be played by any number of girls from four to fourteen; many of
the parts are small and can easily be doubled. Four scenes are called for
but by the use of screens the play may be carried through with a single
setting. Plays forty minutes. Elaine, just out of college and facing the
world, longs for the traditional three wishes to give her a start, but her
grandmother tells her that she in her time had this choice of three careers,
and the play shows in a series of scenes how they befell. A fascinating
idea cleverly and vividly developed in action. Recommended for schools.
Price, 25 cents
MISS TODD'S VAMPIRE

A Comedy in One Act
By Sallie Shute
One male, four female characters. Costumes, modern ; scenery, an
easy interior. Plays thirty minutes. Sue Makely comes precious near to
losing one of the best young men that ever was in the person of Dan
Morehouse, but Miss Todd finds a way to circumvent the “vampire” and
block her little game. A very pretty, “human" little play that can be
strongly recommended.
Price, 25 cents
A COUPLE OF MILLION
An American Comedy in Four Acts
By Walter Ben Hare
Author of “Professor Pepp,” “Much Ado About Betty,”
“The Hoodoo,” “ Fº: Dutch Detective,” etc.,
Six males, five females. Costumes, modern ; scenery, two interior,
and an exterior. Plays a full evening. Royalty, ten dollars ($io.oO) ſo,
each performance. A more ambitious play by this popular author in the
same successful vein as his previous offerings. Bemis Bennington it, left
two million dollars by his uncle on condition that he shall live for one
year in a town of less than five thousand inhabitants and during that
period marry and earn without other assistance than his own industry and
ability the sum of five thousand dollars. Failing to accomplish this the
money goes to one Professor Noah Jabb. This is done despite the energetic
opposition of Jabb, who puts up a very interesting fight. A capital play
that can be strongly recommended. Plenty of good comedy and a great
variety of good parts, full of opportunity. -
Price, 35 cents
CHARACTERS
BEMIS BENNINGTON. FAY FAIRBANKS.

HoN. JEREMY WISE. MRS. CLARICE COURTENiº'ſ.
JAMES PATRICK BURNs, “Stubby.” GENEvieve McGULLY.
PROFESSOR NOAH JABB. SAMMIE BELL PORTER,
BEVERLY LOMAN, PINK.
SQUIRE PIPER.
several Hill-Billies,
SYNOPSIS
Act I.—The law office of Hon. Jeremy Wise, New York City
A morning in July.
ACT II.-The exterior of the court-house, Opaloopa, Alabama
An afternoon in October.
ACT III.—Same as Act II. The next afternoon.
ACT IV.-Mrs. Courtenay's sitting-room, Opaloopa, Alabama
A night in April.
ISOSCELES
A Play in One Act
By Walter Ben Hare
Two male, one female characters. Costumes, modern; scene, an in
&erior. Plays twenty minutes. Royalty $2.50 for each performance. An
admirable little travesty of the conventional emotional recipe calling for
husband, wife and lover. Played in the proper spirit of burlesque it is
howlingly funnv. Strongly recommended for the semi-professional uses
of schools of acting. A capital bit for a benefit or exhibition programme,
affering a decided novelty.
A rice, 25 cents
THE GUEST RETAINER
A Farce in Three Acts
By Carl Webster Pierce
Five males, three females. Scene, a hotel office. Plays two hours. A
guest retainer is an imagined employee of a summer hotel whose job it is
to keep the lady guests contented and happy. It ought to work fine, but
in this case it had some very funny consequences. An aviator, a retired
undertaker and some other eccentric characters afford good parts. Its
small cast and easy production recommend this piece.
Price, 35 cents
CHARACTERS
#. *::: } proprietors of the Hotel jerskeet.

IMA BRAYER.
CASSANDRA MCARTY.
Owen COFFIN.
RICHARD ARCHIBALD SIMPSON.
BIRDIE LARK, “The Eaglet.”
HOPPER.
SYNOPSIS
Scene. Lobby of the Hotel Jerskeet, somewhere in New Jersey.

ACT I. Morning of July 15.
ACT II. Two weeks later.
ACT III. Morning of August 15.
PLAYS TWO HOURS
O'KEEFE'S CIRCUIT
An Entertainment in One Scene
By Carolyn Draper Gilpatric
Twelve males, eight females or less. Scene, a manager's office. Plays
ad libitum. A vaudeville manager receives in his office applicants for
engagements, who illustrate their talent or lack of it. Colored characters,
male and female, Indian, Spanish, “Rube,” old-fashioned and various
eccentric.
Price, 35 cents
THE OFFICE FORCE
MR. O'KEEFE, a pompous, showily-dressed man.

MAGGIE HENNESSY, the stylish stenographer.
BILL, the office boy.
Mose and CHARLEY (colored) song and dance.
MINNEHAHA, an Indian dancer.
SPIRITUELLA, a fake spiritualistic medium.
AN OLD-FASHIONED GIRL, singing old-fashioned songs.
DEAcon SMALL and his wife and RUTH SANDY-KNEE.
A READING OR MonoLOGUE.
CARMENCITA, who sings in Spanish costume.
THE HIPPITY-Hop Twins, man and girl in song and dance.
THE BLow BROTHERs, a colored orchestra (burlesque).
OLD DAYS IN DIXIE
A Comedy-Drama in Three Acts
By Walter Ben Hare
Five males, eight females. Scene, a single interior. Costumes of the
period. Plays two hours and a quarter. Beverly Bonfoey, a high type
of Southern gentleman, loves Azalea, his mother's ward, but Raoul
Chaudet, a Canadian adventurer, to whom he has given the hospitality of
Bonfoey, steals her love. Forced to leave suddenly because of crooked
money transactions, he persuades her to elope, but this is prevented by a
wonderfully dramatic device. Beverly then challenges Raoul, who shows
the white feather and runs away, and Beverly, to save the family honor,
assumes the consequences of his swindling transactions. The untying of
this knot is the plot of a strong play with a genuine Southern atmosphere
written wholly from the Southern point of view. Royalty, $ze.oc for the
first and $5.oo for subsequent performances by the same cast.
Price, 35 cents
CHARACTERS
THE PRoloGUE, the Goddess of the South.

MADAME BonFoEY, mistress of the plantation.
AZALEA, her ward.
NANCY, Azalea's sister.
Cousin SALLIE SELLERs, from a neighboring estate.
PHOEBE, a little coquette.
MARY ROSE, Phaebe's sister.
MAM' DICEY, the house mammy.
BEveRLY BonFoEY, the young heir.
{. PENNYMINT, his uncle.
AOUL CHAUDET, a visitor from Quebec.
CAMEO CLEMM, from the city.
UNKER SHAD, a bit of old mahogany.
Beaux and Belles of Dixie.
SYNOPSIS OF SCENES
ACT I. The drawing-room of the Bonfoey Plantation in 1849.

The letter.
ACT II. The dinner party. The duel.
ACT III. An April morning, three years later. The return.
THE ORIGINAL TWO BITS

A Farce in Two Acts
By Hazel M. Robinson
written for and presented by The Invaders Club of the Zmites'
Baptist Church of Lewiston, Maine
Seven females. Scene, an interior. Plays twenty minutes. The girls
in camp receive a visit from a neighbor and have to borrow the neighbor's
own dinner in order to feed them. They almost get away with it—not
quite. Irish comedy character, eccentric aunt, rest straight.
Price, 25 cents
THE BEANTOWN CHOIR
A Farcical Entertainment in Three Acts
By Walter Ben Hare
Two men, ten women, male and female quartettes and two men for
tableaux. Scenery, unimportant, an interior if any ; costumes, modern
and eccentric. Plays a full evening. No royalty. The Widow Wood's
projects to honor the memory of Brother Botts, the former choir director
and to marry the minister both come to grief after a series of side-splitting
adventures. A riot of mere fun introducing sole and concerted music and
specialties; a frame for a musical or vaudeville entertainment. Strongly
recommended.
Arice, 35 cents
CHARACTERS
The Widow WooD, of course she would, all widows would.
BETH Wood, her stepdaughter, a real sweet girl.
HEzEKIAH DOOLITTLE, fest as ful/ of mischief as a dog is ſeas.
MRs. Do-REE-MEE SCALEs, the director of the choir, pity her/
BELINDA SNix, who orter be in grand opera, or somewheres.
TEssie TOOMs, who pianns and organs fest lovely.
SALLIE ETTA PICKLE, who takes high C fest like a cough-drop.
MANDY HAMSLINGER, her voice was cultivated on the cultivator.
BIRDIE CACKLE, a twittering birdie who sings like a lark, ersump'm.
GRANDMAw HowLER, who'd be a good singer yet, if her voice had
'a' held out.
SAMANTHA SNIGGINs, aged eight, little, but—oh, my /
BASHFUL BILL BOOMER, long on bass but short on nerve.
Male Quartet, and two Men for Tableau. }edediah Girls quartet.
WHAT ROSIE TOLD THE TAILOR

A Farce in One Act
By Edith 9. Broomhall
Seven men, three women; female characters may be played by men if
desired. Costumes, modern; scene, an interior. Plays twenty minutes.
No royalty. If Dick Manners is going to take his girl to “the game " he
simply has got to keep that spring suit that the tailor wants back unless
he has his money. How “Rosie,” Dick's man, brings this about is the
story of a very easy and effective farce, Recommended.
Price, 25 cents
CONVERTING BRUCE
A Farce in One Act
By Edith 9. Broomhall
Two men, two women. , Costumes, modern; scene, an interior. Plays
twenty minutes. No royalty. Bruce says that all girls are double faced,
saying one thing to you and another about you. His chum Jack, by an
ingenious plot, proves to him that even if this is sometimes true Peggy
Lee is an exception. A very bright, lively and entertaining farce, full of
"pep" and go. Recommended.
Arice, 2 r cents
JUST PLAIN MARY
A Comedy in Two Acts
Seven males, thirteen females. Scenes, an easy exterior and an interior.
Plays two hours. What seems to be for two thrilling acts a dark plot
against Judkins turns out to mean big money for him and big luck for
“Just Plain Mary.” Rustic eccentric character in great abundance.
A rice, 35 cents
CHARACTERS
DANIEL JUDKINS, aged 70.

#. jº...}s }
EZEKIEL JUDKINS, aged 1 -
his sons.
REv. John ANDREws, aged jo.
AUSTIN GEORGE, aged 30.
HIRAM PAISLEY, aged 45.
JoEL SANBORN, aged 13.
FRANCINE DUMont, aged 18.
NAOMI JUDKINs, aged 21 -
MARTHA JUDKINs, aged 15

RUTH JUDKINS, aged ro
#.
ghters.
MIRANDA HAWKINS, aged 4o.
LAviNIA HERSEY, aged 20.
ELECTA TARBox, aged 35.
Violet WEBSTER, aged 19.
LEILA HASTINGS, aged 20.
ETHEL WYMAN, aged 20.
EvelyN, aged 15.
ALICE, aged 15.
IRENE, aged 15.
SYNOPSIS
ACT I.—Garden of Daniel Judkins' home—a New England vil
lage. An afternoon in September.
ACT II.-Living-room in the Judkins' home. Ten days later;
evening.
CIN'M'BUNS
A Sketch in One Act
By Frances Homer Schreiner
Two males, two females. Scene, an interior. Plays twenty minutes.
Prue meets her “ideal" by accident, takes him for the new organist
and feeds him with buns, but her romance survives this mischance. All
straight characters.
Price, 25 cents
GOOD-EVENING, CLARICE
A Farce Comedy in Three Acts. By J. C. McMullen
Five males, six females. Playing time, approximately two hours.
Costumes of the present day. Scene—a single interior. Annette
Franklin, a jealous wife, has been raising a little domestic war over
her husband's supposed infatuation for a noted dancer, Clarice de
Mauree. How Annette was proven wrong in her supposition, cured
of her jealousy, and found her long lost parents, makes a comedy,
which, while easy of production, proves very effective in the pre
sentation. The part of Clarice, the dancer, gives the opportunity
for an excellent female character lead. All of the other parts are of
equal importance and the situations fairly radiate comedy and swift
moving action. This new play has already made its public début
in manuscript form, having been used with great success on the
Pacific coast. Royalty, $10.00 for the first and $5.00 for each subse
quent performance by the same cast. Professional rates will be
quoted on request.
ScENEs
Act I.--Living-room of the Franklin residence, Buffalo, N. Y.,
7 : I5 P. M.
Act II.-The same, 8:15 P. M.
Act III.-The same, 9:00 P.M.
Price, 50 cents.
HIS UNCLE'S NIECE
A Rollicking Farce in Three Acts. By Raymond W. Sargent
Six males, three females. Scenery not difficult. The plot of this
hilarious farce centres around a letter received by Francis Felton
from his Uncle Simon of Happy Valley Junction, who has always
supposed that Francis was of the opposite sex. The letter an.
nounces that the uncle has selected a husband for his niece and that
they are both on the way to New York to make final arrangements
for the wedding. In desperation, to keep up a deception started
years before by his parents, Francis assumes a female character
rôle in order to carry out a provision whereby he is to receive a
million dollar bequest from his uncle. The explanations made
necessary through this change are amusing and realistic. The
dénouement is a surprise and one that will lift the audience to its
feet with applause. You have seen Charley's Aunt on the pro
fessional stage, and here is a chance for amateurs to act in a play
that is even better suited to their requirements.
CHARACTERS
ScENES
Act I.-Interior of Francis Felton's and Richard Tate's bachelor
establishment at Boston.
Act II.-Same as Act I. Afternoon of the same day.
Act III.-Exterior of Uncle Simon's summer home at Happy
Valley Junction. Evening; three days later.
TIME: Midsummer.
Time of playing: Approximately two hours.
Price, 35 cents.
WHEN A FELLER NEEDS A FRIEND
A Farce in Three Acts
By 7. C. McMullen
Five male, five female characters. Costumes, modern; scenery, a
single easy interior. Plays a full evening. Royalty for amateurs, $10.oo
a performance. Tom Denker and Bob Mills, trying to break into New
York, have reached the point where their furniture consists of soap boxes,
their diet what they can steal from the dog's milk and the parrot's cracker,
and where one suit between them is the best they can do. How they
climbed out of these social depths and what side-splitting complications
arose from their efforts to do so form the plot of a mighty funny play
which provides ten parts of about equal opportunity and is as easy to pro
duce as it is effective. Can be strongly recommended for any use in
amateur theatricals, but especially for high school performance.
Price, 35 cents
CHARACTERS
ToM DENKER, an artist.
BoB MILLs, a magazine writer.
MRS. REESE, their landlady.
JERRY SMITH, just returned from “Over There.”
Liz, Mrs. Reese's stepdaughter.
* BING '' DICKSON, Liz's steady.
WILLIAM DENKER, 7bm's uncle.
ALICE KING, Tom's aunt.
ELAINE LYNNE, Alice King's ward.
ANGELA Scott, Bob's fiancée.
SYNOPSIS
ACT I. A room in Mrs. Reese's apartment house, Io: oo A. M.

ACT II. The same. II : oo A. M.
ACT III. The same. I2 : oo M.
TO INSURE PROMPT AND ACCURATE DE

LIVERY to us of your orders, always conform to
the recent ruling of the Post-Office Department and
address as as follows:
WALTER H. BAKER & CO.,

5 Hamilton Place,
- BOSTON 9,
MASS.
THE FIGURE 9 IS IMPORTANT as it marks
our particular Division of the Boston Postal District.
THE PLAYS OF A. W. PINERO
Price, 60 cents each
The Amazons.—Farce in Three Acts. 7 males, 5 females. Scenery,
an exterior and an interior. Time, a full evening. Royalty, $10.co.
The Cabinet Minister-Farce in Four Acts. Io males, 9 females.
Scenery, three interiors. Plays two hours and a half. Royalty, $10.00.
The Big Drum.—Comedy in Four Acts. 12 males, 5 females. Sce.
nery, three interiors. Plays a full evening. Acting rights reserved.
Dandy Dick-Farce in Three Acts. 7 males, 4 females. Scenery,
two interiors. Plays two hours and a half. Royalty, $10.o.o. . .
The Gay Lord Quex.—Comedy in Four Acts. 4 males, Io females. :
Scenery, two interiors and an exterior. Plays a full evening. - -
His House in Order.—Comedy in Four Acts. 9 males, 4 females.

Scenery, three interiors. Plays a full evening. Acting rights reserved.
The Hobby Horse.—Comedy in Three Acts. 1o males, 5 females.
Scenery, two interiors and an exterior. Royalty, $10.o.o. Plays 2%hrs.
Iris.-Drama in Five Acts. 7 males, 7 females. Scenery, three inte
riors. Plays a full evening. t
Lady Bountiful.-Play in Four Acts. 8 males, 7 females. Scenery,

ſour interiors. Plays a full evening. Royalty, $10.oo for each performance.
Letty.—Drama in Four Acts and an Epilogue. Io males, 5 females.
Scenery, complicated. Plays a full evening.
The Magistrate.-Farce in Three Acts. 12 males, 4 females. Scenery,
all interiors. Plays two hours and a half. Royalty, $10.o.o.
Mid-Channel.-Play in Four Acts, 6 males, 5 females. Scenery,
three interiors. Plays two and a half hours. Royalty, $10.o.o.
The Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith.-Drama in Four Acts. 8 males,
5 females. Scenery, all interiors. Plays a full evening.
The Profligate-Play in Four Acts. 7 males, 5 females. Scenery,
three interiors. Right of performance reserved. Plays a full evening.
The Schoolmistress-Farce in Three Acts, 9 males, 7 females.
Scenery, three interiors. Royalty, $10.oo for each performance.
The Second Mrs. Tanqueray.—Play in Four Acts, 8 males, 5.
females. Scenery, three interiors. Acts a full evening. - -
Sweet Lavender.—Comedy in Three Acts. 7 males, 4 females.

Scene, a single interior. Plays a full evening. Royalty, $10.oo.
The Thunderbolt.—Comedy in Four Acts. Io males, 9 females.
Scenery, three interiors. Plays a full evening. Acting rights reserved.
The Times.—Comedy in Four Acts. 6 males, 7 females. Scene, a
single interior. Plays a full evening. Royalty, $10.o.o.
The Weaker Sex-Comedy in Three Acts. 8 males, 8 females.
Scenery, two interiors. Plays a full evening. Royalty, $10.o.o.
A Wife Without a Smile.—Comedy in Three Acts. 5 males, 4 ſe
males. Scene, a single interior. Royalty, $10.o.o. Plays a full evening.
Costumes modern in all cases.
BAKER, Hamilton Place, Boston, Mass.
THE WILLIAM WARREN EDITION OF PLAY
Price, 25 cents each. -
As You Like It.--Comedy in Five Acts. By Wm. Shakespeare. 1,

i males, 4 females. Based on the prompt-book of Miss Julia Markowe.
Camille.—Drama in Five Acts. From the French of A. Dumas, Fils
by M. Aldrich. 9 males, 5 females. A new acting version of thi
popular play.
ste.—An original Comedy in Three Acts. By T. W. Robertson. .
males, 3 females. The famous Boston Museum prompt-book.
Ingomar.-Play in Five Acts. By M. Lovell. 13 males, 3 females
Printed from the prompt-book of Julia Marlowe, giving all her stage
busines3. - - *
London Assurance.—Comedy in Five Acts. By Dion L.

Io males, 3 females. The Boston
*:::::::
Museum version of this famo
comedy.
Macbeth.-Tragedy in Five Acts. By W. Shakespeare. 23 males,
females. The version formerly used at the old Boston Museum. -
Mary Stuart.—Tragedy in Five Acts. From the German of Schille

13 males, 4 females. Printed from the prompt-book of Mme. Modjeska.
The Merchant of Venice.—Comedy in Five Acts. By Wm. Shake
speare. 17 males, 3 females. A new acting version based on the
prompt-book of the late Henry Irving.
A Midsummer Night's Dream.–Comedy in Three Acts. By
W. Shakespeare. 13 males, io females. An arrangement of this pla
$or schools and colleges.
Much Ado About Nothing.—Comedy in Five Acts. By W.
Shakespeare. 17 males, 4 females. Arranged by Mr. Winthrop Am
Oar Boys.-Comedy in Three Acts. By H. J. Byron, 6 males, 4 fe:
males. Arranged by Frank E. Fowle.
Richelieu.-Play in Five Acts. By Sir E. B. Lytton. 15 males, 2 fe
males. This version follows closely the version of Mr. Edwin Booth.
The Rivals.-Comedy in Five Acts. By R. B. Sheridan. 9 males, 5
females. Printed from the prompt-copy used at the Boston Museum.
The School for Scandal.—Comedy in Five Acts. By R. B. Sher:
idan. 12 males, 4 females. The Boston Museum version. g
A Scrap of Fºº. in Three Acts. From the French of

Sardou by J. Palgrave, Simpson. , 6 males, 6 females. The Boston
Museum version of this delightful piece. - -
She Stoops to Conquer.—Comedy in Five Acts. By O. Goldsmith.

15 males, 4 females. Printed from the Boston Museum prompt-book.
The Silver Spoon.--Comedy in Four Acts. By J. S. Jones. 10 males,
9 females. A revised version of this old “hit” of the period before the war.
Twelfth Night or, WHAT You Will.—Comedy in Five Acts. By
Wm. Shakespeare. Io males, 3 females. A new acting version of this
comedy, based on the prompt-book of Miss Julia Marlowe.
Cºstumes of the period in all cases. Scenery usually rather elaborate.
BAKER, Hamilton Place, Boston, Mass.
aarº s Avesnº sº pºet.v. ege., tºo ºvo Nº. 18%

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Waiting at The Church

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Waiting at The Church

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This is a reproduction of a library book that was digitized

by Google as part of an ongoing effort to preserve the

| Waiting at the Church

This play is published for free performance by amateurs

MARY ELLICE BLACK, the bride.

SCENE.—A room in an Episcopal Church.

CopyRIGHT, 1923, BY FRANZ AND LILLIAN RICKABY

Professional stage and moving picture rights reserved

MARY ELLICE BLACK. The bride. A girl of the quiet

some, jolly by nature, quick witted, well dressed. He

SCENE.—A room in an Episcopal church building in a

wearing a composite expression of disappointment,

MARY. Nothing of them yet?

cided to have a wedding ceremony as elaborate as a

OLE. Ya-ah-ah. (Retiring.) I will telling him.

BEA. Thank you. We'll let you know when they

(Pause. OLE has pulled a grimy dust-rag from one

(Breaks off wondering, and goes out humming a

just gotten themselves into some kind of a foolish fix

have known they’d be gone. (Looks at his watch.) Due

DUD. (slightly nettled). Well,—pretty, then. A lot of

(Holds out his hand and closes his fingers tightly.)

Rob. But no particular reason for using the oppor:

DUD. It might have saved me something. (With

(A pause. DUDLEY glances at his watch; then speaks,

ROB. Now you're going to be personal.

(DUDLEY sighs deeply, glances at his watch, and shifts

Damn it anyhow ! I ought to break his neck! Poor

R.) I tell you now, if this scrape comes between me and

(Both watch the rear entrance. ARNOLD CARPENTER

RoB. (taking the other's hand briefly). Deane is my

smiles as the men bow.) It cert'nly was royal of ya to

RoB. No; he isn't in there now, Dud.

DUD. (in surprise). But I thought he was

DUD. If you had heard one-tenth of the things I’ve

(A door opens and slams hastily outside. Scurrying

RoB. There. He's coming in.

(OLE appears innocently at the door, rear.)

thrusts it into OLE's hand.) There; that'll help. Buy

(Indicates a position down stage. DOROTHY comes at

ROB. Good. If his daughter, I say, has of her own

folding the bill-book to resemble a small prayer book.)

(Another door slams outside. The wedding party

ably more than even a dominie could expect, and it is

CLARK. What kind of an infernal, licentious perform

that there be no discussion as to whether she has made a

Mother died; and I’ve driven my car, dawdled around

3o * WAITING AT THE CHURCH

notices.) The grain is coming ripe and we need men in

DUD. I shiver whenever I think of your doing any

MARY (looking up into DUDLEY’s eyes, with infinite

ROB. (stepping forward gladly. CLARK rises). I'm

and one of them (Bowing to BEATRICE.) is indignant.—

DUD. I know, sweetheart.

MARY. We mustn't keep him waiting any longer,

36 WAITING AT THE CHURCH

thing the matter with him, the way he dragged me

Rob. If I were to find it, might I return it?

DOR. I’m very grateful.

(She is gone. Robert stands, feeling the pocket where

Dick KENT, in the English Secret Service.

ACT I.—3: oo P. M., a Monday afternoon in June.

THE MODERN DRAMA SERIES