Jack. Dolly! Why talk to me that way? I love her. I've told her that I love her.

Dolly. You mean to marry her?

Jack. Of course.

Dolly (seizes his hand). Jack! And you'll be good to her? (Turns quickly, without waiting for answer.) We must get away from here!

Jack. Wait! Let me think. I know a place where they'll never find us.

Dolly. Where is it?

Jack. I'll take you to it. Get Belle ready.

Dolly. You're sure it's safe?

Jack. Absolutely. It might as well be in another world. (Dolly runs off Right to Belle. He paces the room, talking to himself.) I've got to give it up. I can't play with things like this. I've lost, I'll take my medicine. Only a month! Gee whiz! (With sudden realization.) Good-bye to my quarter of a million!

Bill (appears in doorway, yawning). Holy smoke! What's up?

Jack. We're going away.

Bill. Where to?

Jack. I can't tell you now.

Dolly (enters Right, supporting Belle). Come on, dear. Jack is going to take us with him.

Belle. But I'm too sick to go out.

Dolly. You must, dear.

Belle. I'm not dressed.

Jack. Get her hat and coat. Don't stop for anything else. Come on, Belle, I'll help you. We've no time to lose. (Puts arm about her and half carries her Left.)

Belle. Won't you tell me what's the matter?

Jack. I'm going to take you to some friends. (To Dolly.) We'll find a cab.

Dolly. No, they'd trace us!

Jack. Well, we can get to the subway, I suppose. (To Belle.) Dearest Belle—listen to me. I love you. And I'm going to make you well. I've been able to get money—all we need, heaps and heaps of it. And you're going to Florida. You'll be there in a few days—the very place my sister went to. Perhaps she'll go with you. So come! Come! (Exit, leading Belle.)

Dolly (hurries about, gathering Belle's wraps and her own). Where's your coat, boy?

Bill. Ain't got none. Say! What's this about Florida?

Dolly. I don't know.

Bill. Youse tryin' to cheer up Belle?

Dolly (gathering up her belongings in great haste). Maybe so.

Bill. Youse runnin' from that landlady?

Dolly. Don't ask me now.

Bill. Well, there's somethin' wrong, I know! Youse can't fool me! (Looks about.) Gee! I thought I had a home! And now I'm movin' out of it! (The lights fade slowly on the Play-play and rise on the Real-play.)

Will (in a whisper). Well?

Peggy (low). Oh, Will! That's the real stuff!

Will. You like it?

Peggy (with intensity). Yes, I do! It's real, it's true. Will, I think it'll go!

Will. You do?

Peggy. Yes, even with Broadway! It made me cry—and I'm a hardened old sinner.

Will. Oh, dearest, I'm so glad!

Peggy. I'm proud of you, Will! (Rises and puts her arms about him.) We've got a real Pot-boiler! (Sound of bell in Real-play Left. Play-play vanishes. Full light on the Real-play. A post-man's whistle off Left.)

Will. What's that?

Peggy. The post-man!

Will (leaping up). Maybe it's a check for the poem!

Peggy. Oh, yes!

Will. Where's the key to the letter-box?

Peggy (runs Right). Here, I think. (Searches about.) Here! (Brings him key.) Be quick!

Will (exit Left). I'll be quick!

Peggy (As Bill tosses and calls aloud in his sleep, goes to his bed, kneels and soothes him). Oh, my baby! My baby! You're not going to be sick! No, no, I can't stand that! Anything but that! I'll have to give it up! Will must give up trying to be a writer, and get some sort of paying job. Or I'll have to go on the stage again, and earn some real money——(Hearing Will returning, she leaps up and runs Left.) Was it the check?

Will (enters). Yes.

Peggy. For how much?

Will (in a voice of agony). Guess how much?

Peggy. Tell me!

Will. Two-fifty.

Peggy. Two-fifty!

Will. Two dollars and a half!

Peggy. Great God!

Will (furiously). How do they expect a poet to live on two dollars and a half for a poem?

Peggy (hysterically). They don't expect poets to live! They don't care anything about poets! Poets are cheap!

Will (catches her by the arm, stares at her). Peggy! Peggy! This play has got to succeed! It's got to succeed! People have got to like it!

Peggy. Oh, Will. I hope they like it! I could get them by the throats and choke them until they promise to like it! I could fall down upon my knees and beg them to like it! (To audience, with intensity.) Don't you like it? Don't you like it? Tell us that you like it! Tell us!

CURTAIN.



ACT IV.



(SCENE—The attic, the following afternoon. Scene of the Play-play is the drawing room, as in Act I.

At rise: The Real-play, showing Will busy working on his Mss., Left. Peggy Right, putting Bill to sleep.

Peggy. Now, Mr. Bill, you're going to have a nice nap.

Bill. I feel better.

Peggy. I'm so glad to hear it. And Will's most through with his play, and then he'll take you to the park.

Bill. Say, Peggy!

Peggy. Now, go to sleep.

Bill. But say!

Peggy. Well?

Bill. I think I'm hungry.

Peggy. There's nothing in the house, dear.

Bill. No bread, Peggy?

Peggy. No, but we'll get some when you wake up. (Goes Left and sits by Will. Silence, while he works over papers. He is pale and haggard; she watches him anxiously.)

Will. (Leans on hands.) Oh, dear.

Peggy. Tired, Will?

Will. I'm getting a beastly headache.

Peggy. Will, you know you oughtn't to work when your stomach has quit like this.

Will. Hang my stomach!

Peggy. But, dear—

Will. Why do authors have to have stomachs? They're never of any use.

Peggy. Listen, Will. You can't do good work when you're so tired.

Will. I can do good work! You'll see it's good. I've nearly finished the fourth act now. Come, read it—and forget about my stomach. (She moves over to him. The Play-play begins to appear.) The scene is Dad's drawing-room again. Jessie is there; she's worrying about Jack, and Bob is trying to comfort her. (Full light on Play-play.)

Bob. He's all right, Jessie. Anybody'd think he'd gone to war!

Jessie. He was never away for so long before.

Bob. Don't I seem a fairly healthy specimen, Jessie?

Jessie. I suppose so, Bob.

Bob. Well, I've done what he's doing. I've done it for a year. And I survived.

Jessie. But you knew how, Bob.

Bob. I didn't when I started.

Jessie. It snowed last night; I lay awake till daybreak worrying about him.

Bob. My dear girl, men have got snow on their clothes before this.

Jessie. He's been gone a month!

Bob. Listen, Jessie! You know there's misery and suffering in the world, don't you?

Jessie. Yes, I suppose so.

Bob. And could you wish Jack to live all his life in indifference to such things—just idle and play, and spend the wealth that other people produce for him?

Jessie. (Clenching her hands.) Oh, if he'd only come home! (The telephone rings.)

Bob. I'll answer it. (Goes to phone.) Hello. (A pause; then exclaims.) Why, what's happened? (Another pause; he turns to Jessie.) It's Jack!

Jessie (leaps up.) Jack!

Bob. Ssh. (In phone.) Yes, what's that? What's the matter? Well, I declare! Sure, Jessie's here. Yes, Dad's upstairs. No, I won't tell him. Perhaps he won't. Hey? In two minutes? All right! Bye-bye! (Turns.) He's coming home!

Jessie. Bob!

Bob. He's around at the subway station. He'll be here in two minutes.

Jessie. But what's happened?

Bob. He wouldn't say. Just says he gives up—he's coming home.

Jessie. Thank Heaven! (A pause.) But Bob! What can it mean?

Bob. It means he's lost his wager.

Jessie. I don't care! He's coming home! Jack! Jack! (She dances and claps her hands.) Oh, I'm so happy! So happy! (The light begins to rise on the Real-play-enough to reveal Bill getting up from the cot. He looks about guiltily, climbs up to a shelf after a bowl. There is a crash. Instantly the Play-play vanishes.)

Will. (Starting.) What's that?

Peggy. (Leaps up and runs Right.) Bill!

Bill. Boo-hoo-hoo!

Peggy. What's the matter?

Bill. I didn't go to do it!

Peggy. But what—

Will. Didn't you know we were busy?

Bill. I-I was hungry!

Peggy. Poor Bill! Never mind, dear! (Clasps him in her arms.) There was nothing in the bowl.

Bill. I th-thought there might b-b-be.

Peggy. Never mind! Poor little fellow! He was hungry!

Bill. I couldn't sleep, Peggy.

Peggy. All right, never mind. We won't scold you. It doesn't matter about the old bowl—we've got nothing to put in it anyway. Now, don't cry—you'll get yourself all excited. (Sound of singing heard off Right.)

Bill. Oh! There's the Beggar-kid! (Runs to window.) Say, Peggy! Can't I go down and listen to him? I won't go off the steps, and I won't talk to anybody.

Peggy. You're sure you feel well enough?

Bill. I'll feel better, Peggy. Please! Please!

Peggy. You'll truly not go off the steps?

Bill. Word of honor, Peggy!

Peggy. All right, then.

Bill. Hooray! Now, I'll get the roses in my cheeks! (exit at door Left; Peggy closes window and sound of singing stops).

Peggy. It's a crime that child isn't in the country!

Will (drawing her to table). What do you think of my fourth act?

Peggy. Why dear, it's just as I said about Act One, you need more life in the scene, more variety and color.

Will. But how can it be got?

Peggy. I told you before—you must bring in Gladys.

Will. Gladys at this stage of the play?

Peggy. Of course! You're bringing home Belle, and you want a character contrast—the daughter of the tenements and the princess of the plutocracy. Gladys is still in love with Jack, and here he's coming home with another girl!

Will. Oh, Peggy, that's so cheap!

Peggy. Wait, Will—let me work it out for you. I can show you what I mean. Let me have your pencil.

Will (groans). Go on!

Peggy. See now—it's the same scene—(begins to write, Will reading over her shoulder. Play-play begins to appear). Only Gladys is pouring tea—

Will. Isn't that just like her! Always pouring tea!

Peggy. Shut up! There's Jessie and Bob. Gladys has her very finest society manner—she wouldn't for the world let anyone think that she was excited by the telephone-message. (full light on Play-play)

Gladys. Well, Jessie, I have had a most enjoyable evening. But I must be going now.

Jessie. What? When Jack is coming?

Gladys. Oh, would Jack want to see me? Surely not! No, I must really go (rises and starts to door). Good-bye!

Will. You're not going to have her go off?

Peggy. Wait! Let me write!

Jessie (rises, runs and stops Gladys)._ No, dear! Please wait!

Gladys. What for?

Jessie. Do a favor for me, Gladys. I know Jack still loves you. I want you to stay here! I want you to hear it from his own lips. Let me hide you behind this screen (starts towards screen with her). When Jack comes in, I'll speak about you—

Will (vehemently). That won't do! (Gladys and Jessie stop.)

Peggy. Why not?

Will. It's rotten!

Peggy. But I want her to do it! (Gladys and Jessie start towards screen again.)

Will. I won't have it I say! It's undignified!

Peggy. Oh, don't be silly, Will!

Will. I say I won't have it! Let Gladys go on pouring tea! (Gladys starts towards tea table.)

Peggy. Let them hide, I say! (Gladys starts to screen.)

Will. Stop, I say! (Gladys stops, stands dazed and helpless.)

Peggy. Why can't you give me a chance to write?

Will. I can't stand it, I tell you!

Peggy. But I want to show you how it would go.

Will. I don't want to see it! I won't read such things!

Peggy. But if I'm to have Gladys at all—

Will. You can't have her! She's got no business in my play! (He leaps up in fury.) To hell with her, I say—to hell with her! (Gladys turns and flees off with a scream; the Play-play fades.)

Peggy. Will, dear, why must you be so unreasonable?

Will. Now see, do you want to read what I've written, or don't you?

Peggy. Yes, dear, of course.

Will. Well then, drop this tomfoolery and go on!

Peggy (resignedly). All right, I'll do it.

Will. We've got that scene to finish. I've got a climax that isn't bad, I think. Jessie and Bob have just had the telephone-message. (Light begins to rise on the Play-play.) Jessie's dancing with happiness, but suddenly the thought comes to her, What will Dad say? (Full light on Play-play; Peggy and Will make secret exit.)

Jessie (in distress). Bob, do you suppose Dad will take Jack's money from him?

Bob. I don't know. It'll all depend.

Jessie. Oh, we mustn't allow it! It would be wicked! You go upstairs, Bob, and stay with Dad until I can find out what's happened.

Bob (rises). A good idea!

Jessie. Maybe I'll have to hide Jack until we can break the news. (As she speaks Dad appears in the doorway behind her.) You see, Bob, we must handle him carefully—he's an old man and he's liable to fly off, and we can't tell what he might do in a sudden rage. He's not really responsible, you know.

Dad (stepping forward). What's this?

Jessie (starting). Oh, Dad!

Dad. What's this you're trying to keep from me?

Jessie. Why—it wasn't from you, Dad.

Dad. Who was it from, hey? Answer me!

Jessie. Why—Dad—

Dad (raging). So I'm not really responsible! You have to handle me carefully, do you? What is it? Out with it.

Jessie. Why Dad—it's nothing—

Dad. I know better. Out with it!

Bob. Really, Dad—

Dad. Answer me!

Jessie. Why Dad—it's only that I've spent some money.

Dad. Spent some money!

Jessie. I've been buying clothes, and I was afraid when you saw the bills—

Dad. Where are the bills?

Jessie. I'll show them to you.

Dad. Where are they?

Jessie. Upstairs. Please don't scold me too much, Dad. (Starts to lead him off.) You see, I didn't realize at the time—

Dad. I know. That's always the way with my children. They never realize anything!

Jessie. It isn't so bad—(The front door bell rings, she starts.) Oh!

Dad. What's the matter?

Jessie. Nothing. Come on!

Dad. Wait till I see what this is.

Jessie. It's nothing, Dad.

Dad. How do you know it's nothing?

Jessie. I want to show you the bills.

Dad. Well, wait just a moment. The bills won't run away.

Jessie (aside to Bob). Lost!

Dad. Why, what's that? Isn't that Jack's voice? Why-why-good God! (Jack appears in doorway, with Belle on His arm, Dolly and Bill behind him. All stare.)

Jack (staggers to chair with Belle). Excuse me, please. (He proceeds to loosen Belle's coat, tears away her collar. She is half fainting.) Get me a glass of wine! Quick! (Bob obeys.) A fan, somebody! (Jessie seizes a newspaper and hands it to him. Dolly kneels at Belle's other side.) She'll be all right in a moment—she's exhausted. Ah! Better? (He rises and speaks swiftly, intensely.) You see what's the matter. The girl is ill; she's nearly dying. I had to get help for her. (To Bob.) You must excuse me, old man. I had to give up the wager. This was too much for me. You see—(Hesitates.) I guess you were right. I ran into the reality of life, and it floored me. You may kid me all you please, I'll take my medicine. But there was this girl—I had to come back, you see. (To Dad.) Excuse me, Dad, for making such a mess of it. But I couldn't punish this girl for my sins. I had to give up my quarter of a million, and save her life.

Dad. What's the matter with the girl?

Jack. She's been worked to death. Standing on her feet in a restaurant fourteen hours a day.

Jessie. Oh!

Jack. And you see, Jessie—I remembered how you'd gone to Florida and got well. (To the others.) Look at the difference! Look at the contrast between them. That was what knocked me out—I couldn't get away from it. I've got to send this girl to Florida and give her the same chance that Jessie had.

Jessie. Who is she?

Jack. She was a waitress. She helped me when I was starving. And now I have to help her. She's as good as gold, Jessie, and you must be kind to her. It wasn't fair that she should die, just because I'd been an idler, a good for nothing! Bob—you'll be satisfied when you know what a lesson I've had. You can't imagine how I feel, coming out of it—it's like escaping from a nightmare! I can't quite believe it's over. (He stands staring before him). And then I think—I've brought her out with me, but how many others I left behind me! Tens of thousands of others, down there in a pit! Belle, look at me! It was a bad dream, and now it's over! Here's my sister—see! She was as sick as you, and now, how well she is! Look at her cheeks—touch her—take her hand. And you shall be like that, you shall start for Florida right away! Can't you believe it, Dolly?

Dolly. It seems to me we've got some explanation coming to us, Jack.

Jack. Oh, I forgot. This is my sister. This is Dolly, Belle's sister, and this is Bill—a little news-boy who helped me when I was down and out.

Bill. Good evenin', ladies and gents.

Dolly. It was some kind of joke you played on us, Jack?

Jack. It was a wager I had made. I went out to shift for myself and see how I'd get along. I wasn't playing any joke on you, Dolly.

Dolly. It was a pretty poor joke on Belle, I think.

Jack. How do you mean?

Dolly. You promised you'd marry her!

Dad. What!

Jessie. Marry her!

Dolly. That's what he told her. Didn't you, Jack?

Jack. Why—I—

Dolly. It's all right, Jack—since's we've caught on in time.

Jack. No, no, don't misunderstand me. It was just that I didn't want to tell my family just yet.

Dad (starting forward). Why, you infernal jackass!

Jack. Dad—

Dad. You have the impudence to come here and tell me that you promised to marry a waitress in a restaurant!

_Jack. Yes, Dad—-

Dad (raging). Are you mad? When you've just proven that you can't earn enough to fill your own belly? You come here whining for forgiveness, and then tell me you'll marry a girl of the streets—

Jessie. Dad! Stop!

Dolly. Excuse me, Jack—we'll get out of this. (Rises.)

Jessie. No—wait! Please, Dad—

Dad. Let her go! There's no place for her here.

Dolly. Come, Belle, (Lifts her.)

Jessie (Hysterically). Dad, how can you be so cruel?

Dad. Keep out of this, Jessie.

Jack. If they go, I go too, Dad.

Dad. Go, and good riddance to you.

Jack. If I go, I'll never return.

Dad. Has anybody asked you to?

Bob. Wait a minute, Dad.

Dad. Let me alone, Bob. I'll attend to this.

Jessie (rushing to Jack). Jack! Jack! Wait!

Dolly. Come on, Belle! This is no place for us!

Jack. I'll take her myself. (Exits left with Belle).

Jessie. Jack! Dad doesn't know what he's saying!

Dad. Who says I don't know what I'm saying? Who says I'm not responsible for my own acts? Who says I have to be handled carefully? I'll have you all understand—

Jessie (clutching Dad). Don't you see the girl's nearly dead?

Bill. I'll get out too (To Dad.) Say Mister—(Dad stares at him). You're worse'n my stepfather! (Exit with Dolly).

Jessie (hysterically). Dad! Dad! I beg you—have mercy. (Flings herself sobing upon him).

Bob. Really, Dad, you're treating him pretty badly!

Dad. I haven't asked your opinion, sir!

Bob. Well, I guess I'll go with him!

Dad. As you please, sir! (Bob exit. The Play-play begins to fade).

Will (in low voice). That's as far as I've done. (A pause.) It's near the end. What do you think of it?

Pegyy. Why, Will, you know what I told you before—

Will (in a voice of despair). That it's all wrong! That I don't know how to write a play. That I've got to do it all over!

Peggy. I never said that, Will. But I told you that you couldn't put an audience through all those harrowing adventures, and then pile an unhappy ending on top. You simply can't get away with such a proposition.

Will. But surely, I can't have this play end happily!

Peggy. Where's the law to prevent you?

Will. The law of truth prevents me.

Peggy. What do you mean? Couldn't Dad forgive Jack?

Will. No!

Peggy. Why not?

Will. Because Dad hasn't forgiven me.

Peggy. But Will, there are plenty of other Dads—and they aren't all so heartless. You'll simply have to choose another father for this play. You can't write for your own satisfaction—you've got to think about the box-office.

Will (leaping up and flinging out his hands). Oh, my God! The box-office! Have I got to slaughter my artistic instincts to feed the greed of a box-office? For God's sake, Peggy, take this play and write it to suit the taste of Broadway! Or shall I tear up the darned stuff? (Seizes Mss.)

Peggy (interfering). Will!

Will. I've got a play written, and you come and tell me to write another. And when I take it to the manager, he'll tell me to write a third. And his wife will read it, and I'll have to write a fourth! And then there's the stage-manager—perhaps he has a wife too! Who else, for the love of Mike?

Peggy (laughing). Why there's the star, and the leading lady—in this case you've got two actresses fighting for precedence, tearing each other's eyes out over the question of dressing-rooms. Then there's the press agent and the property-man, and the dramatic editors of a dozen newspapers, who'll tell you next morning exactly why your play fell flat. (Puts her arms about him.) Will, dear, don't be so impatient. Try to understand what I mean! Such a frightfully depressing ending—everybody in the play has lost everything!

Will. But that isn't so!

Peggy. Jack has lost his wager, and his quarter of a million dollars—and his home!

Will. But see what he's gained.

Peggy. What?

Will. In the first place wisdom, and in the second a wife.

Peggy. Few people in the audience know anything about wisdom, and everyone of them knows that he could buy a wife for less than a quarter of a million dollars.

Will. That's all very well—for a funny line. But there's many a man would give that much money to find a noble-hearted and faithful and loving woman, who would stand by him through all the trials of his life! I gave up more than a quarter of a million myself, and do you suppose it ever occurs to me to regret the bargain? Do you suppose I'd be willing to wipe you and Bill out of existence if I could get my money back?

Peggy (lays her hand, on his). Will, dear, that's very sweet of you, but it's not the same in your play. In the first place, Bill isn't Jack's child; and then Belle is dying. You see, you've told such a dreadful story—

Will (irritably). Don't tell me that all over again!

Peggy. Forgive me! You've got a headache, and you're worn out—we oughtn't to try to argue now. You simply can't get this play right while you're so over-wrought. Take a little time off, and rest and get a fresh view of it.

Will. But we'll starve to death in the meantime!

Peggy. No, dear, we needn't. Let me go and get a job to tide us over the trouble. So you can do your work without killing yourself— please, dear, please!

Will (in thought). Listen, Peggy. If we're going to make a break, I've thought of something better.

Peggy. What is it?

Will. I'll go and see Dad.

Peggy. Oh, Will, you couldn't do that!

Will. I've been thinking about it for the last three days. You see, putting him in the play has brought him back to my thoughts. I've shown him harsh and narrow—but still I realize that I love him. Perhaps he can't help it if he has a bad temper; and if he's stubborn—well, I've been as stubborn as he. I've waited all these years for him to come; and may be it was my place to make the first move. Now he's old—he can't last much longer; and if he died, I'd be sorry all my life that I hadn't been more generous to him. It isn't his money—after all, he's my father. If I have to humble myself somewhere, perhaps I ought to give him the first chance. (A pause.) What do you think?

Peggy. I don't know, Will. It couldn't do any harm, I suppose. (A pause).

Bill (pounds suddenly on door Left). Let me in!

Peggy (leaps up). What's the matter?

Bill (rushes in). Oh! Oh!

Will and Peggy. What is it?

Bill. A man tried to kidnap me!

Will and Peggy. What?

Bill. Tried to—to take me away!

Peggy. Bill!

Bill. An old man—in an automobile!

Will. You don't mean it, Bill?

Bill. He got out and asked my name. Then he asked me if I'd like to go for a ride. I remembered what you'd told me about kidnappers. So I ran upstairs.

Peggy (staring at Will). Do you suppose it could be—

Will. I'll go and see. (The bell rings Left; He stops).

Bill. It's the old man! He's after me! (Shrinks behind, Peggy).

Will. We'll see. (Opens door. Dad stands in entrance).

Bill (whispers). The old man!

Dad (enters without a word; looks about). Well, young fellow! So this is where you live!

Will (in a low voice). Yes, Dad.

Dad. And this is the woman?

Will. Yes, Dad.

Dad. And the boy?

Will. Yes, Dad.

Dad. Humph! (A pause.) Did it never occur to you I might like to see my grandson?

Will. I—I didn't know, Dad. (A pause).

Dad (in a breaking voice). Well, now you've forced me to humble myself, what have you got to say to me?

Will (starting). Oh, Dad! Forgive me!

(Seizes his hands). Dad, I'm ashamed of myself! I was coming to you to-day. Honestly I was!

Dad (returning to his gruff manner). Well, young fellow, I'm glad to hear you've learned a little sense, at least! How've you been making out? Not very well, I judge.

Will. Not at all well, Dad.

Dad. Humph! Too proud to tell me, hey? The woman looks pale; and the child too. (To Bill.) Come here, youngster. So this is my grandson! (To Will.) It's all very well for you to make war on your old father and break his pride; but you'd no right to use your child like this. (Looks at Mss. on table.) What's this!

Peggy. It's Will's manuscript. A play.

Dad. So that's what he is doing, instead of taking care of his wife and child? (Punches Mss. with his cane and scatters it in every direction over the floor).

Will. Oh!

Peggy. Don't do that! We have so much trouble keeping it straight anyway. (Gathers up Mss. and replaces it on table).

Dad. What's in the thing? Let me look at it. (Starts to examine it).

Peggy (in sudden alarm). No, no!

Dad. Hey? Why not?

Peggy. Not yet. Wait—Will has to revise it. You see—(She laughs.) He's got his local color wrong again.

Dad (gazing from one to the other). What's the joke?

Peggy. You see, Dad—Will's been having a hard time, and it's made him pessimistic. He's written a play, and he was ruining it with an unhappy ending. But now—oh, now it has a happy ending! It'll be a success! (Rushes to Will.) Oh, Will, I see just how it goes! I've got the very words! Let me write them, while they're fresh in my mind! (Runs to table, takes pencil and paper.)

Dad. But what—

Peggy. Wait! Wait! Excuse us, please! It's so important! Here, Bill—take your grandfather! Take him up on the roof and let him see the view! Take him downstairs and let the beggar-kid sing for him! I want just ten minutes to get this down! (Pushes Dad and Bill off Left.) Just ten minutes, please! (Shuts them out.) Now, Will, come here! You see how it is now! Dad has relented, your happy ending is all ready made! You're not making any concession to the box-office—you're simply following truth—the natural human instincts of a father, who loves his son, in spite of all his mistakes and his own bad temper! He orders him out—but all the time his heart is breaking—he's eager for an excuse to relent. Oh, Will, you must see that!

Will (reluctantly). Yes, I suppose so.

Peggy. All right then! We go back to your scene in Dad's drawing-room—just after Jack has carried Belle out. (Play-play begins to appear.) Dad stands there, with Jessie clinging to him, weeping, imploring. And Bob is trying to argue with him. Dad doesn't answer at first—wait, I'll write the scene! (Full light on Play-play. Will makes secret exit.)

Bob. Dad, listen to reason now! Don't make this dreadful mistake. Jack has had his lesson. Can't you see he's had it—the very thing we all wanted for him? He's learned something about the reality of life!

Jessie (to Bob). Make Jack wait! Don't let him go away! Hurry! (Bob exit.) Dad, you must forgive him! That's a good girl he's brought here—can't you see that? And she's ill—she's as ill as I was! Don't you remember how you worried about me? You aren't really cruel, Dad—

Dad. I don't want to be cruel. But I won't have him—

Jessie. You must forgive him, Dad! (Jack appears in doorway, with Bob, Dolly and Bill behind him.) Jack! Come ask him to forgive you! He's your father! You must do it, to save the girl's life!

Jack (advances). Don't misunderstand me, Dad. I don't ask for the money. I've lost my claim to it, I don't care what you do with it. But I must save this girl! Don't you see what's happened to me? Don't you see what I've gained by my adventure?

Dad. What have you gained?

Jack. In the first place wisdom! In the second a wife—a noble-hearted and faithful and loving woman, who will stand by me through all the trials of my life! Isn't that worth more than a quarter of a million dollars? Answer me, Dad—(Stretches out his arms to him.) Oh, Dad, isn't it so?

Dad (gruffly). Well, young fellow, I'm glad to hear you've learned a little sense, at least! (He embraces Jack.)

Peggy (leaping to her feet and pointing to the Play-play scene). There! There! There's your happy ending! There's your Pot-boiler!

CURTAIN.



POSTSCRIPT



In connection with this play there is a story which should be told, for reasons which will be revealed in the telling.

"The Pot-boiler" was written in 1912, and entered for copyright in February, 1913. I took the manuscript to a friend, Edwin Bjorkman, editor of the "Modern Drama Series," and the most widely read student of dramatic literature known to me; also to Edgar Selwyn and Margaret Mayo, who knew thoroughly the contemporary stage. These friends confirmed me in my belief that I had hit upon that rare phenomenon—an entirely new idea to the stage. There are many examples of the "play within a play," but up to that time there had never been a play which showed the WRITING of a play: the processes which go on in the mind of a playwright, and how he uses his personal experiences in his work.

"The Pot-boiler" was accepted for production by William Harris, Jr., at the Hudson Theatre, New York. After many delays, Mr. Harris came to the conclusion that the play needed some rewriting to give it that "punch" which is essential to production in the neighborhood of Broadway. He sought to interest a certain well-known playwright, who will be here designated as Mr. X, in the idea of collaborating with me on the play. Mr. X read the manuscript and offered to collaborate on condition that two changes should be made: first, the play should be changed from a "shirt-sleeve play" to a "dress-suit play"—that is, the characters should be rich people; and second, the last act should be located in a manager's office, and show the acceptance of the play. As I did not care for these suggestions, Mr. X dropped the matter, and Mr. Harris allowed his rights in the play to lapse.

A year or so later, happening into Mr. Harris' office in the Hudson Theatre, he asked me with a smile, "Have you seen your play?" And when I asked what he meant, he added. "They have put it on downstairs." Needless to say, I purchased a ticket for the performance, and saw a play which differed from my play in two essentials—these being precisely the modifications which Mr. X had tried to persuade me to make!

The new play was announced as the work of two playrights, whom I will indicate as Smith and Brown; it was produced by a firm of managers, whom I will indicate as Jones and Robinson. I went to see Messrs. Jones and Robinson, who assured me they had never even heard of my play. While I was in the office, Mr. Smith, one of the playwrights, sought an interview with me, and assured me that he also had never heard of my play, his work was absolutely original. I gave him the names of various persons who had read my play, including Mr. X; and Mr. Smith assured me earnestly that he was a stranger to all of them. I accepted his statement; but as I was on my way out of the office of Messrs. Jones and Robinson, I beheld the name of Mr. X printed upon one of the doors of their private rooms, and upon inquiry I learned that Mr. X was employed on a regular salary as a play-reviser for this firm!

I went away pondering the situation. What I was asked to believe was as follows: Mr. Smith had composed a play having all the essential features of my new and original play, and differing only in the two modifications—these being the very same two modifications which Mr. X had urged me to make in my play. Mr. Smith had taken this play to the firm which employed Mr. X, and this firm had accepted the play and produced it, without Mr. X, their chief play-reviser, ever seeing it—or else without his mentioning that it was my play, with the two modifications in my play which he had recommended. The play had been taken to the Hudson Theatre, owned by William Harris, Jr., who had accepted my play and submitted it to Mr. X, and the play had actually been produced at this theatre for nearly a week without either authors or managers ever hearing of my play!

I may be unduly suspicious, but I could not credit this peculiar chain of coincidences. I took the matter to the Author's League, whose executive committee read my play, saw the other play, and agreed that I had cause for inquiry. Mr. Louis Joseph Vance, representing the league, undertook to interview Mr. X, who was an intimate friend of his, and sent Mr. X a telegram asking for an appointment. Mr. X did not answer. Mr. Vance assured me that this was the first time the gentleman had ever failed to reply to such a request from him. Subsequently, Mr. Vance made an appointment to meet Mr. X at luncheon, and hear his explanation of the matter; but Mr. X failed to keep the appointment. I went ahead with plans for a law-suit, whereupon Messrs. Jones and Robinson withdrew their play.

My reasons for telling the story are two. First, I think it well that would-be playwrights should have some idea what they may encounter when they venture into the jungles of Broadway; and second, because critics and play-goers who saw the play of Smith and Brown will wish to know which play was written first.

THE END