The Show-Off (Kelly 1924)/Act II

Scene: Same as preceding Act, six months later, about five-thirty on a Monday afternoon. Mrs. Fisher is sitting in the arm-chair below the buffet, over at the right, listening in on the radio. Suddenly the front-door closes with a bang, and she starts, and looks in the direction of the hall-door. Aubrey bounces into the room, very much done up, with the traditional carnation, as usual, and comes forward, putting his hat down on the table.

Aubrey. Hello, Mother—Amy here? [He steps to the mirror at the back and gives himself a critical touch here and there.]

Mrs. Fisher [Commencing to remove the listeners]. Our Amy?

Aubrey. Yes, have you seen anything of her?

Mrs. Fisher [Rising]. No, I haven’t seen anything of her. [She places the listeners on the buffet, and signs off.]

Aubrey [Turning from the glass]. Wonder where she is?

Mrs. Fisher. Isn’t she home?

Aubrey. No, I just came by there.

Mrs. Fisher [Picking up her knitting-bag from the buffet]. She hasn’t been here today.

Aubrey. She was saying this morning she thought she’d go out looking for a house today; I suppose she hasn’t got back yet. [He gives the chair at the left of the center-table a double tap with his cane as he crosses down to the window at the left.] I wanted to take her out to the Automobile Show tonight; I got the loan of Harry Albright’s car.

Mrs. Fisher [Moving to the chair at the right of the center-table]. Did you say she was out lookin’ for a house?

Aubrey [Moving back, towards her]. Yes, we’ve got to get ​out of that place we’re in. The LePage printing people have bought the whole block: they’re going to put up a new building there.

Mrs. Fisher [Standing with her hand on the back of the chair]. How soon do you have to get out?

Aubrey. Soon as we can find a place, I suppose. I understand they want to begin tearing down there about the first of the year.

Mrs. Fisher. I’m afraid you won’t find it so easy to get a place as reasonable as that again in a hurry. [She sits down.]

Aubrey. I don’t want a place as reasonable as that, if I can get something better. [He plants himself at the left of the table and looks away off, with a dreamy narrowing of his eyes, and balancing himself on his toes.] I want a home—something with a bit of ground around it—where I can do a bit of tennis in the evening—[He makes a couple of leisurely passes at an imaginary tennis-ball] if I feel like it.

Mrs. Fisher [Beginning to knit on a green sweater]. Well, if you do you’ll pay for it.

Aubrey. That is exactly what I expect to do, Mother Fisher, not giving you a short answer,—that is exactly what I expect to do. [He gives the table a double tap with the cane.] But, I want what I’m paying for, I’ll tell you that. No more of the old first-of-the-month business for this bambino. He’s all washed up, and signed on the dotted line. [He moves up to the mirror at the back.]

Mrs. Fisher. They’re not puttin’ up any more houses, from what I can hear.

Aubrey. Be yourself, now, Mother Fisher, be yourself.

Mrs. Fisher. Well, where are they?

Aubrey. You ought to go out along the Boulevard some Sunday,—see what they’re doing out there.

Mrs. Fisher. Well, there’s no danger of you goin’ out along the Boulevard, except for a walk.

​Aubrey [Moving to the hall-door and glancing out into the hallway]. Lot of people out that way, Mother.

Mrs. Fisher. Well, if there is they’re payin’ more than you’re able to pay.

Aubrey. Man’s got to live somewhere, Mother. [He swings forward to the window down at the left, and stands whistling to the canary.]

Mrs. Fisher. Well, if he’s wise, he’ll live where he’s able to pay for it;—unless he wants to be breakin’ up half a dozen times a year—like a lot of them are doin’. Makin’ a big show. Buyin’ ten thousand dollar houses, and puttin’ fifty dollars down on them. [He turns to her.] Besides, you haven’t got any furniture for a house, even if you got one—unless you want to be sittin’ on the floor.

Aubrey. The matter of furniture nowadays, Little Mother, is a very inconsequential item, from what I can gather.

Mrs. Fisher. You ought to price it sometime when you’re in the city, and see how unconsequent it is.

Aubrey [Settling himself for a golf shot, using his cane for a club]. I’ve investigated the matter very thoroughly, Mrs. Fisher, and I find that there are at least fifteen first-class establishments right here in this city that will furnish a man’s house from garret to garage, and give him the rest of his life to pay for it. [He hits the imaginary golf-ball, and pretends to follow it straight out with his eyes.]

Mrs. Fisher. They’d need to give some of them the rest of their lives, at the rate they’re goin’ now.

Aubrey. Give the growing boy a chance, Mrs. Fisher, give the growing boy a chance. You know what Mr. L. D. Brophy of the American Can Company said in the September number of the American Magazine, don’t you?

Mrs. Fisher. No, I don’t.

Aubrey. Well, I’ll tell you. [Mrs. Fisher shifts her knitting, ​giving him a wearied glance.] He said, “I would say, to that innumerable host of young men, standing on the threshold of life, uncertain, and, mayhap, dismayed—as they contemplate the stress of modern industrial competition, ‘Rome was not built in a day’.” Those were his very words, I wouldn’t kid you, and I think the old boy’s got it right, if you ask me. [He moves up to the hall-door again and glances out.]

Mrs. Fisher. What are you goin’ out to the Automobile Show for?

Aubrey [Turning and coming forward again]. Repeat the question, Mrs. Fisher, if you please.

Mrs. Fisher. I say, what are you goin’ out to the Automobile Show for?

Aubrey [Coming to a point above the center-table]. Ha! Married five months ago today, Mother; got to celebrate the happy event. Besides, one never knows what a day will bring, in the way of an opportunity to satisfy a long-felt want. And since she knocks but once—[He taps his cane on the table, causing Mrs. Fisher to start slightly.] at each man’s door, the kid here doesn’t want to miss his chance by any uncertainty as to just what choo-choo he prefers. [Mrs. Fisher turns with an annoyed expression, to find him pointing at her with his forefinger and thumb. He laughs at her annoyance.] Well, got to run along now, Mother, and see if Amy’s back at the house yet. [He picks up his hat from the table and starts for the hall-door.]

Mrs. Fisher. What’ll I’ll tell her if she comes here after you’re gone?

Aubrey [Stopping at the door]. Why, tell her I’ve got the loan of Harry Albright’s car, and I want her to see that new Jordan Six that I was telling her about, out at the Show. And that I’ll be at Childs’ at Fifteenth and Chestnut until eight o’clock. [He looks at his Ingersoll.]

Mrs. Fisher. Fifteenth and Chestnut?

​Aubrey. That’s the said and done, Mother. [He laughs boisterously.] The old Café Infanté. [He laughs again.] Olive oil, Mother. [He goes out the hall-door, breaking into another laugh, and in a second the front-door closes with a bang, causing Mrs. Fisher to start again, and look irritatedly toward the hall-door. Then she resumes her knitting. The parlor-door opens and Amy drifts in, and starts across towards the chair at the left of the table.]

Amy. Hello! [Mrs. Fisher starts again.]

Mrs. Fisher. Oh, you frightened me, Amy—walkin’ in that way like a ghost! When did yon come in?

Amy [Sitting down, with a wearied air.] A couple of minutes ago—I’ve been in the parlor.

Mrs. Fisher. Why, your man just left here, didn’t you see him?

Amy. No, I heard him when I came in—I went in the parlor.

Mrs. Fisher. He’s lookin’ for you—He sez he wants you to go to some kind of an Automobile Show with him.

Amy. I know; I don’t want to go; I’m too tired.

Mrs. Fisher. What’s he doin’ about his supper?

Amy. I told him this morning to get something in town; I knew I wouldn’t be home till late. [Mrs. Fisher resumes her knitting; and there is a slight pause.]

Mrs. Fisher. He sez you’ve got to get out of that place you’re in.

Amy. Yes, they’re going to tear those houses down. That’s what I was doing today—looking around for someplace.

Mrs. Fisher. Did you see anything?

Amy. I saw a couple of places that were fair, but they want too much money.

Mrs. Fisher. I’m afraid that’s what you’ll find, Amy, wherever you go.

Amy. Thirty-eight dollars a month—for a little two-story house—that didn’t even have a front porch.

​Mrs. Fisher. Well, you’re surely not lookin’ for a house, Amy, are you?

Amy. Yes, if I can find one.

Mrs. Fisher. And have you any idea what they’re askin’ for houses these days?

Amy. Well, Aubrey sez he will not live in rooms any longer.

Mrs. Fisher. What the devil does it matter what he sez! He don’t know what he’s sayin’ half the time, anyway. It’s you that has to stretch the money, and it’ll only go so far; and the money that he gets won’t cover any forty-dollar rents, you can make up your mind to that right now, before you go any further. And that’s what you’ll be asked to pay, Amy, remember I’m tellin’ you.

Amy. He doesn’t want to pay rent—he wants to buy.

Mrs. Fisher. What on, thirty-two dollars a week?

Amy. He sez he can put it into a new building society that he heard about, over in Frankford.

Mrs. Fisher. Wouldn’t he have to pay the building society?

Amy. Well, he wouldn’t have to pay it all at once.

Mrs. Fisher. There’d be more onces than he’d be able to meet. I thought you had a little sense, but you’re nearly as bad as him.

Amy. No, but you talk awfully silly, Mother; you’d think everybody that was married was living out in the street.

Mrs. Fisher. That’s where a good many of them would be livin’, Amy, only that somebody belongin’ to them is givin’ them a hand. Money’ll only go so far, and I’ve been keepin’ house too long not to know just how far that far is. Nobody can tell me.

Amy. There was a girl down in our office that was married, just before I was married, and the fellow she married didn’t even get as much money as Aubrey gets; he got about twenty-five a week—he was a guard in the Corn Exchange Bank; and ​they bought a house, out in Kensington, and they say it’s beautiful.

Mrs. Fisher. She’s back at her job, though, isn’t she?

Amy [With reluctant admission]. She never left her job.

Mrs. Fisher. Well,—that’s how she’s doin’ it. You told me yourself there were five girls in your office that have married within the last two years. Do you think they’re hanging over books nine hours a day because they like it? And you haven’t got any furniture even if you got a house.

Amy. Oh, you can always get furniture.

Mrs. Fisher. You can if you pay for it. And I don’t know how you expect to do all these wonders later on, when you find it so hard to make ends meet now, with only the rent of two rooms to pay for. You’re everlastin’ borrowin’ from me as it is.

Amy. I always pay you, don’t I?

Mrs. Fisher. You do when you get it. But, that’s not the point, Amy; it’s that what you get one week don’t last you till the next.

Amy. The reason I was short last week, Aubrey bought that new overcoat.

Mrs. Fisher. And next week it’ll be something else.

Amy. Well, a man can’t be shabby, Mom, in a position like Aubrey’s. He sez he’s got nearly eighty clerks down there in his department; and he sez unless he sets some kind of an example of personal appearance, he sez there are some of them down there that’d come in in overalls.

Mrs. Fisher [Laying her knitting on the table and looking keenly at Amy]. How is it, Amy, that a girl like you—that was smart enough to keep books, has so little sense when it comes to what some man tells you? [Amy looks at her Mother steadily.]

Amy. Who do you mean, Aubrey?

Mrs. Fisher. Yes.

​Amy. Why, what does he tell me that I have so little sense about?

Mrs. Fisher. That he has eighty clerks under him.

Amy. So he has.

Mrs. Fisher. And gets thirty-two dollars a week?

Amy. He gets thirty-two fifty. [Mrs. Fisher resumes her knitting, shaking her head hopelessly.] Well now, Mom, you know yourself what the Pennsylvania Railroad pays its men.

Mrs. Fisher. I don’t know what anybody pays anybody.

Amy. Well, the Pennsylvania Railroad is notorious. Aubrey sez that only that a couple of things haven’t panned out just right with him, he’d have left them long ago. He sez they just try to break your spirit. He sez that’s one of the main reasons why he pays so much attention to his clothes.—He sez he just wouldn’t please them.

Mrs. Fisher. How much did he pay for that overcoat?

Amy. Twenty-eight dollars. [Mrs. Fisher raises her eyes to Heaven.] Oh, he didn’t have to pay it all at once; the man said on account of it being so near Christmas he could let it go till the first of February.

Mrs. Fisher. I guess he’ll be wantin’ a suit, now, the first you know, to go with the overcoat.

Amy. No, his suit’s all right,—yet a while. But this suit of mine is beginning to go; I’ve worn it till I’m tired looking at it.

Mrs. Fisher. People can’t get things so handy once they’re married.

Amy. I thought I’d be able to put something away out of this week, toward a suit; but I don’t know where the money went to:—it just seemed to go. Honestly, I had exactly twelve cents in my purse when Aubrey gave me his pay.

Mrs. Fisher. I don’t know what’ll become of you, Amy, if ever you have a houseful of children to keep. [Amy sits looking at nothing, with a rather troubled expression about the eyes, and ​her Mother continues to knit. Suddenly Amy bursts into tears. Mrs. Fisher looks at her: then she gets up quietly, laying her knitting on the table, and crosses in front of the table to her—and lays her hand on her arm.] Now, there’s no use a startin’ that kind a thing, now, Amy; for it won’t do you a bit of good. [She continues across.]

Amy. I don’t know what I’m going to do, Mom—I’m nearly crazy.

Mrs. Fisher [Turning]. I’ll tell yon what you’re goin’ to do, Amy, if you’re a wise woman—You’re goin’ to realize that you’re married; and that you’ve got some kind of a house to keep up; and just how much money you’re goin’ to get each week to keep it up on; and then suit your ideas accordin’. And if you don’t, you’ll have plenty of cryin’ to do. And you’ll have nobody to thank but yourself, for you had nothing but impudence for them that tried to tell you—how many beans made five. [The front-door is heard to close.] I guess this is your Father. Go into the parlor there, and don’t let him see you cryin’. [Amy rises and steps quickly across and thru the parlor-doors at the left into the parlor; and Mrs. Fisher crosses above the center-table to the buffet and puts her knitting into one of the drawers. Clara appears in the hall-door.]

Clara. What’s the matter? [Mrs. Fisher turns and looks at her.]

Mrs. Fisher. There’s nothing at all the matter.

Clara. What did Joe telephone me for?

Mrs. Fisher. Our Joe, do you mean?

Clara. Yes; Bertha said he telephoned the house about four o’clock and told her to tell me to come right over home as soon as I came in.

Mrs. Fisher. Well, I’m sure I don’t know what he’d want you for, Clara; he didn’t leave any word with me for you this morning.

​Clara [Coming forward towards the center-table]. I was over paying my Electric, and just got back; so I came right over; I thought maybe something was wrong here, and he was calling from next door.

Mrs. Fisher. No, he hasn’t been home here today. [Clara puzzles for a second, then tosses her purse onto the table.]

Clara. I wonder what he wanted me for. [She turns to the mirror at the back and touches her hat.]

Mrs. Fisher. Is that girl at your house sure it was our Joe?

Clara [Coming back to the table]. She said it was; and I suppose she knows his voice,—she’s often answered the ’phone when he’s called. [She picks up a book from the table and glances casually at it.]

Mrs. Fisher. Well, maybe he wants to see you about something; I’d wait a while; he’ll be here at six.

Clara [Looking suddenly at her Mother]. Maybe he’s heard some news about that formula that those people are interested in.

Mrs. Fisher [Coming over to the table]. Oh, I guess he’ll be an old man before he ever hears anything from that. [She folds and settles various things on the table, and Clara glances through the book. Then, as she moves over to settle the upper left-hand corner of the table-cover, she gives Clara a little push.] Look out of my way, Clara, till I fix this cloth. [Clara just moves without looking up from the book.] That’s a book Joe brought home last night: about that woman that was left up on the North Pole. He sez it’s very nice. I’ve got to put those potatoes on, for your Father’s supper; he’ll be here around six. [She moves to the door at the right.]

Clara [Standing at the left of the table, still looking at the book]. Did you know that Amy’s got to get out of those rooms she’s in?

Mrs. Fisher [From the kitchen]. Yes.

​Clara. They’re going to tear those houses down.

Mrs. Fisher [Coming back into the room]. So she was telling me.

Clara [Moving to the chair at the left of the table]. What’s she going to do, [Tossing the book onto the table] come in here to live? [She sits down.]

Mrs. Fisher. Now, that’s a sensible question for you to ask, Clara;—you know how much she’s comin’ in here to live.

Clara [Commencing to remove her gloves]. I don’t know where else she’ll go,—with rents the way they are now;—unless she goes back to work.

Mrs. Fisher. She’ll have to look around.

Clara. What good will it do her to look around—she certainly won’t find anything as reasonable as where she is now: and when she’s not able to pay that, how does she expect to pay any more? [The parlor-door is whipped open and Amy is standing between the curtains looking tight-lipped at Clara.]

Amy. How do you know I’m not able to pay my rent where I am?

Mrs. Fisher [Moving towards the hall-door]. Now, don’t start a fight, Amy, your Pop’ll be in here any minute. [She looks out into the hallway.]

Amy [Speaking to her Mother, and indicating Clara with a gesture]. No, but I’d like to know what business it is of hers whether I can pay my rent or not. I don’t see that anybody’s asking her to pay it for me.

Clara [Very sure of her ground]. It’s a bit late in the day to talk that way, Amy; your husband’s been to Frank Hyland twice already to pay it for you. [Amy looks at her aghast, and Mrs. Fisher comes forward between them.] It’s time you quit this posing in front of me; I know how you’re fixed better than you do yourself. [She turns sharply away and flings her gloves onto the table.]

​Amy [Almost crying]. Now, do you hear that, Mom!

Mrs. Fisher. Stop your talk, Amy! Do you want your Father to walk in and hear you?

Amy [Lowering her voice, but still speaking with angry rapidity]. She sez that Aubrey Piper’s been to Frank Hyland twice, for the loan of our rent.

Clara. So he has.

Amy. You’re a liar! [Mrs. Fisher gives her a slap on the back; and there is a vibrant pause. Then Amy moves down towards the window at the left and bursts out crying.]

Mrs. Fisher [With controlled excitement]. Will you stop when I speak to you! [There is a pause.] What kind of talk do you call that! [She steps to the hall-door again and glances out into the hallway.]

Amy [Whirling again upon Clara]. Well, that’s what she is! Aubrey Piper never asked Frank Hyland for a cent in his life.

Clara. He’s asked him a dozen times, and got it, too; till I put a stop to it.

Mrs. Fisher [Coming forward again, and speaking with authority]. Now, that’ll do, Clara!—I don’t want to hear another word—out of either one of you—I had enough of that when the two of you were at home.

Amy. Well, I’ll make her prove what she sez about Aubrey Piper, just the same!

Clara. It’s very easily proved. Just come over to the house some night and I’ll show you a few of his letters.

Amy. What do you do, open them?

Clara. I do now, yes,—since I found out who they’re from.

Mrs. Fisher [Keenly]. Do you mean to tell me, Clara, that he’s writin’ to Frank Hyland for money?

Amy. No, he doesn’t do anything of the kind, Mom, that’s another of her lies!

​Mrs. Fisher [Before Amy has finished speaking]. I’m not talkin’ to you, Amy.

Amy. She just makes those things up.

Clara. I make them up!

Amy [Crying]. Yes!

Clara. And I’ve got at least twelve letters right in my bureau-drawer this minute that he’s written within the last two months.

Mrs. Fisher. What does he write letters for?

Clara. For money—so he can pay seven dollars for a seat out at the football game—as he did Thanksgiving afternoon,—Frank saw him there.

Mrs. Fisher. Why don’t he just ast Frank Hyland for the money when he sees him, instead of writin’ to him?

Clara. I suppose he thinks a written request is more appropriate, coming from one of the heads of the Pennsylvania Railroad.

Mrs. Fisher. How much does he ast for, when he asts him?

Clara. There was one a couple of weeks ago, for three hundred. [Amy makes a sound of hitter amusement, and turns away.]

Mrs. Fisher [Aghast]. Three hundred dollars?

Clara. That’s what the letter said. [Mrs. Fisher turns and looks at Amy.]

Mrs. Fisher. What would he have wanted three hundred dollars for, Amy?

Amy. Oh, ask her, Mom; she’s good at making things up. [She sweeps towards the parlor-doors.]

Mrs. Fisher [Taking a step or two after her]. Oh, you wouldn’t believe it, even if it was true, if it was against him.

Amy. Well, I wouldn’t believe her, anyway. [Amy slams the parlor-door with a bang.]

Mrs. Fisher [Raising her voice]. You wouldn’t believe your ​own Mother,—never name your sister. [She turns to Clara.] She flew at me like a wild-cat, when I told her he wore a wig. I guess she knows it herself by this time.

Clara. She’s for him, Mom; and the sooner you get that into your head the better.

Mrs. Fisher [Moving towards the right, above the table]. I know very well she is, you needn’t tell me. And she’d turn on everyone belongin’ to her for him. The idea of askin’ anybody for three hundred dollars. [She continues towards the kitchen-door, fuming; then turns.] I suppose he wanted to buy an automobile or something. That’s where he is tonight, out at the Automobile Show—and not two cents in his pocket—like a lot of others that’ll be out there I guess—And I’ll bet he’ll be doin’ more talk out there than them that’ll buy a dozen cars.

Clara. I think that’s what he did want the money for.

Mrs. Fisher. It wouldn’t surprise me,—the damned fool. [She steps to the mantelpiece and glances out into the hallway.] It’d be fitter for him to be thinkin’ about gettin’ a house to live in.

Clara. He doesn’t think he needs to think about that; he thinks he’s coming in here.

Mrs. Fisher [Turning sharply, on her way back to the kitchen-door]. Comin’ in here to live, do you mean?

Clara. That’s what he told Frank, the day before yesterday.

Mrs. Fisher. Well, he’s very much mistaken if he does, I can tell you that. I’d like to be listenin’ to that fellow seven days in the week. I’d rather go over and live with your Aunt Ellie in Newark.

Clara [Rising, and picking up her gloves from the table]. Well, that’s about what you’ll have to do, Mom, if you ever let them in on you. [She stands looking straight out, unfastening her neck-piece.]

​Mrs. Fisher. I won’t let them in on me, don’t fret. Your Father ’ud have something to say about that.

Clara [Slipping off her neck-piece]. Pop may not always be here, Mom. [She turns around to her left and moves to a point above the table, and puts her fur and gloves down.]

Mrs. Fisher. Well, I’ll be here, if he isn’t; and the furniture is mine. And there’s very little danger of my walkin’ off and leavin’ it to any son-in-law. [The front-door closes.] I guess this is your Pop now, and I haven’t even got the kettle on. [She hurries out at the right. Clara glances at the hall-door, and Joe appears in it, and stands for the fraction of a second, irresolute.]

Joe. Where’s Mom?

Clara. Out in the kitchen,—why?

Joe [Motioning to her, causing the paper to drop from his hand]. Come here,—don’t let her hear you. [Clara steps towards him, with a shade of apprehension in her face and manner.] Listen, Clara—Pop had some kind of a stroke this afternoon at his work.

Clara. Pop did?

Joe. They found him layin’ in front of one of the boilers.

Clara. Oh, my God!

Joe. I tried to get you on the ’phone about four o’clock.

Clara. I know—I came right over as soon as I came in.

Joe. You better tell Mom. [He starts for the stairs, and Clara turns towards the kitchen-door.]

Clara [Turning sharply back again]. Joe!

Joe [Stopping abruptly on the first step of the stairs]. What?

Clara. Where’s Pop now?

Joe. They took him to the Samaritan Hospital. I just came from there—they telephoned me to the office.

Clara. Well, is he very bad?

Joe. I think he’s done.

​Clara. Oh, don’t say that, Joe!

Joe. That’s what the Doctor at the Hospital sez.—He hasn’t regained consciousness since three o’clock. So you’d better tell Mom to get her things on and go right down there. I’ve got to change my clothes; I went right up there from work. [He starts up the stairs; and Clara moves vaguely towards the kitchen-door. She stops and stands looking toward the kitchen in a controlled panic of indecision. Then, abruptly she whirls round and steps quickly back to the hall-door.]

Clara [In a subdued voice]. Joe!

Joe. What?

Clara. That Samaritan Hospital’s at Broad and Ontario, isn’t it?

Joe. Yes. [She turns slowly and looks out, irresolute. Then she stoops down abstractedly and picks up the newspaper that Joe dropped. The parlor-door opens sharply and Amy stands looking at her apprehensively. Their eyes meet.]

Amy. What is it? [Mrs. Fisher appears in the door at the right, drying an agate-ware plate.]

Mrs. Fisher. Wasn’t that your Pop that came in, Clara? [Clara makes a deft, silencing gesture with her left hand to Amy, and moves towards the center-table.]

Clara. No, it wasn’t, Mom, it was the boy with the paper.

Mrs. Fisher [Coming further into the room to see the clock]. I wonder what’s keepin’ him; he’s late to-night. [Clara leans against the center-table, keeping her face averted from her Mother.] He’s nearly always here before this. [She moves back again towards the kitchen.]

Amy [Crossing quickly down to Clara’s left]. What is it, Clara?

Mrs. Fisher [Turning and looking at Clara]. What’s the matter with her? [Clara tries to control her feelings.]

Amy. I don’t know what’s the matter with her, Mom! Something Joe just told her—he’s just gone upstairs.

​Mrs. Fisher [Coming forward apprehensively at Clara’s right]. What is it, Clara,—somethin’ about your Father? Is that what you’re cryin’ for?

Amy. Why don’t you tell her, Clara?

Mrs. Fisher. Go to the foot of the stairs, Amy, and call Joe. [Amy steps towards the foot of the stairs.] Something’s happened to your Father, I know it.

Clara [Moving a step or two towards her Mother]. Now, it’s nothing to get upset about, Mom; he just took a little spell of some kind at his work this afternoon, and they had to take him to the hospital. [Amy comes forward eagerly, and crosses to a point below the table]. Joe just came from there, and he sez we’d better get our things on right away and go down there. [Mrs. Fisher sways a step forward, letting the agate-ware plate slide from her hands to the floor. Amy steps towards her Mother, lifting the chair from the right of the table and guiding her Mother into it.] Here, sit down here, Mom.

Mrs. Fisher [Slightly dazed]. What is it she’s sayin’ happened to your Father, Amy? [Amy passes back of the chair to her Mother’s right, and Clara comes to her left.]

Clara. Now, it’s nothing to get excited about, Mom; it might be just a little heart-attack or something that he took. [She takes the towel from her Mother’s hand and hands it to Amy.] Put this over there. [Amy turns to the buffet.]

Mrs. Fisher. There was never anything the matter with your Father’s heart, Clara.

Clara. Well, it’s pretty hot in there where he works, you know that. [Mrs. Fisher shakes her head up and down, knowingly.] And men at Pop’s age are always taking little spells of some kind.

Mrs. Fisher [With a long, heavy sigh]. Ah, I guess it’s a stroke, Clara.

Clara. It might not be, Mom, you can’t tell.

​Mrs. Fisher. That’s how his two brothers went, you know.

Clara. Amy, you’d better go to the telephone next door and tell Frank Hyland I won’t be home. [Amy hurries across towards the hall-door, and Clara follows her, continuing her instructions.] If he isn’t home yet, tell Bertha to tell him to come right down to the Samaritan Hospital as soon as he comes. And tell Johnny Harbison to go to the corner for a taxi. [The front-door closes after Amy, and Clara steps back to her Mother’s side.]

Mrs. Fisher. Is that where your Father is, Clara, the Samaritan Hospital?

Clara. Yes; it’s right down there near where he works, at Broad and Ontario.

Mrs. Fisher [Starting to cry.] Your poor Father—I wonder what happened to him. [Clara reflects her Mother’s sentiment.]

Clara [Picking up the plate]. Now, there’s no use looking on the dark side of it already, Mom.

Mrs. Fisher. No, but me gettin’ his supper out there, and him not comin’ home to it at all. And maybe never comin’ home to it again, Clara, for all we know.

Clara. He’ll be home again, Mom—Pop is a strong man. [She puts the plate on the buffet.]

Mrs. Fisher [Suddenly]. I guess he’s dead, now, and you’re not tellin’ me.

Clara [Coming to her Mother’s left]. He isn’t dead, Mom; I’d have told you if he was.

Mrs. Fisher. What did Joe say?

Clara. Just what I told you; that he’d had a spell of some kind.

Mrs. Fisher. Well, why didn’t he tell me! What’s he doin’ upstairs, anyway?

Clara. He’s changing his clothes; he’s got to go right back down there again.

​Mrs. Fisher. He’s cryin’ I guess. You know, it’ll kill our poor Joe, Clara, if anything happens to your Father.

Clara. He sez we’d better go right down there, too, Mom; so you’d better go upstairs and fix yourself up a bit. Give me your apron.

Mrs. Fisher [Rising and commencing to remove her apron]. I don’t know whether I’ll be able to dress myself now or not; my hands are like lead.

Clara. You don’t need to get all dressed up, Mom—just put on your black-silk waist; that skirt’s good enough. [She goes towards the door at the right with the apron and goes out.]

Mrs. Fisher [Taking the comb from the back of her head and commencing to comb her hair]. Well, I’m not goin’ down there lookin’ like a dago woman.

Clara [Coming quickly in again]. Nobody’ll see you in the dark. [She picks up the plate and towel from the buffet and straightens the runner.]

Mrs. Fisher [Moving aimlessly about in front of the mantelpiece]. It won’t be dark in the hospital; unless somethin’ happens to the lights. [Clara goes out again.] Put that gas out under them potatoes, Clara, I just lit it. And you’d better pick up this room a bit while I’m upstairs, you don’t know who might be comin’ here if they hear about your Father. [She stops and looks helplessly about the room.] Oh, dear, Oh, dear, Oh, dear! I don’t know what I’m doin’. [Clara comes in again.] Take all them papers off that table, Clara, and put them in the kitchen.

Clara [Crossing to the table and folding and gathering up the various papers]. You’d better bring your umbrella down with you, Mom, when you go up,—it looked like rain when I came in.

Mrs. Fisher. Oh, and I let our Amy take my rubbers the last day she was here, and she never brings anything back.

Clara [Taking the papers out into the kitchen]. You won’t need rubbers.

​Mrs. Fisher. Oh, I get all my feet wet, when I don’t have rubbers. [She is facing the hall-door, fastening the old-fashioned brooch at her throat. Aubrey frames himself in the door, with a bandage around his head, and looking a bit battered.] My God, what happened to you, now!

Aubrey [Coming forward at the left, removing his hat]. It’s beginning to rain. [He places his hat and cane on the table, and stands in front of the table removing his gloves.]

Mrs. Fisher [Following him with her eyes.] Never mind the rain, the rain didn’t do that to you. [She comes forward at his left. Clara comes in and stands over near the door at the right, looking at him.] I guess you ran into somebody, didn’t you?

Aubrey [With a shade of nonchalance]. Don’t get excited, Mother,—just a little misunderstanding on the part of the traffic-officer.

Mrs. Fisher. You don’t mean to tell me that you ran into a traffic-officer! [Clara comes forward at the right.]

Aubrey. Control, now, Little Mother, I assure there is no occasion for undue solicitation. [He turns and sees Clara.] Good evening, Mrs. Hyland.

Clara. Hello! What happened to your head?

Mrs. Fisher. You look like a bandit.

Aubrey. The veriest trifle, Mrs. Hyland—just a little spray from the wind-shield.

Mrs. Fisher. Where’s the car you borrowed? Smashed, I guess, ain’t it?

Aubrey. The car I borrowed, Mother Fisher, is now in the hands of the bandits of the law. The judicial gentlemen, who have entered into a conspiracy with the regulators of traffic—to collect fines from motorists—by ordering them to go one way—and then swearing that they told them to go another.

Mrs. Fisher. Never mind your fancy talk, we’ve heard too much of that already! I want to know who you killed,—or what ​you did run into; for I know you ran into somethin And where’s the automobile that someone was fool enough to lend you?

Aubrey. The automobile, Little Mother, is perfectly safe—parked and pasturing—in the courtyard of the Twenty-second and Hunting Park Avenue Police Station.

Mrs. Fisher. Did you get arrested, too?

Aubrey. I accompanied the officer as far as the station-house, yes; and I told them a few things while I was there, too, about the condition of traffic in this city.

Mrs. Fisher. I guess they told you a few things, too, didn’t they?

Aubrey. Beg pardon?

Mrs. Fisher [Starting abruptly for the hall-door]. Never mind; you’re welcome.

Clara. You’d better change your shoes, Mom; you can’t go down there with those.

Mrs. Fisher [Pointing toward the cellar-door]. See if my long black coat’s in the cellar-way there. [Clara goes quickly to the cellar-door, opens it, and looks for the coat.] That fellow’s got me so upset I don’t know what I’m doin’. [She goes out the hall-door and to her left, up the stairs. Aubrey moves over to the chair at the right, where Mrs. Fisher collapsed, and sits down,—quite ruffled in his dignity. Clara closes the cellar-door and, with a glance toward the hall-door, comes quickly forward at Aubrey’s left.]

Clara. What did they do, fine you, Aubrey?

Aubrey. They were all set to fine me; but when I got through with them they didn’t have a leg to stand on. So they tried to cover themselves up as gracefully as possible, by trumping up a charge against me of driving an automobile without a license.

Clara. What did they do, take the automobile away from you?

Aubrey. Nothing of the sort; they simply complied with the usual procedure in a case of this kind—which is to release the defendent on bond, pending the extent of the victim’s injuries.

​Clara. Was there somebody injured?

Aubrey. The traffic-cop that ran into me, yes.

Clara. For God’s sake, couldn’t you find anybody but the traffic-cop to run into!

Aubrey. I did not run into him, Mrs. Hyland—you don’t understand the circumstances of the case.

Clara. Well, I understand this much about them—that they can give you ten years for a thing like that. And it’d just serve you right if they did, too. Borrowin’ people’s automobiles, and knowing no more about running them than I do. [She turns away to her right and moves across above the table towards the hall-door.]

Aubrey. No time like the present to learn, Mrs. Hyland.

Clara [Turning to him sharply]. Well, you’ll very likely have plenty of time, from now on,—if that officer is seriously injured. [She continues over and down to the window at the left, where she draws the drape aside and looks anxiously down the street for the taxi.]

Aubrey. He was faking a broken arm around there when I left—But it’s a wonder to me the poor straw-ride wasn’t signed on the dotted line; for he ran head on right into me.

Clara [Crossing back towards him, in front of the Morris-chair]. Was he in a car, too?

Aubrey. No, he was jay-walking—trying to beat me to the crossing, after giving me the right of way.

Clara. Where did this thing happen?

Aubrey. Broad and Erie Avenue, I wouldn’t kid you.

Clara. Did they take the cop to the hospital?

Aubrey. Yes, we took him over there in the car.

Clara. Did they let you run it?

Aubrey. Repeat the question, Mrs. Hyland.

Clara. You heard me,—I don’t need to repeat it. And take that silly-looking bandage off your head, before Amy sees you; ​and don’t frighten the life out of her. [She steps up to the hall-door and glances out.] She’s got enough to worry her now without looking at you. [Aubrey rises, and, detaching the handkerchief from around his head, moves across to a point above the center-table.]

Aubrey. Is my wife here?

Clara. She’s next door, telephoning, yes; and she’ll be back in a minute. [Coming forward a step or two at the left.] Pop just had a stroke of some kind at his work this afternoon, Joe just told us.

Aubrey. What are you doing, kidding me?

Clara [Starting to cry]. No, of course I’m not kidding you! What would I be kidding you about a thing like that for? [She crosses down and across in front of the center-table. The front-door closes.]

Aubrey. Where is he now?

Clara. They took him to the Samaritan Hospital; we’re just going down there. [Amy appears in the hall-door, and stands looking questioningly at Aubrey.]

Amy. What’s the matter, Aubrey? [He turns and looks at her.]

Aubrey [Extending his arm and hand in a magnificent gesture]. Well! [Amy comes forward to her husband.] The old kid herself!

Amy. What is it, Aubrey?

Aubrey [Taking her in his arms]. Nothing in the world but this, Baby. [He kisses her affectionately.]

Clara. Did you get Frank on the ’phone, Amy? [Mrs. Fisher can be heard hurrying down the stairs.]

Amy [Crossing above Aubrey and speaking directly to Clara]. He wasn’t home yet; I told the girl to tell him as soon as he came in.

Mrs. Fisher [Coming through the hall-door, and tossing her ​little knit-jacket onto the small stand at the left of the mantelpiece.] Clara, is that automobile-cab here yet?

Clara. It’ll be here in a minute, Mom.

Mrs. Fisher. What do you think of this fellow, Amy,—runnin’ wild through the city breakin’ policemen’s bones! We didn’t have enough trouble without that—with your poor Father layin’ dead for all we know,—down in the Jewish hospital. [She starts to cry and steps down to the window at the left to look out for the taxicab.] It’s enough to make a body light-headed.

Clara. Where’s your coat, Mom?

Mrs. Fisher [Turning to her]. Isn’t it there in the cellar-way?

Clara. No, I just looked.

Mrs. Fisher [Going up to the hall-door]. It must be upstairs. Joe!

Amy [At Aubrey’s right]. I thought you were out at the Automobile Show, Aubrey.

Mrs. Fisher [At the foot of the stairs]. Listen, Joe—

Aubrey. I had a little mix-up at Broad and Erie Avenue.

Amy. You didn’t get hurt, did you?

Mrs. Fisher and Aubrey, speaking together.

Mrs. Fisher.—Throw down my long black coat; you’ll find it on a hook there in the hall-closet. [She starts for the buffet.]

Aubrey.—Nothing but a scratch or two, here on my forehead, from the glass in the wind-shield. Just a little shake-up.

Mrs. Fisher [Stopping and turning sharply at the right of the center-table]. He nearly killed a traffic-officer!—That’s how much of a little shake-up it was. [She continues to the buffet, where Clara is standing.] Get out of my way, Clara, till I get a clean handkerchief out of here. [She pushes Clara out of her way and opens the left-hand drawer of the buffet and rummages for a handkerchief. Clara passes across in front of the center-table to the window at the left.]

​Amy. You didn’t, Aubrey, did you?

Aubrey. Certainly not, Amy—your Mother’s raving. [Mrs. Fisher finds the handkerchief, slams the drawer shut and turns.]

Mrs. Fisher. The man’s in the hospital!—I don’t know what more you want. [The big black coat lands at the foot of the stairs with a thud, causing Mrs. Fisher to start nervously; then she hurries across at the back towards the hall-door, tucking the folded handkerchief at her waist.]

Amy. Is he, Aubrey?

Aubrey. Do you think I’d be here, Kid, if he was?

Mrs. Fisher [On the way over]. You wouldn’t be here, only that someone was fool enough to bail you out; instead of lettin’ you stay in where you couldn’t be killin’ people. [Clara has stepped up to the foot of the stairs and picked the coat up immediately it fell, and now stands holding it for her Mother to put on; but Mrs. Fisher disregards her, going straight out to the foot of the stairs and calling shrilly up to Joe.] Joe, why don’t you tell a body when you’re goin’ to throw a thing down that way, and not be frightenin’ the life out of people! [She comes back into the room again and Clara assists her. Amy stands above the center-table looking wide-eyed at Aubrey, who sways forward at the left, and, crossing below the center-table to the chair at the right, where he has been previously seated, sits down.]

Clara. Aren’t you going to put on another waist, Mom?

Mrs. Fisher. No, this one is good enough—I’ll keep the coat buttoned up. Put that collar inside.

Amy [In a lowered tone]. Are you out on bail, Aubrey?

Aubrey. They always bail a man in a case like this, Amy; they’ve got my car on their hands.

Mrs. Fisher [Buttoning the coat, and moving to the mirror over the mantelpiece]. Get my hat, will you, Clara?

Clara [Starting for the hall-door]. Where is it, upstairs?

Mrs. Fisher. No, it’s in the parlor there, inside the top of the Victroia. [Clara comes back and goes into the parlor.]

​Amy. Why didn’t you bring the car back with you, Aubrey?—That fellow might want it tomorrow.

Aubrey. I’ll have it for him all right; I’ve got to call around there for it Monday morning at ten o’clock. [Mrs. Fisher turns sharply from her primping at the mirror.]

Mrs. Fisher. I guess you’ve got to go down there to a hearing Monday morning at ten o’clock,—[Amy turns and looks at her Mother] and pay your fine! [Speaking directly to Amy.] I guess that’s the automobile he’s got to call for. [Clara hurries out of the parlor brushing the dust off an old black hat, with a bunch of cherries on it.]

Clara. I’d better go out and get a whisk-broom and dust this, Mom.

Mrs. Fisher [Turning to her nervously]. No, never mind, it’s good enough, give it to me.

Clara [Crossing below her Mother, to the right]. Your coat needs dusting. [She takes a whisk-broom from a hook just inside the kitchen-door.]

Amy. How much did they fine you, Aubrey?

Aubrey. They didn’t fine me at all.

Mrs. Fisher [Settling her hat]. They’ll do that Monday.

Aubrey. Time’ll tell that, Mother Fisher. [Clara hurries back and starts brushing her Mother’s coat.]

Mrs. Fisher. And you’ll pay it, too, or go to jail; and it’ud just be the price of you.

Aubrey. They didn’t seem very anxious to do any fining to-day, after I got through telling it to them.

Mrs. Fisher. Am I all right, Clara?

Aubrey. I took a slam at the Pennsylvania Railroad, too, while I was at it.

Mrs. Fisher. You’re always takin’ slams at somethin’; that’s what’s leavin’ you under bail right now. Are you ready, Clara? [She hurries to the foot of the stairs.]

​Clara [Hurrying back to the kitchen with the whisk-broom]. Yes, I’m ready.

Aubrey. Never mind about that, Mother Fisher.

Mrs. Fisher [Calling up the stairs]. Are you goin’ down there with us, Joe?

Joe [From upstairs]. Comin’ right down. [Mrs. Fisher comes in to the mantelpiece and picks up her gloves. Clara hurries in from the kitchen again to the center-table and picks up her neck-piece and gloves.]

Aubrey. Only don’t be surprised if you hear of a very quiet little shake-up very soon—in the Department of Public Safety.

Mrs. Fisher. Are you warm enough with that coat, Clara?

Clara. Yes, I’m all right. How about the umbrella?

Mrs. Fisher. I think it’s out there in the hall-rack; look and see. [Clara hurries out into the hallway, and Mrs. Fisher stands putting on her gloves. Amy crosses to Aubrey’s left.]

Amy [Very quietly]. How much bail did they put you under, Aubrey?

Aubrey. One thousand berries, Amy. [Mrs. Fisher looks over at them keenly.]

Amy. A thousand dollars!

Aubrey. That’s regulation—[Amy turns and gives her Mother a troubled look, and Mrs. Fisher moves forward at the left to a point where she can see Aubrey.] A little chicken-feed for the stool-pigeons.

Mrs. Fisher. Did he say they put him under a thousand dollars’ bail?

Aubrey. That’s what I said, Mrs. Fisher, one thousand trifles—I wouldn’t kid you.

Mrs. Fisher. You wouldn’t kid anybody that’d listen to you for five minutes. And who did you get to go a thousand dollars bail for you?

Aubrey. Don’t be alarmed, Little Mother,—I saw that the affair was kept strictly within the family.

​Mrs. Fisher. What do you mean?

Aubrey. Your other son-in-law—was kind enough to come forward. [Clara hurries in from the hallway with the umbrella, and comes forward at the extreme left.]

Mrs. Fisher. Clara’s husband!

Aubrey. That’s the gentleman, Mrs. Fisher,—Mr. Francis X. Hyland.

Mrs. Fisher [Helplessly]. My God! [She turns around to her right till she locates Clara.] Do you hear that, Clara?

Clara. What?

Mrs. Fisher. He got Frank Hyland to go his bail for a thousand dollars.

Clara [Looking bitterly at Aubrey]. What did you do, write him another letter?

Aubrey. That was not necessary, Mrs. Hyland, not giving you a short answer. Your husband was fortunate enough to see the whole affair from the trolley-car. He was just returning from his business, and happened to be on the trolley-car that ran into me.

Mrs. Fisher. How many more things ran into you,—besides traffic-cops and trolley-cars! I suppose a couple of the buildin’s ran into you too, didn’t they ? [Joe hurries in from the hall-door buttoning his overcoat.]

Joe. Are you ready, Mom?

Clara [Going up to the hall-door]. Yes, we’re ready. [Joe comes forward at the extreme left, looking questioningly from one. to the other. Clara goes out into the hall.]

Aubrey. You’ll find out all about that Monday morning, Mrs. Fisher.

Mrs. Fisher [Moving up towards the hall-door]. Well, see that nothin’ else runs into you between now and Monday.

Joe. What’s the matter?

Mrs. Fisher. We don’t want Frank Hyland losin’ any thousand-dollar bills on account of you.

​Joe. What’s happened, Mom?

Mrs. Fisher [Turning to Joe, and pointing at Aubrey with a wide gesture.] Why, this crazy Jack here’s been runnin’ into everything in the city but ourselves; and he got himself arrested; and Frank Hyland had to bail him out for a thousand dollars. [She starts to cry.]

Joe. What were you doin’, Aubrey, joy-ridin’?

Mrs. Fisher. No!—he was trolley-ridin’,—and traffic-cop-ridin’,—and every other kind of ridin’,—in an automobile that he borrowed.

Clara [Hurrying in from the hallway]. I think I see that taxi coming, Mom.

Mrs. Fisher [Starting towards the hall-door]. Come on here, Joe. [Joe crosses up at the left of the center-table to the mirror over the mantelpiece, looking disapprovingly at Aubrey. Aubrey rises and strolls over to a point in front of the center-table.] How do we get down there, Clara?

Clara. Right down Erie Ave.

Aubrey. Too bad I left that car down there at the Station House, I could have run you down there. [They all turn and look at him; and Mrs. Fisher, with poison in her right eye, moves forward at the left of the center-table, with a level, ominous slowness.]

Mrs. Fisher. You wouldn’t run me down there,—don’t fret—not if you had a thousand cars. There’s enough of us in the hospital as it is. [Aubrey simply regards her from a great height.] And don’t you come down there neither;—for you’d only start talkin’, and that’d finish Pop quicker than a stroke. [There’s a startling hoot from the taxicab horn outside, which almost throws Mrs. Fisher from her balance.]

Clara [Going out]. Come on, Joe.

Joe [Following her out]. Ain’t you comin’ down to the hospital, Amy?

​Mrs. Fisher [Going out]. No, you’d better stay here, Amy,—there’d better be some one of us here—or that fellow’ll be runnin’ into somethin’ else. You ought to have somethin’ heavier on you than that fur, Clara [Aubrey sits down at the left of the center-table.]

Clara [In the hallway]. I’m all right, we’ll be down there in a few minutes.

Mrs. Fisher. Have you got your coat buttoned up good, Joe? [The front-door closes after them. Amy turns from the hall-door, where she has been standing, seeing them out, and comes forward to the back of the chair at the left of the center-table, where Aubrey is sitting.]

Amy. Where’s your toupé, Aubrey? [Touching the sticking-plasters on his forehead.]

Aubrey. In my pocket here.

Amy [Stroking his hair]. Is your head hurting you?

Aubrey [Reaching for her hand and drawing it down over his left shoulder]. Not a bit, Honey—just a couple of little scratches. [He kisses her hand. She raises her eyes and looks straight ahead, with a troubled expression.]

Amy. Aubrey, what do you think they’ll do to you down there Monday?

Aubrey. Now, don’t you worry about that, Sweetheart; I’ll be right there if they try to pull anything. [She moves over thoughtfully towards the upper right-hand corner of the center-table. Then a new thought occurs to her, and she turns her head and looks at him narrowly.]

Amy. You hadn’t had anything to drink, had you, Aubrey?

Aubrey [Looking at her quickly]. Who, me?

Amy. I mean I thought somebody might have treated you or something.

Aubrey [Making a statement]. I had a glass of Champagne six months ago with a friend of mine in his suite at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel, and I haven’t had a drink of anything since.

​Amy. You better take off your overcoat, Aubrey; we’ll have to stay here till they get back. [He gets up and commences to remove the overcoat.]

Aubrey. Yes, I guess we will.—I wonder how your Father is.

Amy [Taking the overcoat from him]. Pretty bad I guess,—or they wouldn’t have sent for Joe. [She takes the coat up to the sofa at the right of the mantelpiece, and Aubrey takes a huge cigar from his vest-pocket and feels for a match.] I’ll get you a match, Aubrey. [She goes out into the kitchen, and Aubrey moves to a point above the center-table, biting the tip of his cigar.]

Aubrey. I thought I had some here, but I guess I haven’t. Did they send for Joe?

Amy. Yes, they telephoned for him, to the place where he works.

Aubrey. Your Mother said it was a stroke.

Amy [Entering with some matches]. I guess that’s what it is, too; his two brothers died that way.

Aubrey [Taking the matches from her]. I’m sorry to hear that, Amy. But, you mustn’t worry, now, Kid.

Amy. It isn’t only that I’m worried about, Aubrey;—I’m thinking about you—Monday. [She takes hold of the lapels of his coat and almost cries.]

Aubrey [Putting his arm around her]. Now, listen to me, Baby—you know I’d tell you, don’t you, if there was anything to worry about.

Amy. But, they’re getting awfully strict in this city; there’s been so many automobile accidents lately.

Aubrey. They’re only strict, Honey, when a man’s driving under the influence of liquor. [There’s a slight pause, and Amy thinks hard.]

Amy. What if that traffic-cop is hurt bad, Aubrey?

Aubrey. It’d only be a fine for reckless driving, even if they ​could prove it was reckless driving; and I can prove it was the copper’s fault. [Detaching himself from her.] So they’ll very likely be apologizing to me around there Monday morning, instead of fining me. [He moves across and down to the window at the left,—with ever so slight a touch of swagger.]

Amy. Oh, I wouldn’t care if they only fined you, Aubrey; because I could go back to work until it was paid.

Aubrey [Looking oat the window]. You’ll never go back to work, Kid, while I’m on the boat.

Amy. I wouldn’t mind it, Aubrey.

Aubrey. Not while your my wife, Amy. [He half turns to her, with considerable consequence.] I’d rather leave the Pennsylvania Railroad flat; and go out and take one of the jobs that have been offered me where they pay a man what he’s worth.

Amy. You don’t think they might do anything else to you, do you, Aubrey?

Aubrey [Turning to her]. Oh, they might try to take away my license.

Amy. You haven’t got a license, have you?

Aubrey [Turning back to the window]. No, I neglected to attend to it this year.

Amy. They can fine you for that, can’t they?

Aubrey. Driving an automobile without a license, you mean?

Amy. Yes.

Aubrey. Sure—they can fine you for anything unless you know how to beat them to it. [He strikes the match on the arm of the Morris-chair at his right. Amy rests her hands on the center-table, and looks straight out, wretchedly.]

Amy [Tonelessly]. What is it they send them to prison for, Aubrey? [He is just holding the lighted match to the cigar, and, consequently, is unable to answer her immediately. The front door-bell rings. She glances apprehensively in the direction of the hall-door, then meets his eyes.] I wonder who that is.

​Aubrey [Tossing the burnt match into the window at his left]. Do you want me to answer it?

Amy. I wish you would, Aubrey; it might be something about Pop. [He crosses in front of the Morris-chair and up at the left of the center-table to the mirror over the mantelpiece, where he stands settling his tie and vest. Amy turns to the couch and gathers up his coat, then steps forward to the center-table and picks up his hat and the bandage that he took off his head.]

Aubrey [Touching the plasters on his forehead]. Does my head look all right?

Amy [Glancing at him, as she goes towards the hooks at the head of the cellar-stairs]. Yes, it’s all right, Aubrey.

Aubrey. Wait a minute—[He steps to her side and takes the carnation from the buttonhole of his overcoat, then steps back to the mirror and fixes it in his sack-coat.]

Amy. Hurry up, Aubrey. [The door-bell rings again.]

Aubrey [Going out into the hallway]. All right—all right. [Amy hangs the overcoat and hat up, then turns, opens the cellar-door, and tosses the bandage down the cellar stairs. Then she crosses quickly to a point in front of the mantelpiece and listens intently.]

Gill [At the front-door]. Good evenin’.

Aubrey. Good evening, sir.

Gill. Is this where Mr. Fisher lives?

Aubrey. This is Mr. Fisher’s residence, yes, sir. What can I do for you?

Gill. Why, I got some things of his here that the boss ast me to leave.

Aubrey. Oh, just step inside for a minute. Getting a little colder I think. [The front-door closes.]

Gill. Well, we can look for it any time, now.

Aubrey. Will you just step in this way, please? [Aubrey enters from the hallway.] There’s a gentleman here, Amy, with ​some things belonging to your Father. Just come right in. [Aubrey comes forward a few steps at the left; and Gill enters.]

Gill. Good evenin’.

Amy. Good evening.

Aubrey. This is my wife, Mrs. Piper.

Gill [Nodding], How do you do. [Amy nods.]

Aubrey. Mrs. Piper is Mr. Fisher’s daughter. The rest of the folks have gone down to the hospital.

Gill. I see. [Turning to Amy]. Have you heard anything from the hospital yet?

Amy. Not yet, no.

Aubrey. We didn’t know anything about it at all, till fifteen minutes ago.

Gill. It’s too bad.

Aubrey. Those hospitals won’t tell you anything.

Amy. Do you work with my Father?

Gill. No, ma’am, I’m a twister on the second floor. But, one of the machinist’s-helpers that works with your Father knows I live out this way, so he ast me to stop by with these things on me way home. [He crosses towards Amy, with a hat and overcoat, and a more or less discolored lunch-box.]

Amy [Taking the things]. Thanks ever so much.

Gill. There’s just the overcoat and hat, and his lunch-box.

Amy. Thanks.

Gill. McMahon sez if he comes across anything else he’ll let me know.

Amy [Crossing to the sofa with the things]. No, I don’t imagine there’s anything else.

Gill. If there is, I’ll bring it up.

Amy. Well, that’s very nice of you; I’m ever so much obliged to you. [She comes hack towards Gill.]

Aubrey. Who is this McMahon?

Gill. He’s one of the machinist’s-helpers down there.

​Aubrey. I see.

Amy. Were you there when my Father was taken sick?

Gill. No, ma’am, I wasn’t. I don’t think there was anybody there, to tell you the truth. McMahon sez he was talkin’ to him at a quarter of three, and he sez when he came back from the annex at three o’clock, he found Mr. Fisher layin’ in front of number five.

Aubrey [With a suggestion of professionalism]. Very likely a little touch of Angina Pectoria. [Gill looks at him.]

Gill. The doctor down there sez he thought it was a stroke.

Aubrey. Same thing.

Amy. Won’t you sit down, Mr. —a—

Gill. No, thank you, ma’am, I can’t stay; I’ve got to get along out home. [There’s a rapping out at the right. They all look in the direction of the kitchen.]

Amy. Oh, I guess it’s Mrs. Harbison—I’ll go. [She goes out at the right.]

Aubrey [Crossing above Gill towards the right]. Don’t stand out there talking, now, Amy, with nothing around you. [Surveying himself in the buffet-mirror at the right.] Do you live up this way, Governor?

Gill. No, sir, I live out Richmond way.

Aubrey. I see.

Gill. I take number thirty-two over Allegheny Avenue.

Aubrey [Turning and moving over towards the center-table]. Too bad my car’s laid up, I could run you out there.

Gill. Oh, that’s all right; the trolley takes me right to the door.

Aubrey. I had to turn it in Thursday to have the valves ground.

Amy [Appearing in the kitchen-door]. I’m wanted on the telephone, Aubrey; I’ll be right in. Will you excuse me for a minute?

​Gill. That’s all right, ma’am; I’m goin’ right along meself.

Aubrey. Very likely some word from the Hospital.

Gill. I hope it ain’t any bad news.

Aubrey. Well, you’ve got to be prepared for most anything, Governor, when a man gets up around the old three-score mark.

Gill. That’s true, a lot of them push off about that age.

Aubrey. Especially when a man’s worked hard all his life.

Gill. Yes, I guess Mr. Fisher’s worked pretty hard.

Aubrey. Not an excuse in the world for it, either.—I’ve said to him a thousand times if I’ve said to him once, “Well, Pop, when are you going to take the big rest?” “Oh,” he’d say, “I’ll have lots of time to rest when I’m through.” “All right,” I’d say, “go ahead; only let me tell you, Pop, you’re going to be through ahead of schedule if you don’t take it soon.”

Gill. Well, I guess it comes pretty hard on a man that’s been active all his life to quit all of a sudden.

Aubrey. Well, he wouldn’t have to quit exactly.—I mean, he’s a handy man; he could putter around the house. There are lots of little things here and there that I’m not any too well satisfied with. [He glances around the room.]

Gill. Is Mr. Fisher’s wife livin’?

Aubrey. Yes, she’s here with us too.

Gill. Well, that makes it nice.

Aubrey. Well, it’s a pretty big house here; so when I married last June, I said, “Come ahead, the more the merrier.” [He laughs a little.]

Gill. ’Tis a pretty big house this.

Aubrey. Yes, they don’t make them like this anymore, Governor. Put up by the McNeil people out here in Jenkintown.

Gill. Oh, yes.

Aubrey. They just put up the twenty of them—kind of sample houses—ten on that side and ten on this. Of course, ​these on this side have the southern exposure,—so a man’s got to do quite a bit of wire-pulling to get hold of one of these.

Gill. You’ve got to do some wire-pullin’ to get hold of any kind of a house these days.

Aubrey. Well, I have a friend here in town that’s very close to the city architect, and he was able to fix it for me.

Gill [Glancing toward the window, at the left]. It’s a nice street.

Aubrey. Nice in summer.

Gill. I was surprised when I saw it, because when I ast a taxicab-driver down here where it was, he said he never heard of it.

Aubrey [Looking at him keenly]. Never heard of Cresson Street?

Gill. He said not.

Aubrey [With pitying amusement]. He must be an awful straw-ride.

Gill. I had to ast a police officer.

Aubrey. Well, I’ll tell you, Governor,—I don’t suppose they have many calls for taxicabs out this way. You see, most everybody in through here has his own car.

Gill. I see.

Aubrey. Some of them have a half dozen, for that matter. [He laughs, a hit consequentially.]

Gill [Starting for the parlor-doors]. There certainly is plenty of them knockin’ around.

Aubrey. All over the ice. [Aubrey indicates the hall-door.] This way, Governor.

Gill [Turning towards the hall-door]. Oh, excuse me.

Aubrey [Moving towards the hall-door. Those doors go into the parlor.

Gill. I see. [He turns at the hall-door]. A fellow was tellin’ me over here in the cigar store that there was quite a smash-​up about a half hour ago down here at Broad and Erie Avenue.

Aubrey. That so?

Gill. He sez there was some nut down there runnin’ into everything in sight. He sez he even ran into the traffic-cop; and broke his arm. Can you imagine what they’ll do to that guy, knockin’ the traffic-cop down!

Aubrey. What was the matter with him, was he stewed?

Gill. No,—the fellow in the cigar store sez he was just a nut. He sez they didn’t know where he got hold of this car; he sez it didn’t belong to him. I guess he picked it up somewhere. They took it away from him and pinched him. [Starting to go out.] So I guess he won’t be runnin’ into anything else for a while.

Aubrey [Following him out]. Traffic’s in pretty bad shape in this town right now.

Gill. Certainly is. Why, a man’s not safe walkin’ along the sidewalk, these days. I hope your wife’ll hear some good news.

Aubrey. Well, while there’s life there’s hope, you know.

Gill. That’s right. No use lookin’ on the dark side of things. [Amy enters from the right, with a wide-eyed, wan expression, and comes slowly down to the center-table.]

Aubrey. Where do you get your car, Governor?

Gill. Why, I can get one right at the corner here, and transfer.

Aubrey. Oh, that’s right, so you can. Well, we’re ever so much obliged to you.

Gill. Don’t mention it.

Aubrey. Good-night, sir.

Gill. Good-night. [The door closes.]

Aubrey [Coming in from the hall-door]. When did you come in, Amy? [He stops to look at himself in the mantelpiece-mirror.]

​Amy [Without turning]. I came in the side-door; I thought that man’d be still here.

Aubrey [Coming down to her]. Well, Kid, what’s the good word?

Amy [Breaking down]. Aubrey, Pop is dead. [She buries her face in the lapel of his coat. He takes her in his arms, looks straight ahead, and there is a long pause—during which Amy cries hard.]

Aubrey. Don’t let it get you, Honey—you have nothing to regret; and nothing to fear. The Kid from West Philly’ll never go back on you,—you know that, don’t you, Baby? [She continues to cry.] You know that, don’t you, Amy? [She doesn’t answer him.] Amy.

Amy. What?

Aubrey. You know I’m with you, don’t you?

Amy. Yes. [He kisses her hair affectionately.]

Aubrey. Don’t cry, Honey; the old man’s better off than we are. He knows all about it now. [He kisses her again; then detaches himself and moves over and down at the left of the center-table.]

Amy. What do you think we ought to do, Aubrey?

Aubrey. There’s nothing at all that you can do that I can see, Sweetheart; except to sit tight till the folks get back. They’ll be down there themselves in a few minutes, and they’ll know all about it.

Amy. They said that Pop died at a quarter of six.

Aubrey. Was that the Hospital on the telephone?

Amy. Yes.

Aubrey [Moving up to a point above the center-table again]. Something we ought to have in here, Amy; a telephone—not be letting the whole neighborhood in on our business. [Amy leans on the back of the chair at the right and cries softly.] ​Now, pull yourself together, Sweetheart. [He crosses to her and puts his arm around her shoulders.]

Amy. This is where Pop always used to sit in the evening.—It’ll seem funny not to see him here anymore. [She breaks down again.]

Aubrey [After a slight pause] . The old gent had to go sometime. [He passes back of her, comes forward at the right and stands, looking at the tip of his cigar.] Your Mother’ll have you and me to comfort her now. [He strolls across below the center-table and stops, thinking profoundly. Amy sinks down on the chair dejectedly.]

Amy. I don’t know how Mom’ll keep this house going now, just on Joe’s pay.

Aubrey. Why don’t you say something to your Mother about letting us come in here? She’ll need a man in the house. And my salary ’ud cover the rent.

Amy. Mom doesn’t have to pay rent, Aubrey,—she owns this house. Pop left it to her. He made his will out the week after we were married. [Aubrey looks at her keenly.] Clara got him to do it.

Aubrey. Who’s the executor, do you know?

Amy. Clara is. [Aubrey nods comprehendingly.]

Aubrey [Looking away off]. Too bad your Father didn’t make me the executor of that will;—I could have saved him a lot of money. [He replaces the cigar in his mouth.]

Amy. I suppose he thought on account of Clara being the oldest.

Aubrey. I wonder why your Father never liked me.

Amy. Pop never said he didn’t like you, Aubrey.

Aubrey. I always tried to be clubby with him. I used to slap him on the back whenever I spoke to him.

Amy. Pop was always very quiet.

Aubrey. And the Kid from West Philly had too much to say. ​Well,—forgive and forget.—It’s all over now.—And the old man can be as quiet as he likes. [Amy cries again, and there is a pause. Aubrey stands smoking.]

Amy [Pulling herself together and getting up]. You haven’t had anything to eat tonight yet, have you, Aubrey?

Aubrey [Coming out of his abstraction, and sauntering up at the left of the center-table.] Don’t worry about me, Sweetheart.

Amy [Going to the buffet-drawer at the right for an apron]. I’ll get you something.

Aubrey. It’ll be all the same at the finish,—whether I’ve had my dinner or not. [He rests his fist on the table, throws his head back, and looks to the stars.] “Sic transit gloria mundi.” And we never get used to it. [He moves across to the upper right-hand corner of the center-table.] The paths of glory lead but to the grave. [He stops again, leans on the table and looks out and away off.] And yet we go on,—building up big fortunes—only to leave them to the generations yet unborn. Well, [He moves forward to the chair at the right]—so it goes. [He sits down, throws one leg across his knee, and shakes his head up and down slowly.] And so it will always go, I suppose. “Sic transit gloria mundi.”

Amy [Standing at his right]. What does that mean, Aubrey, “Sic transit gloria mundi”?

Aubrey [Casually]. It’s an old saying from the French—meaning, “we’re here to-day, and gone tomorrow.”

Amy [Looking out, wretchedly]. I’m worried about tomorrow, Aubrey. [He looks at her.]

Aubrey. What are you worried about, Sweetheart?

Amy. I mean Monday.

Aubrey [Extending his hand towards her]. Now,—“sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,”—you know that, don’t you, Baby? [She takes his hand and moves over to the back of his chair.]

​Amy. But, you didn’t have a license, Aubrey. And if that traffic-officer should be seriously injured———

Aubrey. Don’t you worry about that, Sweetheart;—we’re here today; and if he’s seriously injured,—we’ll know all about it Monday. [The curtain commences to descend slowly.] “Sic transit gloria mundi.”