By Author [ A  B  C  D  E  F  G  H  I  J  K  L  M  N  O  P  Q  R  S  T  U  V  W  X  Y  Z |  Other Symbols ]
  By Title [ A  B  C  D  E  F  G  H  I  J  K  L  M  N  O  P  Q  R  S  T  U  V  W  X  Y  Z |  Other Symbols ]
  By Language
all Classics books content using ISYS

Download this book: [ ASCII | HTML | PDF ]

Look for this book on Amazon

We have new books nearly every day.
If you would like a news letter once a week or once a month
fill out this form and we will give you a summary of the books for that week or month by email.

´╗┐Title: Writing for Vaudeville
Author: Page, Brett
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Writing for Vaudeville" ***

This book is indexed by ISYS Web Indexing system to allow the reader find any word or number within the document.








Can you be taught how to write for vaudeville?  If you have the
native gift, what experienced writers say about its problems, what
they themselves have accomplished, and the means by which it has
been wrought, will be of help to you.  So much this book offers,
and more I would not claim for it.

Although this volume is the first treatise on the subject of which
I know, it is less an original offering than a compilation.  Growing
out of a series of articles written in collaboration with Mr.
William C. Lengel for The Green Book Magazine, the subject assumed
such bigness in my eyes that when I began the writing of this book,
I spent months harvesting the knowledge of others to add to my own
experience.  With the warm-heartedness for which vaudevillians are
famous, nearly everyone whose aid I asked lent assistance gladly.
"It is vaudeville's first book," said more than one, deprecating
the value of his own suggestions, "and we want it right in each
slightest particular."

To the following kindly gentlemen I wish to express my especial
thanks:  Aaron Hoffman, Edwin Hopkins, James Madison, Edgar Allan
Woolf, Richard Harding Davis--the foremost example of a writer who
made a famous name first in literature and afterward in
vaudeville--Arthur Hopkins, Taylor Granville, Junie McCree, Arthur
Denvir, Frank Fogarty, Irving Berlin, Charles K. Harris, L. Wolfe
Gilbert, Ballard MacDonald, Louis Bernstein, Joe McCarthy, Joseph
Hart, Joseph Maxwell, George A. Gottlieb, Daniel F. Hennessy,
Sime Silverman, Thomas J. Gray, William C. Lengel, Miss Nellie
Revell, the "big sister of vaudeville," and a host of others whose
names space does not permit my naming again here, but whose work
is evidenced in the following pages.  To Alexander Black, the man
who made the first picture play twenty-one years ago, I owe thanks
for points in the discussion of dramatic values.  And for many
helpful suggestions, and his kindly editing, I wish to express my
gratitude to Dr. J. Berg Esenwein.  To these "friends indeed"
belongs whatever merit this book possesses.

August 25, 1915


It falls to the lot of few men in these days to blaze a new trail
in Bookland.  This Mr. Brett Page has done, with firmness and
precision, and with a joy in every stroke that will beget in
countless readers that answering joy which is the reward of both
him who guides and him who follows.  There is but one word for a
work so penetrating, so eductive, so clear--and that word is
_masterly_.  Let no one believe the modest assertion that "Writing
for Vaudeville" is "less an original offering than a compilation."
I have seen it grow and re-grow, section by section, and never
have I known an author give more care to the development of his
theme in an original way.  Mr. Page has worked with fidelity to
the convictions gained while himself writing professionally, yet
with deference for the opinions of past masters in this field.
The result is a book quite unexcelled among manuals of instruction,
for authority, full statement, analysis of the sort that leads the
reader to see what essentials he must build into his own structures,
and sympathetic helpfulness throughout.  I count it an honor to
have been the editorial sponsor for a pioneer book which will be
soon known everywhere.





1. The Rise of Vaudeville

A French workman who lived in the Valley of the Vire in the
fourteenth or fifteenth century, is said to be vaudeville's
grandparent.  Of course, the child of his brain bears not even a
remote resemblance to its descendant of to-day, yet the line is
unbroken and the relationship clearer than many of the family trees
of the royal houses.  The French workman's name was Oliver Bassel,
or Olivier Basselin, and in his way he was a poet.  He composed
and sang certain sprightly songs which struck the popular fancy
and achieved a reputation not only in his own town but throughout
the country.

Bassel's success raised the usual crop of imitators and soon a
whole family of songs like his were being whistled in France.  In
the course of time these came to be classed as a new and distinct
form of musical entertainment.  They were given the name of
"Val-de-Vire" from the valley in which Bassel was born.  This
name became corrupted, into "vaux-de-vire" in the time of Louis
XVI, and was applied to all the popular or topical songs sung on
the streets of Paris.  Then the aristocrats took up these songs
and gave entertainments at their country seats.  To these
entertainments they gave the name of "vaux-de-ville," the last
syllable being changed to honor Bassel's native town [1] And
gradually the x was dropped and the word has remained through the
years as it is to-day.

[1] Another version relates that these songs were sung on the Pont
Neuf in Paris, where stands the Hotel de Ville, or City Hall, and
thus the generic name acquired the different termination.

As the form of entertainment advanced, the word vaudeville expanded
in meaning.  It came to comprise not only a collection of songs,
but also acrobatic feats and other exhibitions.  Having no dramatic
sequence whatever, these unrelated acts when shown together achieved
recognition as a distinct form of theatrical entertainment.  As
"vaudeville"--or "variety"--this form of entertainment became known
and loved in every country of the world.

Vaudeville was introduced into this country before 1820, but it
did not become a common form of entertainment until shortly before
the Civil War when the word 'variety' was at once adopted and
became familiar as something peculiarly applicable to the troubled
times.  The new and always cheerful entertainment found the reward
of its optimism in a wide popularity.  But as those days of war
were the days of men, vaudeville made its appeal to men only.  And
then the war-clouds passed away and the show business had to
reestablish itself, precisely as every other commercial pursuit
had to readjust itself to changed conditions.

Tony Pastor saw his opportunity.  On July 31, 1865, he opened "Tony
Pastor's Opera House" at 199-201 Bowery, New York.  He had a theory
that a vaudeville entertainment from which every objectionable
word and action were taken away, and from which the drinking bar
was excluded, would appeal to women and children as well as men.
He knew that no entertainment that excluded women could long hold
a profitable place in a man's affections.  So to draw the whole
family to his new Opera House, Tony Pastor inaugurated clean
vaudeville [1]. Pastor's success was almost instantaneous.  It
became the fashion to go to Pastor's Opera House and later when
he moved to Broadway, and then up to Fourteenth Street, next to
Tammany Hall, he carried his clientele with him.  And vaudeville,
as a form of entertainment that appealed to every member of the
home circle, was firmly established--for a while.

[1] In the New York Clipper for December 19, 1914, there is an
interesting article:  "The Days of Tony Pastor," by Al.  Fostelle,
an old-time vaudeville performer, recounting the names of the
famous performers who played for Tony Pastor in the early days.
It reads like a "who's who" of vaudeville history.  Mr. Fostelle,
has in his collection a bill of an entertainment given in England
in 1723, consisting of singing, dancing, character impersonations,
with musical accompaniment, tight-rope walking, acrobatic feats,

For Pastor's success in New York did not at first seem to the
average vaudeville manager something that could be duplicated
everywhere.  A large part of the profits of the usual place came
from the sale of drinks and to forego this source of revenue seemed
suicidal.  Therefore, vaudeville as a whole continued for years
on the old plane.  "Variety" was the name--in England vaudeville
is still called "variety"--that it held even more widely then.
And in the later seventies and the early eighties "variety" was
on the ebb-tide.  It was classed even lower than the circus, from
which many of its recruits were drawn.

Among the men who came to vaudeville's rescue, because they saw
that to appear to the masses profitably, vaudeville must be clean,
were F. F. Proctor in Philadelphia, and B. F. Keith in Boston.
On Washington Street in Boston, B. F. Keith had opened a "store
show."  The room was very small and he had but a tiny stage; still
he showed a collection of curiosities, among which were a two-headed
calf and a fat woman.  Later on he added a singer and a serio-comic
comedian and insisted that they eliminate from their acts everything
that might offend the most fastidious.  The result was that he
moved to larger quarters and ten months later to still more
commodious premised.

Continuous vaudeville--"eleven o'clock in the morning until eleven
at night"--had its birth on July 6, 1885.  It struck the popular
fancy immediately and soon there was hardly a city of any importance
that did not possess its "continuous" house.  From the "continuous"
vaudeville has developed the two-performances-a-day policy, for
which vaudeville is now so well known.

The vaudeville entertainment of this generation is, however, a
vastly different entertainment from that of even the nineties.
What it has become in popular affection it owes not only to Tony
Pastor, F. F.  Proctor, or even to B. F. Keith--great as was his
influence--but to a host of showmen whose names and activities
would fill more space than is possible here.  E. F. Albee, Oscar
Hammerstein, S. Z. Poli, William Morris, Mike Shea, James E. Moore,
Percy G. Williams, Harry Davis, Morris Meyerfeld, Martin Beck,
John J. Murdock, Daniel F. Hennessy, Sullivan and Considine,
Alexander Pantages, Marcus Loew, Charles E. Kohl, Max Anderson,
Henry Zeigler, and George Castle, are but a few of the many men
living and dead who have helped to make vaudeville what it is.

From the old variety show, made up of a singer of topical songs,
an acrobatic couple, a tight-rope walker, a sidewalk "patter" pair,
and perhaps a very rough comedy sketch, there has developed a
performance that sometimes includes as many as ten or twelve acts,
each one presented by an artist whose name is known around the
world.  One of the laments of the old vaudeville performers is
that they have a place in vaudeville no more.  The most famous
grand opera singers and the greatest actors and actresses appear
in their room.  The most renowned dramatists write some of its
playlets.  The finest composers cut down their best-known works
to fit its stage, and little operas requiring forty people and
three or four sets of scenery are the result.  To the legitimate
[1] stage vaudeville has given some of its successful plays and
at least one grand opera has been expanded from a playlet.  To-day
a vaudeville performance is the best thought of the world condensed
to fit the flying hour.

[1] _Legitimate_ is a word used in the theatrical business to
distinguish the full-evening drama, its actors, producers, and its
mechanical stage from those of burlesque and vaudeville.  Originally
coined as a word of reproach against vaudeville, it has lost its
sting and is used by vaudevillians as well as legitimate actors
and managers.

2. Of What a Vaudeville Show is Made

There is no keener psychologist than a vaudeville manager.  Not
only does he present the best of everything that can be shown upon
a stage, but he so arranges the heterogeneous elements that they
combine to form a unified whole.  He brings his audiences together
by advertising variety and reputations, and he sends them away
aglow with the feeling that they have been entertained every minute.
His raw material is the best he can buy.  His finished product is
usually the finest his brain can form.  He engages Sarah Bernhardt,
Calve, a Sir James M. Barrie playlet, Ethel Barrymore, and Henry
Miller.  He takes one of them as the nucleus of a week's bill.
Then he runs over the names of such regular vaudevillians as Grace
La Rue, Nat Wills, Trixie Friganza, Harry Fox and Yansci Dollie,
Emma Carus, Sam and Kitty Morton, Walter C.  Kelly, Conroy and
LeMaire, Jack Wilson, Hyams and McIntyre, and Frank Fogarty.  He
selects two or maybe three of them.  Suddenly it occurs to him
that he hasn't a big musical "flash" for his bill, so he telephones
a producer like Jesse L. Lasky, Arthur Hopkins or Joe Hart and
asks him for one of his fifteen- or twenty-people acts.  This he
adds to his bill.  Then he picks a song-and-dance act and an
acrobatic turn.  Suddenly he remembers that he wants--not for this
show, but for some future week--Gertrude Hoffman with her big
company, or Eva Tanguay all by herself.  This off his mind, the
manager lays out his show--if it is the standard nine-act
bill--somewhat after the following plan, as George A. Gottlieb,
who books Keith's Palace Theatre, New York, shows--probably the
best and certainly the "biggest" vaudeville entertainments seen
in this country--has been good enough to explain.

"We usually select a 'dumb act' for the first act on the bill.
It may be a dancing act, some good animal act, or any act that
makes a good impression and will not be spoiled by the late arrivals
seeking their seats.  Therefore it sometimes happens that we make
use of a song-and-dance turn, or any other little act that does
not depend on its words being heard.

"For number two position we select an interesting act of the sort
recognized as a typical 'vaudeville act.' It may be almost anything
at all, though it should be more entertaining than the first act.
For this reason it often happens that a good man-and-woman singing
act is placed here.  This position on the bill is to 'settle' the
audience and to prepare it for the show.

"With number three position we count on waking up the audience.
The show has been properly started and from now on it must build
right up to the finish.  So we offer a comedy dramatic sketch--a
playlet that wakens the interest and holds the audience every
minute with a culminative effect that comes to its laughter-climax
at the 'curtain,' or any other kind of act that is not of the same
order as the preceding turn, so that, having laid the foundations,
we may have the audience wondering what is to come next.

"For number four position we must have a 'corker' of an act--and
a 'name.' It must be the sort of act that will rouse the audience
to expect still better things, based on the fine performance of
the past numbers.  Maybe this act is the first big punch of the
show; anyway, it must strike home and build up the interest for
the act that follows.

"And here for number five position, a big act, and at the same
time another big name, must be presented.  Or it might be a big
dancing act--one of those delightful novelties vaudeville likes
so well.  In any event this act must be as big a 'hit' as any on
the bill.  It is next to intermission and the audience must have
something really worth while to talk over.  And so we select one
of the best acts on the bill to crown the first half of the show.

"The first act after intermission, number six on the bill, is a
difficult position to fill, because the act must not let down the
carefully built-up tension of interest and yet it must not be
stronger than the acts that are to follow.  Very likely there is
chosen a strong vaudeville specialty, with comedy well to the fore.
Perhaps a famous comedy dumb act is selected, with the intention
of getting the audience back in its seats without too many conspicuous
interruptions of what is going on on the stage.  Any sort of act
that makes a splendid start-off is chosen, for there has been a
fine first half and the second half must be built up again--of
course the process is infinitely swifter in the second half of the
show--and the audience brought once more into a delighted-expectant

"Therefore the second act after intermission--number seven--must
be stronger than the first.  It is usually a full-stage act and
again must be another big name.  Very likely it is a big playlet,
if another sketch has not been presented earlier on the bill.  It
may be a comedy playlet or even a serious dramatic playlet, if the
star is a fine actor or actress and the name is well known.  Or
it may be anything at all that builds up the interest and appreciation
of the audience to welcome the 'big' act that follows.  "For here
in number eight position--next to closing, on a nine-act bill--the
comedy hit of the show is usually placed.  It is one of the acts
for which the audience has been waiting.  Usually it is one of the
famous 'single' man or 'single' women acts that vaudeville has
made such favorites.

"And now we have come to the act that closes the show.  We count
on the fact that some of the audience will be going out.  Many
have only waited to see the chief attraction of the evening, before
hurrying off to their after-theatre supper and dance.  So we spring
a big 'flash.' It must be an act that does not depend for its
success upon being heard perfectly.  Therefore a 'sight' act is
chosen, an animal act maybe, to please the children, or a Japanese
troupe with their gorgeous kimonos and vividly harmonizing stage
draperies, or a troupe of white-clad trapeze artists flying against
a background of black.  Whatever the act is, it must be a showy
act, for it closes the performance and sends the audience home
pleased with the program to the very last minute.

"Now all the time a booking-manager is laying out his show, he has
not only had these many artistic problems on his mind, but also
the mechanical working of the show.  For instance, he must consider
the actual physical demands of his stage and not place next each
other two full-stage acts.  If he did, how would the stage hands
change the scenery without causing a long and tedious wait?  In
vaudeville there must be no waits.  Everything must run with
unbroken stride.  One act must follow another as though it were
especially made for the position.  And the entire show must be
dovetailed to the split seconds of a stop-watch.

"Therefore it is customary to follow an 'act in One' (See below)
with an act requiring Full Stage.  Then after the curtain has
fallen on this act, an act comes on to play in One again.  A show
can, of course, start with a full-stage act, and the alternation
process remains the same.  Or there may be an act that can open
in One and then go into Full Stage--after having given the stage
hands time to set their scenery--or vice versa, close in One.
Briefly, the whole problem is simply this--acts must be arranged
not only in the order of their interest value, but also according
to their physical demands.

"But there is still another problem the manager must solve. 'Variety'
is vaudeville's paternal name--vaudeville must present a _varied_
bill and a show consisting of names that will tend to have a
box-office appeal.  No two acts in a show should be alike.  No two
can be permitted to conflict. 'Conflict' is a word that falls with
ominous meaning on a vaudeville performer's or manager's ears,
because it means death to one of the acts and injury to the show
as a whole.  If two famous singing 'single' women were placed on
the same bill, very likely there would be odious comparisons--even
though they did not use songs that were alike.  And however
interesting each might be, both would lose in interest.  And yet,
sometimes we do just this thing--violating a minor rule to win a
great big box-office appeal.

"Part of the many sides of this delicate problem may be seen when
you consider that no two 'single' singing acts should be placed
next each other--although they may not conflict if they are placed
far apart on the bill.  And no two 'quiet' acts may be placed
together.  The tempo of the show must be maintained--and because
tragic playlets, and even serious playlets, are suspected of
'slowing up a show,' they are not booked unless very exceptional."

These are but a few of the many sides of the problem of what is
called "laying out a show."  A command of the art of balancing a
show is a part of the genius of a great showman.  It is a gift.
It cannot be analyzed.  A born showman lays out his bill, not by
rule, but by feeling.

3. The Writer's Part in a Vaudeville Show

In preparing the raw material from which the manager makes up his
show, the writer may play many parts.  He may bear much of the
burden of entertainment, as in a playlet, or none of the responsibility,
as in the average dumb act.  And yet, he may write the pantomimic
story that pleases the audience most.  Indeed, the writer may be
everything in a vaudeville show, and always his part is an important

Of course the trained seals do not need a dramatist to lend them
interest, nor does the acrobat need his skill; but without the
writer what would the actress be, and without the song-smith, what
would the singer sing?  And even the animal trainer may utilize
the writer to concoct his "line of talk."  The monologist, who of
all performers seems the most independent of the author, buys his
merriest stories, his most up-to-the-instant jests, ready-made
from the writer who works like a marionette's master pulling the
strings.  The two-act, which sometimes seems like a funny impromptu
fight, is the result of the writer's careful thinking.  The
flirtatious couple who stroll out on the stage to make everyone
in the audience envious, woo Cupid through the brain of their
author.  And the musical comedy, with its strong combination of
nearly everything; is but the embodied flight of the writer's
fancy.  In fact, the writer supplies much of the life-blood of a
vaudeville show.  Without him modern vaudeville could not live.

Thus, much of the present wide popularity of vaudeville is due to
the writer.  It is largely owing to the addition of his thoughts
that vaudeville stands to-day as a greater influence--because it
has a wider appeal--than the legitimate drama in the make-believe
life of the land.  Even the motion pictures, which are nearer the
eyes of the masses, are not nearer their hearts.  Vaudeville was
the first to foster motion pictures and vaudeville still accords
the motion picture the place it deserves on its bills.  For
vaudeville is the amusement weekly of the world--it gathers and
presents each week the best the world affords in entertainment.
And much of the best comes from the writer's brain.

Because mechanical novelties that are vaudeville-worth-while are
rare, and because acrobats and animal trainers are of necessity
limited by the frailties of the flesh, and for the reason that
dancers cannot forever present new steps, it remains for the writer
to bring to vaudeville the never-ceasing novelty of his thoughts.
New songs, new ideas, new stories, new dreams are what vaudeville
demands from the writer.  Laughter that lightens the weary day is
what is asked for most.

It is in the fulfilling of vaudeville's fine mission that writers
all over the world are turning out their best.  And because the
mission of vaudeville is fine, the writing of anything that is not
fine is contemptible.  The author who tries to turn his talents
to base uses--putting an untrue emphasis on life's false values,
picturing situations that are not wholesome, using words that are
not clean--deserves the fate of failure that awaits him.  As E.
F. Albee, who for years has been a controlling force in vaudeville,
wrote:  [1] "We have no trouble in keeping vaudeville clean and
wholesome, unless it is with some act that is just entering, for
the majority of the performers are jealous of the respectable name
that vaudeville has to-day, and cry out themselves against
besmirchment by others."

[1] "The Future of the Show Business," by E. F. Albee, in The
Billboard for December 19, 1914.

Reality and truth are for what the vaudeville writer strives.  The
clean, the fine, the wholesome is his goal.  He finds in the many
theatres all over the land a countless audience eager to hear what
he has to say.  And millions are invested to help him say it well.



"I became a writer," George Bernard Shaw once said, "because I
wanted to get a living without working for it--I have since realized
my mistake."  Anyone who thinks that by writing for vaudeville he
can get a living without working for it is doomed to a sad and
speedy awakening.

If I were called upon to give a formula for the creation of a
successful vaudeville writer, I would specify:  The dramatic genius
of a Shakespere, the diplomatic craftiness of a Machiavelli, the
explosive energy of a Roosevelt, and the genius-for-long-hours of
an Edison:  mix in equal proportions, add a dash of Shaw's impudence,
all the patience of Job, and keep boiling for a lifetime over the
seething ambition of Napoleon.

In other--and less extreme--words, if you contemplate writing for
vaudeville for your bread and butter, you must bring to the business,
if not genius, at least the ability to think, and if not boundless
energy, at any rate a determination never to rest content with the
working hours of the ordinary professions.

If you suppose that the mere reading of this book is going to make
you able to think, permit me gently to disillusion you; and if you
are imbued with the flattering faith that after studying these
chapters you will suddenly be able to sit down and write a successful
playlet, monologue, two-act, musical comedy libretto, or even a
good little "gag," in the words of classic vaudeville--forget it!
All this book can do for you--all any instruction can do--is to
show you the right path, show precisely _how_ others have successfully
essayed it, and wish you luck.  Do you remember the brave lines
of W. E. Henley, the blind English poet:

Out of the night that covers me,
  Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
  For my unconquerable soul.

And again in the same poem, "Invictus":

I am the master of my fate:
  I am the captain of my soul.

There sings the spirit that will carry a writer to success in
vaudeville or in any other line of writing; and it is this inspired
attitude you should assume toward the present book of instruction.

These chapters, carefully designed and painstakingly arranged,
contain information and suggestions which, if studied and applied
by the right person, will help him to a mastery of vaudeville
writing.  But they should be viewed not as laying down rules, only
as being suggestive.  This book cannot teach you how to write--with
its aid you may be able to teach yourself.

Are you the sort of person likely to make a success of writing for
vaudeville?  You, alone, can determine.  But the following discussion
of some of the elements of equipment which anyone purposing to
write for vaudeville should possess, may help you find the answer.

1. Experience in Other Forms of Writing Valuable

Let us suppose that you have been engaged in writing for a newspaper
for years.  You started as a reporter and because of your unusual
ability in the handling of political news have made politics your
specialty.  You have been doing nothing but politics until politics
seems to be all you know.  Suddenly the sporting editor falls ill,
and at the moment there is no one to take his place but you.  Your
assistant takes over your work and you are instructed to turn out
a daily page of sporting news.

If you knew nothing at all about writing you would find the task
nearly impossible to accomplish.  But you do know how to write and
therefore the mere writing does not worry you.  And your experience
as a special writer on politics has taught you that there are
certain points all special newspaper work has in common and you
apply your knowledge to the task before you.

Still you are seriously handicapped for a time because you have
been thinking in terms of politics.  But soon, by turning all your
energy and ability upon your new subject, you learn to think in
terms of sport.  And, if you are a better thinker and a better
writer than the old sporting editor, it won't be long before you
turn out a better sporting page than he did.  If you were the owner
of the newspaper, which, in the emergency, would you choose to be
your sporting editor:  the untried man who has never demonstrated
his ability to write, the reporter who has no knowledge of special
writing, or the trained writer who has mastered one specialty and,
it may reasonably be supposed, will master another quickly?  The
same care you would exercise in choosing another man to work for
you, you should exercise in choosing your own work for yourself.

Do you know how to write?  Do you write with ease and find pleasure
in the work?  If you do, class yourself with the reporter.

What success have you had in writing fiction?  Have you written
successful novels or short-stories?  If you have, class yourself
with the special writer.  Did you ever write a play?  Was your
full-evening play accepted and successful?  If you have written a
play and if your play was a success, class yourself with the
sporting editor himself--but as one who has made a success in only
one specialty in the realm of sport.

For, those who have had some success in other forms of writing--even
the successful playwright--and those who never have written even
a salable joke, all have to learn the slightly different form of
the vaudeville act.

But, having once learned the form and become perfectly familiar
with vaudeville's peculiar requirements, the dramatist and the
trained fiction writer will outstrip the untrained novice.  Remember
that the tortoise was determined, persistent, and energetic.

2. Ability to Think in Drama and Technical Knowledge of the Stage

The dramatist and the trained fiction writer possess imagination,
they think in plots, they have learned how to picture vivid,
dramatic incidents, and they know a story when it comes up and
taps them on the shoulder.  Furthermore, they know where to look
for ideas, and how to twist them to plot uses.  In every one of
these points of special knowledge both the dramatist and the trained
fiction writer have the advantage over the untrained novice, for
the essence of all vaudeville writing lies in plot--which is

But there is a wide difference between being able to think in a
story-plot and in drama, and in this the playwright who has produced
a full-evening play has the advantage over even the trained fiction
writer when it comes to applying his dramatic knowledge to vaudeville.
Precisely what the difference is, and what drama itself is--especially
that angle of the art to be found in vaudeville--will be taken up
and explained as clearly as the ideas admit of explanation, in the
following pages.  But not on one page, nor even in a whole chapter,
will the definition of drama be found, for pulsating life cannot
be bound by words.  However, by applying the rules and heeding the
suggestions herein contained, you will be able to understand the
"why" of the drama that you feel when you witness it upon the
stage.  The ability to think in drama means being able to see drama
and bring it fresh and new and gripping to the stage.

Of course drama is nothing more than story presented by a different
method than that employed in the short-story and the novel.  Yet
the difference in methods is as great as the difference between
painting and sculpture.  Indeed the novel-writer's methods have
always seemed to me analogous to those employed by the painter,
and the dramatist's methods similar to those used by the sculptor.
And I have marvelled at the nonchalant way in which the fiction
writer often rushes into the writing of a play, when a painter
would never think of trying to "sculpt" until he had learned at
least some of the very different processes employed in the strange
art-form of sculpture.  The radical difference between writing and
playwrighting [1] has never been popularly understood, but some
day it will be comprehended by everybody as clearly as by those
whose business it is to make plays.

[1] Note the termination of the word _playwright_.  A "wright" is
a workman in some mechanical business.  Webster's dictionary says:
"Wright is used chiefly in compounds, as, figuratively, playwright."
It is significant that the playwright is compelled to rely for
nearly all his effects upon purely mechanical means.

An intimate knowledge of the stage itself is necessary for success
in the writing of plays.  The dramatist must know precisely what
means, such as scenery, sound-effects, and lights--the hundred
contributing elements of a purely mechanical nature at his command--
he can employ to construct his play to mimic reality.  In the
present commercial position of the stage such knowledge is
absolutely necessary, or the writer may construct an act that
cannot possibly win a production, because he has made use of
scenes that are financially out of the question, even if they are
artistically possible.

This is a fundamental knowledge that every person who would write
for the stage must possess.  It ranks with the "a b c" course in
the old common school education, and yet nearly every novice
overlooks it in striving after the laurel wreaths of dramatic
success that are impossible without it.  And, precisely in the
degree that stage scenery is different from nature's scenes, is
the way people must talk upon the stage different from the way
they talk on the street.  The method of stage speech--_what_ is
said, not _how_ it is said--is best expressed in the definition
of all art, which is summed up in the one word "suppression."  Not
what to put in, but what to leave out, is the knowledge the
playwright--in common with all other artists--must possess.  The
difference in methods between writing a novel and writing a play
lies in the difference in the scenes and speeches that must be
left out, as well as in the descriptions of scenery and moods of
character that everyone knows cannot be expressed in a play by

Furthermore, the playwright is working with _spoken_, not _written_,
words, therefore he must know something about the art of acting,
if he would achieve the highest success.  He must know not only
how the words he writes will sound when they are spoken, but he
must also know how he can make gestures and glances take the place
of the volumes they can be made to speak.

Therefore of each one of the different arts that are fused into
the composite art of the stage, the playwright must have intimate
knowledge.  Prove the truth of this statement for yourself by
selecting at random any play you have liked and inquiring into the
technical education of its author.  The chances are scores to one
that the person who wrote that play has been closely connected
with the stage for years.  Either he was an actor, a theatrical
press agent, a newspaper man, a professional play-reader for some
producer, or gained special knowledge of the stage through a
dramatic course at college or by continual attendance at the theatre
and behind the scenes.  It is only by acquiring _special_ knowledge
of one of the most difficult of arts that anyone may hope to achieve

3. A Familiar Knowledge of Vaudeville and its Special Stage Necessary

It is strange but true that a writer able to produce a successful
vaudeville playlet often writes a successful full-evening play,
but that only in rare instances do full-evening dramatists produce
successful vaudeville playlets.  Clyde Fitch wrote more than
fifty-four long plays in twenty years, and yet his "Frederic
Lemaitre," used by Henry Miller in vaudeville, was not a true
vaudeville playlet--merely a short play--and achieved its success
simply because Fitch wrote it and Miller played it with consummate

The vaudeville playlet and the play that is merely short, are
separate art forms, they are precisely and as distinctly different
as the short-story and the story that is merely short.  It is only
within the last few years that Brander Matthews drew attention to
the artistic isolation of the short-story; and J. Berg Esenwein,
in his very valuable work [1], established the truth so that all
might read and know it.  For years I have contended for the
recognition of the playlet as an art form distinct from the play
that is short.

[1] Writing the Short-Story, by J. Berg Esenwein, published uniform
with this volume, in, "The Writer's Library."

And what is true of the peculiar difference of the playlet form
is, in a lesser measure, true of the monologue, the two-act, and
the one-act musical comedy.  They are all different from their
sisters and brothers that are found as integral parts of full-evening

To recognize these forms as distinct, to learn what material [2]
best lends itself to them and how it may be turned into the most
natural and efficient form, requires a special training different
from that necessary for the writing of plays for the legitimate

[2] The word _material_ in vaudeville means manuscript material.
To write vaudeville material is to write monologues and playlets
and the other forms of stage speech used in vaudeville acts.

But not only is there a vast difference between the material and
the art forms of the legitimate and the vaudeville stage, there
is also a great difference in their playing stages.  The arrangements
of the vaudeville stage, its lights and scenery, are all unique,
as are even the playing spaces and mechanical equipment.

Therefore the author must know the mechanical aids peculiar to his
special craft, as well as possess a familiar knowledge of the
material that vaudeville welcomes and the unique forms into which
that material must be cast.

4. What Chance Has the Beginner?

The "gentle reader" who has read thus far certainly has not been
deterred by the emphasis--not undue emphasis, by the way--placed
on the value of proved ability in other forms of writing to one
who would write for vaudeville.  That he has not been discouraged
by what has been said--if he is a novice--proves that he is not
easily downcast.  If he has been discouraged--even if he has read
this far simply from curiosity--proves that he is precisely the
person who should not waste his time trying to write for vaudeville.
Such a person is one who ought to ponder his lack of fitness for
the work in hand and turn all his energies into his own business.
Many a good clerk, it has been truly said, has been wasted in a
poor writer.

But, while emphasis has been laid upon the value of training in
other forms of literary work, the emphasis has been placed not on
purely literary skill, but on the possession of ideas and the
training necessary to turn the ideas to account.  It is "up to"
the ambitious beginner, therefore, to analyze the problem for
himself and to decide if he possesses the peculiar qualifications
that can by great energy and this special training place him upon
a par with the write who has made a success in other forms of
literary work.  For there is a sense in which no literary training
is really necessary for success in vaudeville writing.

If the amateur has an imaginative mind, the innate ability to see
and turn to his own uses an interesting and coherent story, and
is possessed of the ability to think in drama, and, above all, has
the gift of humor, he can write good vaudeville material, even if
he has not education or ability to write an acceptable poem, article
or short-story.  In other words, a mastery of English prose or
verse is not necessary for success in vaudeville writing.  Some
of the most successful popular songs, the most successful playlets,
and other vaudeville acts, have been written by men unable to write
even a good letter.

But the constant advancement in excellence demanded of vaudeville
material, both by the managers and the public, is gradually making
it profitable for only the best-educated, specially-trained writers
to undertake this form of work.  The old, illiterate, rough-and-ready
writer is passing, in a day when the "coon shouter" has given the
headline-place to Calve and Melba, and every dramatic star has
followed Sarah Bernhardt into the "two-a-day." [1]

[1] The _two-a-day_ is stage argot for vaudeville.  It comes from
the number of performances the actor "does," for in vaudeville
there are two shows every day, six or seven days a week.

Nevertheless, in this sense the novice needs no literary training.
If he can see drama in real life and feels how it can be turned
into a coherent, satisfying story, he can learn how to apply that
story to the peculiar requirements of vaudeville.  But no amount
of instruction can supply this inborn ability.  The writer himself
must be the master of his fate, the captain of his own dramatic



To achieve success in any art the artist must know his tools and
for what purposes they are designed.  Furthermore, to achieve the
highest success, he must know what he cannot do as well as what
he can do with them.

The vaudeville stage--considered as a material thing--lends itself
to only a few definite possibilities of use, and its scenery,
lights and stage-effects constitute the box of tools the vaudeville
writer has at his command.


The footlights are the equator of the theatre, separating the
"front of the house," or auditorium, from the "back of the house,"
or stage.  The frame through which the audience views the stage
is the "proscenium arch."  Flat against the stage side of the arch
run the "house curtain" and the asbestos curtain that are raised
at the beginning and lowered at the end of the performance.

That portion of the stage which lies between the curving footlights
and a line drawn between the bases of the proscenium arch is called
the "apron."  The apron is very wide in old-fashioned theatres,
but is seldom more than two or three feet wide in recently built

1. One

Back of the proscenium arch--four feet or more behind it--you have
noticed canvas-covered wings painted in neutral-toned draperies
to harmonize with every sort of curtain, and you have noticed that
they are pushed forward or drawn back as it is found necessary to
widen or make narrow the stage opening.  These first wings, called
"tormentors," [1] extend upward from the floor--anywhere from
18 to 25 feet,--to the "Grand Drapery" and "Working Drapery," or
first "border," which extend and hang just in front of them across
the stage and hide the stage-rigging from the audience.  The space
lying between the tormentors and a line drawn between the bases
of the proscenium arch is called "One."

[1] No one of the score I have asked for the origin of the word
_tormentor_ has been able to give it.  They all say they have asked
old-time stage-carpenters, but even they did not know.

It is in One that monologues, most "single acts"--that is, acts
presented by one person--and many "two-acts"--acts requiring but
two people--are played.

Behind the tormentors is a curtain called the "olio," which
fulfills the triple purpose of hiding the rest of the stage, serving
as scenery for acts in One and often as a curtain to raise and
lower on acts playing in the space back of One.

2. Two

Five, or six, or even seven feet behind the tormentors you have
noticed another set of wings which--extending parallel with the
tormentors--serve to mask the rest of stage.  The space between
these wings and the line of the olio is called "Two."

In Two, acts such as flirtation-acts--a man and a woman playing
lover-like scenes--which use scenery or small "props," and all
other turns requiring but a small playing space, are staged.

3. Three

An equal number of feet back of the wings that bound Two, are wings
that serve as boundaries for "Three."

In Three, playlets that require but shallow sets, and other acts
that need not more than twelve feet for presentation, are played.

4. Four or Full Stage

Behind the wings that bound Three are another pair of wings, set
an equal number of feet back, which serve as the boundaries of
"Four."  But, as there are rarely more than four entrances on any
stage, Four is usually called "Full Stage."

In Full Stage are presented all acts such as acrobatic acts, animal
turns, musical comedies, playlets and other pretentious acts that
require deep sets and a wide playing space.

5. Bare Stage

Sometimes the very point of a playlet depends upon showing not the
conventional stage, as it is commonly seen, but the real stage as
it is, unset with scenery; therefore sometimes the entire stage
is used as the playing stage, and then in the vernacular it is
called "Bare Stage." [1]

[1] The New Leader, written by Aaron Hoffman and played for so
many years by Sam Mann & Company, is an excellent example of a
Bare Stage act.

On the opposite page is a diagram of the stage of Keith's Palace
Theatre, New York City.  A comparison of the preceding definitions
with this diagram should give a clear understanding of the vaudeville
playing stage.


At audience-right--or stage-left--flat against the extended wall
of the proscenium arch in the First Entrance (to One) there is
usually a signal-board equipped with push buttons presided over
by the stage-manager.  The stage-manager is the autocrat behind
the scenes.  His duty is to see that the program is run smoothly
without the slightest hitch or wait between acts and to raise and
lower the olio, or to signal the act-curtain up or down, on
cues. [2]

[2] A _cue_ is a certain word or action regarded as the signal for
some other speech or action by another actor, or the signal for
the lights to change or a bell to ring or something to happen
during the course of a dramatic entertainment.



The author wishes to express his thanks to Mr. Elmer F. Rogers,
house-manager, and Mr. William Clark, stage-manager, respectively,
of the Palace Theatre, for the careful measurements from which
this diagram was drawn.

When an act is ready to begin, the stage-manager pushes a button
to signal the olio up or raises it himself--if, that drop [1] is
worked from the stage--and on the last cue he pushes another button
to signal the curtain down, or lowers it himself, as the case may
be.  He keeps time on the various acts and sees that the performers
are ready when their turn arrives.  Under the stage-manager are
the various departments to which the working of scenery and effects
are entrusted.

[1] A _drop_ is the general name for a curtain of canvas--painted
to represent some scene and stretched on a batten--a long, thick
strip of wood--pocketed in the lower end to give the canvas the
required stability. _Sets of lines_ are tied to the upper batten
on which the drop is tied and thus the drop can be raised or lowered
to its place on the stage.  There are sets of lines in the rear
boundaries of One, Two, Three and Four, and drops can be _hung_
on any desired set.

1. The Stage-Carpenter and His Flymen and Grips

As a rule the stage-manager is also the stage-carpenter.  As such
he, the wizard of scenery, has charge of the men, and is able to
erect a palace, construct a tenement, raise a garden or a forest,
or supply you with a city street in an instant.

Up on the wall of the stage, just under a network of iron called
the "gridiron"--on which there are innumerable pulleys through
which run ropes or "lines" that carry the scenery--there is, in
the older houses, a balcony called the "fly-gallery."  Into the
fly-gallery run the ends of all the lines that are attached to the
counter-weighted drops and curtains; and in the gallery are the
flymen who pull madly on these ropes to lift or lower the curtains
and drops when the signal flashes under the finger of the stage-manager
at the signal-board below.  But in the newer houses nearly all
drops and scenery are worked from the stage level, and the
fly-gallery--if there is one--is deserted.  When a "set" is to be
made, the stage-carpenter takes his place in the centre of the
stage and claps his hands a certain number of times to make his
men understand which particular set is wanted--if the sequence of
the sets has not yet been determined and written down for the
flymen to follow in definite order.  Then the flymen lower a drop
to its place on the stage and the "grips" push out the "flats"
that make the wall of a room or the wings that form the scenery
of a forest--or whatever the set may be.

2. The Property-Man and His Assistants

Into the mimic room that the grips are setting comes the
Property-man--"Props," in stage argot--with his assistants, who
place in the designated positions the furniture, bric-a-brac,
pianos, and other properties, that the story enacted in this room

After the act has been presented and the curtain has been rung
down, the order to "strike" is given and the clearers run in and
take away all the furniture and properties, while the property-man
substitutes the new furniture and properties that are needed.
This is done at the same time the grips and fly men are changing
the scenery.  No regiment is better trained in its duties.  The
property-man of the average vaudeville theatre is a hard-worked
chap.  Beside being an expert in properties, he must be something
of an actor, for if there is an "extra man" needed in a playlet
with a line or two to speak, it is on him that the duty falls.
He must be ready on the instant with all sorts of effects, such
as glass-crashes and wood-crashes, when a noise like a man being
thrown downstairs or through a window is required, or if a doorbell
or a telephone-bell must ring at a certain instant on a certain
cue, or the noise of thunder, the wash of the sea on the shore,
or any one of a hundred other effects be desired.

3. The Electrician

Upon the electrician fall all the duties of Jove in the delicate
matter of making the sun to shine or the moon to cast its pale
rays over a lover's scene.  Next to the stage-manager's signal-board,
or in a gallery right over it, or perhaps on the other side of the
stage, stands the electric switch-board.  From here all the stage
lights and the lights in the auditorium and all over the front of
the house are operated.

From the footlights with their red and white and blue and vari-tinted
bulbs, to the borders that light the scenery from above, the
bunch-lights that shed required lights through windows, the
grate-logs, the lamps and chandeliers that light the mimic rooms
themselves, and the spot-light operated by the man in the haven
of the gallery gods out front, all are under the direction of the
electrician who sits up in his little gallery and makes the moonlight
suddenly give place to blazing sunlight on a cue.

It is to the stage-manager and the stage-carpenter, the property-man
and the electrician, that are due the working of the stage miracles
that delight us in the theatres.


In the ancient days before even candles were invented--the rush-light
days of Shakespere and his predecessors--plays were presented in
open court-yards or, as in France, in tennis-courts in the broad
daylight.  A proscenium arch was all the scenery usually thought
necessary in these outdoor performances, and when the plays were
given indoors even the most realistic scenery would have been of
little value in the rush-lit semi-darkness.  Then, indeed, the
play was the thing.  A character walked into the STORY and out of
it again; and "place" was left to the imagination of the audience,
aided by the changing of a sign that stated where the story had
chosen to move itself.

As the centuries rolled along, improvements in lighting methods
made indoor theatrical presentations more common and brought scenery
into effective use.  The invention of the kerosene lamp and later
the invention of gas brought enough light upon the stage to permit
the actor to step back from the footlights into a wider working-space
set with the rooms and streets of real life.  Then with the electric
light came the scenic revolution that emancipated the stage forever
from enforced gloomy darkness, permitted the actor's expressive
face to be seen farther back from the footlights, and made of the
proscenium arch the frame of a picture.

"It is for this picture-frame stage that every dramatist is composing
his plays," Brander Matthews says; "and his methods are of necessity
those of the picture-frame stage; just as the methods of the
Elizabethan dramatic poet were of necessity those of the platform
stage."  And on the same page:  The influence of the realistic
movement of the middle of the nineteenth century imposed on the
stage-manager the duty of making every scene characteristic of the
period and of the people, and of relating the characters closely
to their environment." [1]

[1] The Study of the Drama, Brander Matthews.

On the vaudeville stage to-day, when all the sciences and the arts
have come to the aid of the drama, there is no period nor place,
nor even a feeling of atmosphere, that cannot be reproduced with
amazing truth and beauty of effect.  Everything in the way of
scenery is artistically possible, from the squalid room of the
tenement-dweller to the blossoming garden before the palace of a
king--but artistic possibility and financial advisability are two
very different things.

If an act is designed to win success by spectacular appeal, there
is no doubt that it is good business for the producer to spend as
much money as is necessary to make his effects more beautiful and
more amazing than anything ever before seen upon the stage.  But
even here he must hold his expenses down to the minimum that will
prove a good investment, and what he may spend is dependent on
what the vaudeville managers will pay for the privilege of showing
that act in their houses.

But it is not worth spectacular acts that the vaudeville writer
has particularly to deal.  His problem is not compounded of
extravagant scenery, gorgeous properties, trick-scenes and
light-effects.  Like Shakespere, for him the play--the story--is
the thing.  The problem he faces is an embarrassment of riches.
With everything artistically possible, what is financially advisable?

1. The Successful Writer's Attitude toward Scenery

The highest praise a vaudevillian can conjure up out of his vast
reservoir of enthusiastic adjectives to apply to any act is, "It
can be played in the alley and knock 'em cold."  In plain English
he means, the STORY is so good that it doesn't require scenery.

Scenery, in the business of vaudeville--please note the word
"business"--has no artistic meaning.  If the owner of a dwelling
house could rent his property with the rooms unpapered and the
woodwork unpainted, he would gladly do so and pocket the saving,
wouldn't he?  In precisely the same spirit the vaudeville-act owner
would sell his act without going to the expense of buying and
transporting scenery, if he could get the same price for it.  To
the vaudevillian scenery is a business investment.

Because he can get more money for his act if it is properly mounted
in a pleasing picture, the vaudeville producer invests in scenery.
But he has to figure closely, just as every other business man is
compelled to scheme and contrive in dollars and cents, or the
business asset of scenery will turn into a white elephant and eat
up all his profits.

Jesse L. Lasky, whose many pleasing musical acts will be remembered,
had many a near-failure at the beginning of his vaudeville-producing
career because of his artistic leaning toward the beautiful in
stage setting.  His subsequent successes were no less pleasing
because he learned the magic of the scenery mystery.  Lasky is but
one example, and were it not that the names of vaudeville acts are
but fleeting memories, dimmed and eclipsed by the crowded impressions
of many acts seen at one sitting, there might be given an amazing
list of beautiful little entertainments that have failed because
of the transportation cost of the scenery they required.

When a producer is approached with a request to read a vaudeville
act he invariably asks, "What scenery?"  His problem is in two

1. He must decide whether the merits of the act, itself, justify
him in investing his money in scenery on the gamble that the act
will be a success.

2. If the act proves a success, can the scenery be transported
from town to town at so low a cost that the added price he can get
for the act will allow a gross profit large enough to repay the
original cost of the scenery and leave a net profit?

An experience of my own in producing a very small act--small enough
to be in the primary class--may be as amusing as it is typical.
My partners and I decided to put out a quartet.  We engaged four
good singers, two of them men, and two women.  I wrote the little
story that introduced them in a humorous way and we set to work
rehearsing.  At the same time the scenic artist hung three nice
big canvases on his paint frames and laid out a charming street-scene
in the Italian Quarter of Anywhere, the interior of a squalid
tenement and the throne room of a palace.

The first drop was designed to be hung behind the Olio--for the
act opened in One--and when the Olio went up, after the act's name
was hung out, the lights dimmed to the blue and soft green of
evening in the Quarter.  Then the soprano commenced singing, the
tenor took up the duet, and they opened the act by walking
rhythmically with the popular ballad air to stage-centre in the
amber of the spot-light.  When the duet was finished, on came the
baritone, and then the contralto, and there was a little comedy
before they sang their first quartet number.

Then the first drop was lifted in darkness and the scene changed
to the interior of the squalid tenement in which the pathos of the
little story unfolded, and a characteristic song was sung.  At
length the scene changed to the throne room of the palace, where
the plot resolved itself into happiness and the little opera closed
with the "Quartet from Rigoletto."

The act was a success; it never received less than five bows and
always took two encores.  But we paid three hundred and fifty
dollars for those miracles of drops, my partners and I, and we
used them only one week.

In the first place, the drops were too big for the stage on which
we "tried out" the act.  We could not use them there and played
before the house street-drop and in the house palace set.  The act
went very well.  We shipped the drops at length-rates--as all
scenery is charged for by expressmen and railroads--to the next
town.  There we used them and the act went better.  It was a
question whether the bigger success was due to the smoother working
of the act or to the beautiful drops.

The price for which the act was playing at that breaking-in period
led me to ponder the cost of transporting the drops in their
rolled-up form on the battens.  Therefore when I was informed that
the stage in the next town was a small one, I had a bright idea.
I ordered the stage-carpenter to take the drops from their battens,
discard the battens, and put pockets on the lower ends of the drops
and equip the upper ends with tie ropes so the drops could be tied
on the battens used in the various houses.  The drops would then
fit small or large stages equally well and could be folded up into
a small enough space to tuck in a trunk and save all the excess
transportation charges.

Of course the drops folded up all right, but they unfolded in chips
of scaled-off paint.  In the excitement, or the desire to "take a
chance," I had not given a thought to the plain fact that the drops
were not aniline.  They were doomed to chip in time anyway, and
folding only hastened their end.  Still, we received just as much
money for the act all the time we were playing it, as though we
had carried the beautiful drops.

Now comes the third lesson of this incident:  Although we were
precisely three hundred and sixty-eight dollars "out" on account
of the drops, we really saved money in the end because we were
forced to discard them.  The local union of the International
Association of Theatrical Stage Employees--Stage Hands' Union,
for short--tried to assess me in the town where we first used the
drops, for the salary of a stage-carpenter.  According to their
then iron-clad rule, before which managers had to bow, the scenery
of every act carrying as many as three drops on battens had to be
hung and taken down by the act's own stage-carpenter--at forty
dollars a week.  They could not collect from such an act today
because the rules have been changed, but our act was liable, under
the old rules, and I evaded it only by diplomacy.  But even to-day
every act that carries a full set of scenery--such as a playlet
requiring a special set--must carry its own stage-carpenter.

Therefore, to the problem of original cost and transportation
expense, now add the charge of forty dollars a week against
scenery--and an average of five dollars a week extra railroad fare
for the stage-carpenter--and you begin to perceive why a vaudeville
producer asks, when you request him to read an act:  "What scenery?"

There is no intention of decrying the use of special scenery in
vaudeville.  Some of the very best and most profitable acts, even
aside from great scenic one-act dramas like "The System," [1] would
be comparatively valueless without their individual sets.  And
furthermore the use of scenery, with the far-reaching possibilities
of the special set in all its beauty and--on this side of the
water--hitherto unrealized effectiveness, has not yet even approached
its noon.  Together with the ceaseless advance of the art of
mounting a full-evening play on the legitimate stage [2] will go
the no less artistic vaudeville act.  But, for the writer anxious
to make a success of vaudeville writing, the special set should
be decried.  Indeed, the special set ought not to enter into the
writer's problem at all.

[1] See Appendix.  [2] The Theatre of To-Day, Hiram Kelly Moderwell's
book on the modem theatre, will repay reading by anyone particularly
interested in the special set and its possibilities.

No scenery can make up for weakness of story.  Rather, like a paste
diamond in an exquisitely chased, pure gold setting, the paste
story will appear at greater disadvantage:  because of the very
beauty of its surroundings.  The writer should make his story so
fine that it will sparkle brilliantly in any setting.

The only thought that successful vaudeville writers give to scenery
is to indicate in their manuscripts the surroundings that "relate
the characters closely to their environment."

It requires no ability to imagine startling and beautiful scenic
effects that cost a lot of money to produce--that is no "trick."
The vaudeville scenery magic lies in making use of simple scenes
that can be carried at little cost--or, better still for the new
writer, in twisting the combinations of drops and sets to be found
in every vaudeville house to new uses.



1. The Olio

In every vaudeville theatre there is an Olio and, although the
scene which it is designed to represent may be different in each
house, the street Olio is common enough to be counted as universally
used.  Usually there are two drops in "One," either of which may
be the Olio, and one of them is likely to represent a street, while
the other is pretty sure to be a palace scene.

2. Open Sets

Usually in Four--and sometimes in Three--there are to be found in
nearly every vaudeville theatre two different drops, which with
their matching wings [1] form the two common "open sets"--or scenes
composed merely of a rear drop and side wings, and not boxed in.

[1] A _wing_ is a double frame of wood covered with painted canvas
and set to stand as this book will when its covers are opened at
right angles to each other.

_The Wood Set_ consists of a drop painted to represent the interior
of a wood or forest, with wings painted in the same style.  It is
used for knock-about acts, clown acts, bicycle acts, animal turns
and other acts that require a deep stage and can play in this sort
of scene.

_The Palace Set_, with its drop and wings, is painted to represent
the interior of a palace.  It is used for dancing acts, acrobats
and other acts that require a deep stage and can appropriately
play in a palace scene.

3. The Box Sets

A "box set" is, as the name implies, a set of scenery that is
box-shaped.  It represents a room seen through the fourth wall,
which has been removed.  Sometimes with a, ceiling-piece, but
almost invariably with "borders"--which are painted canvas strips
hanging in front of the "border-lights" to mask them and keep the
audience from seeing the ropes and pulleys hanging from the
gridiron--the box set more nearly mimics reality than the open
set, which calls upon the imagination of the audience to supply
the realities that are entirely lacking or only hinted at.

The painted canvas units which are assembled to make the box set
are called "flats."  A flat is a wooden frame about six feet six
inches wide and from twelve to eighteen feet long, covered with
canvas and, of course, painted with any scene desired.  It differs
from a wing in being only one-half the double frame; therefore it
cannot stand alone.

Upon the upper end of each flat along the unpainted outer edge
there is fastened a rope as long as the flat.  Two-thirds of the
way up from the bottom of the corresponding edge of the matching
flat there is a "cleat," or metal strip, into which the rope, or
"lash-line" is snapped.  The two flats are then drawn tight together
so that their edges match evenly and the lash-line is lashed through
the framework to hold the flats firmly together.

While one flat may be a painted wall, the next may contain a doorway
and door, another a part of an ornamental arch, and still another
a window, so, when the various flats are assembled and set, the
box set will have the appearance of a room containing doors and
windows and even ornamental arches.  The most varied scenes can
thus be realistically set up.

In the rear of open doors there are usually wings, or perhaps
flats, [1] painted to represent the walls of hallways and adjoining
rooms and they are called "interior backings."  Behind a door
supposed to open out into the street or behind windows overlooking
the country, there are hung, or set, short drops or wings painted
to show parts of a street, a garden, or a country-side, and these
are called "exterior backings."

[1] When flats are used as backings they are made stable by the
use of the _stage-brace_, a device made of wood and capable of
extension, after the manner of the legs of a camera tripod.  It
is fitted with double metal hooks on one end to hook into the
wooden cross-bar on the back of the flat and with metal eyes on
the other end through which _stage-screws_ are inserted and screwed
into the floor of the stage.

_The Centre-door Fancy_ is the most common of the box sets.  Called
"fancy," because it has an arch with portieres and a rich-looking
backing, and because it is supposed to lead into the other palatial
rooms of the house, this set can be used for a less pretentious
scene by the substitution of a matched door for the arch.

In this plainer form it is called simply _The Parlor Set_.  Sometimes
a parlor set is equipped with a French window, but this should not
be counted on.  But there are usually a grate and mantelpiece, and
three doors.  The doors are designed to be set, one in the rear
wall, and one in each of the right and left walls.  A ceiling-piece
is rarely found, but borders are always to be had, and a chandelier
is customary.

_The Kitchen Set_ is, as the name implies, less pretentious than
the changeable parlor set.  It usually is equipped with three
doors, possesses matching borders, may have an ordinary window,
and often has a fireplace panel.

Slightly altered in appearance, by changing the positions of the
doors and the not very common substitution of a "half-glass door"
in the rear wall, the kitchen set does duty as _The Office Set_.

It is in these two box sets--changed in minor details to serve as
four sets--that the vaudeville playlet is played.

On the following pages will be found eight diagrams showing how
the stock or house box sets can be set in various forms.  A study
of these will show how two different acts using the same house set
can be given surroundings that appear absolutely different.  These
diagrams should prove of great help to the playlet writer who
wishes to know how many doors he may use, where they are placed
and how his act will fit and play in a regulation set of scenery.


The following diagrams, showing the scenic equipment of the average
vaudeville theatre, have been specially drawn for this volume and
are used here by courtesy of the Lee Lash Studios, New York.  As
they are drawn to a scale of one-eighth of an inch to the foot,
the precise size of the various scenes may be calculated.

The diagrams are based on the average vaudeville stage, which
allows thirty or thirty-two feet between tormentors.  The proscenium
arch _may_ be much greater, but the average vaudeville stage will
set the tormentors about thirty feet apart.  All vaudeville stage
settings are made back of the tormentor line.

At the tormentor line there will be, of course, a Grand Drapery
and Working Drapery which will mask the first entrance overhead.

There will be either a set of borders for each scene, or else the
borders will be painted to use with any scene, to mask the stage
rigging.  The borders are usually hung from six to seven feet
apart, so that in planning a scene this should be considered.  In
a few of the larger houses, a ceiling-piece is found, but, as has
been said, this is so rare it should not be counted on.

Most houses have a floor cloth, and medallion or carpet, in addition
to the properties hereafter described.  Reference to the diagrams
will show that the tormentors have a "flipper," which runs to the
proscenium arch wall; in the flipper is usually a door or a curtained
opening for the entrances and exits of acts in One.

If you will combine with the diagrams shown these elements which
cannot be diagrammed, you will have a clear idea of the way in
which any scene is constructed.  Then if you will imagine the scene
you have in mind as being set up on a stage like that of the Palace
Theatre, shown in the last chapter, you will have a working
understanding of the vaudeville stage.


A well-ordered vaudeville stage, as has been described, possesses
Drops for use in One, one or more Fancy Interiors, a Kitchen Set,
and Exterior Sets.  The Drops in One are omitted from these diagrams,
because they would be represented merely by a line drawn behind
the tormentors.

The Fancy Interiors may include a Light Fancy, a Dark Fancy, an
Oak Interior, and a Plain Chamber set.  As the differences are
largely of painting, the usual Centre-door Fancy is taken as the
basis for the variations--five different ways of setting it are

Two out of the many different ways of setting the Kitchen Set are

The Exterior Set allows little or no variation; the only thing
that can be done is to place balustrades, vases, etc., in different
positions on the stage; therefore but one diagram is supplied.


Showing the usual method of setting a "Fancy."  It may be made
shallower by omitting a wing on either side.


The double arch is thrown from the centre to the side, the landscape
drop being used to back the scene--the drop may be seen through
the window on stage-left.  The window of the Fancy Interior is
always of the French type, opening full to the floor.


This is a deeper and narrower set, approximating more closely a
room in an ordinary house.  The double arch at the rear may be
backed with an interior backing or a conservatory backing.  If the
interior backing is used, the conservatory backing may be used to
back the single four-foot arch at stage-left.


This shows the double arch flanked by a single arch on each side,
making three large openings looking out on the conservatory drop.


The fireplace is here brought into prominence by setting it in a
corner with two "jogs" on each side.  The window is backed with a
landscape or garden drop as desired.


This arrangement of a Kitchen Set makes use of three doors,
emphasizing the double doors in the centre of rear wall, which
open out on an interior backing or a wood or garden drop.  In this
and the following setting a small window can be fitted into the
upper half of either of the single doors.


Two doors only are used in this setting; the double doors, in the
same relative position as in the preceding arrangement, open out
on a wood or landscape backing.  The fireplace is brought out on
stage-right.  The single door on stage-left opens on an interior


Many theatres have two sets of Exterior wings--one of Wood Wings
and one of Garden Wings.  In some houses the Wood Wings are used
with the Garden Drop, set vases and balustrades being used to
produce the garden effect, as shown here.  Some theatres also have
a Set House and Set Cottage, which may be placed on either side
of the stage; each has a practical door and a practical window.
With the Set House and Set Tree slight variations of exterior
settings may be contrived.

4. Properties

In the argot of the stage the word "property" or "prop" means any
article--aside from scenery--necessary for the proper mounting or
presentation of a play.  A property may be a set of furniture, a
rug, a pair of portieres, a picture for the wall, a telephone, a
kitchen range or a stew-pan--indeed, anything a tall that is not
scenery, although serving to complete the effect and illusion of
a scene.

_Furniture_ is usually of only two kinds in a vaudeville playhouse.
There is a set of parlor furniture to go with the parlor set and
a set of kitchen furniture to furnish the kitchen set.  But, while
these are all that are at the immediate command of the property-man,
he is usually permitted to exchange tickets for the theatre with
any dealer willing to lend needed sets of furniture, such as a
desk or other office equipment specially required for the use of
an act.

In this way the sets of furniture in the property room may be
expanded with temporary additions into combinations of infinite
variety.  But, it is wise not to ask for anything out of the
ordinary, for many theatre owners frown upon bills for hauling,
even though the rent of the furniture may be only a pair of seats.

For the same reason, it is unwise to specify in the property-list--
which is a printed list of the properties each act requires--anything
in the way of rugs that is unusual.  Though some theatres have
more than two kinds of rugs, the white bear rug and the carpet rug
are the most common.  It is also unwise to ask for pictures to
hang on the walls.  If a picture is required, one is usually
supplied set upon an easel.

Of course, every theatre is equipped with prop telephones and sets
of dishes and silver for dinner scenes.  But there are few vaudeville
houses in the country that have on hand a bed for the stage,
although the sofa is commonly found.

A buffet, or sideboard, fully equipped with pitchers and wine
glasses, is customary in every vaudeville property room.  And
champagne is supplied in advertising bottles which "pop" and sparkle
none the less realistically because the content is merely ginger

While the foregoing is not an exhaustive list of what the property
room of a vaudeville theatre may contain, it gives the essential
properties that are commonly found.  Thus every ordinary requirement
of the usual vaudeville act can be supplied.

The special properties that an act may require must be carried by
the act.  For instance, if a playlet is laid in an artist's studio
there are all sorts of odds and ends that would lend a realistic
effect to the scene.  A painter's easel, bowls of paint brushes,
a palette, half-finished pictures to hang on the walls, oriental
draperies, a model's throne, and half a dozen rugs to spread upon
the floor, would lend an atmosphere of charming bohemian realism.

_Special Sound-Effects_ fall under the same common-sense rule.
For, while all vaudeville theatres have glass crashes, wood crashes,
slap-sticks, thunder sheets, cocoanut shells for horses' hoof-beats,
and revolvers to be fired off-stage, they could not be expected
to supply such little-called-for effects as realistic battle sounds,
volcanic eruptions, and like effects.

If an act depends on illusions for its appeal, it will, of course,
be well supplied with the machinery to produce the required sounds.
And those that do not depend on exactness of illusion can usually
secure the effects required by calling on the drummer with his
very effective box-of-tricks to help out the property-man.

5. The Lighting of the Vaudeville Stage

At the electrical switchboard centre all the lights of the theatre,
as well as those of the stage itself.  Presided over by the
electrician, the switchboard, so far as the stage and its light
effects are concerned, commands two classes of lights.  The first
of these is the arc light and the second the electric bulb.

_The Spot-lights_ are the lamps that depend upon the arc for their
illumination.  If you have ever sat in the gallery of any theatre,
and particularly of a vaudeville theatre, you certainly have noticed
the very busy young man whose sole purpose in life appears to be
to follow the heroine around the stage with the focused spot of
light that shines like a halo about her.  The lamp with which he
accomplishes this difficult feat is appropriately called a
"spot-light."  While there are often spot-lights on the electrician's
"bridge," as his balcony is called, the gallery out front is the
surest place to find the spot-light.

_The Footlights_ are electric bulbs dyed amber, blue, and red--
or any other special shade desired--beside the well-known white,
set in a tin trough sunk in the stage and masked to shine only
upon the stage.  By causing only one group of colors to light,
the electrician can secure all sorts of variations, and with the
aid of "dimmers" permit the lights to shine brilliantly or merely
to glow with faint radiance.

_The Border-lights_ are electric bulbs of varying colors set in
tin troughs a little longer than the proscenium opening and are
suspended above the stage behind the scenery borders.  They shine
only downward.  There are border-lights just in front of the drops
in One, Two, Three and Four, and they take the names of "first
border-light," "second border-light," and so on from the drops
they illuminate.

_Strip-lights_ are electric bulbs set in short strips of tin
troughs, that are equipped with hooks by which they can be hung
behind doors and out-of-the-way dark places in sets to illuminate
the backings.

_A Bunch-light_ is a box of tin set on a standard, which can be
moved about the stage the length of its electric cord, and has ten
or twelve electric bulbs inside that cast a brilliant illumination
wherever it is especially desired.  Squares of gelatine in metal
frames can be slipped into the grooves in front of the bunch-light
to make the light any color or shade desired.  These boxes are
especially valuable in giving the effect of blazing sunlight just
outside the doors or windows of a set, or to shine through the
windows in the soft hue of moonlight.

_Grate Logs_ are found in nearly every vaudeville house and are
merely iron painted to represent logs of wood, inside of which are
concealed lamps that shine up through red gelatine, simulating the
glow of a wood fire shining in the fireplace under the mantelpiece
usually found in the centre-door-fancy set.

_Special Light-effects_ have advanced so remarkably with the science
of stage illumination that practically any effect of nature may
be secured.  If the producer wishes to show the water rippling on
the river drop there is a "ripple-lamp" at his command, which is
a clock-actuated mechanism that slowly revolves a ripple glass in
front of a "spot-lamp" and casts a realistic effect of water
rippling in the moonlight.

By these mechanical means, as well as others, the moon or the sun
can be made to shine through a drop and give the effect of rising
or of setting, volcanos can be made to pour forth blazing lava and
a hundred other amazing effects can be obtained.  In fact, the
modern vaudeville stage is honeycombed with trapdoors and overhung
with arching light-bridges, through which and from which all manner
of lights can be thrown upon the stage, either to illuminate the
faces of the actors with striking effect, or to cast strange and
beautiful effects upon the scenery.  Indeed, there is nothing to
be seen in nature that the electrician cannot reproduce upon the
stage with marvellous fidelity and pleasing effect.

But the purpose here, as in explaining all the other physical
departments of the vaudeville stage, is not to tell what has been
done and what can be done, interesting and instructive as such a
discussion would be, but to describe what is usually to be found in
a vaudeville theatre.  The effects that are at ready command are
the only effects that should interest anyone about to write for
vaudeville.  As was emphasized in the discussion of scenery, the
writer should not depend for success on the unusual.  His aim
should be to make use of the common stage-effects that are found on
every vaudeville stage--if, indeed, he depends on any effects at all.

Here, then, we have made the acquaintance of the physical proportions
and aspects of the vaudeville stage and have inquired into all the
departments that contribute to the successful presentation of a
vaudeville entertainment.  We have examined the vaudeville writer's
tool-box and have learned to know the uses for which each tool of
space, scenery, property, and light is specially designed.  And
by learning what these tools can do, we have also learned what
they cannot do.

Now let us turn to the plans and specifications--called manuscripts--
that go to make up the entertaining ten or forty minutes during which
a vaudeville act calls upon these physical aids to make it live
upon the mimic stage, as though it were a breathing reality of the
great stage of life.



The word monologue comes from the combination of two Greek words,
_monos_, alone, and _legein_, to speak.  Therefore the word monologue
means "to speak alone"--and that is often how a monologist feels.
If in facing a thousand solemn faces he is not a success, no one
in all the world is more alone than he.

It appears easy for a performer to stroll into a theatre, without
bothersome scenery, props, or tagging people, and walk right out
on the stage alone and set the house a-roar.  But, like most things
that appear easy, it is not.  It is the hardest "stunt" in the
show business, demanding two very rare things:  uncommon ability
in the man, and extraordinary merit in the monologue itself.

To arrive at a clear understanding of what a monologue is, the
long way around through the various types of "talking singles" may
be the shortest cut home to the definition.

1. Not a Soliloquy.

The soliloquy of the by-gone days of dramatic art was sometimes
called a monologue, because the person who spoke it was left alone
upon the stage to commune with himself in spoken words that described
to the audience what manner of man he was and what were the problems
that beset him.  Hamlet's "To be or not to be," perhaps the most
famous of soliloquies, is, therefore, a true monologue in the
ancient sense, for Hamlet spoke alone when none was near him.  In
the modern sense this, and every other soliloquy, is but a speech
in a play.  There is a fundamental reason why this is so:  A monologue
is spoken _to the audience_, while in a soliloquy (from the Latin
_solus_, alone, _loqui_, to talk) the actor communes _with himself_
for the "benefit" of the audience.

2. Not Merely an Entertainment by One Person

There are all sorts of entertaining talking acts in vaudeville
presented by a single person.  Among them are the magician who
performs his tricks to the accompaniment of a running fire of talk
which, with the tricks themselves, raises laughter; and the person
who gives imitations and wins applause and laughter by fidelity
of speech, mannerisms and appearance to the famous persons imitated.
Yet neither of these can be classed as a monologist, because neither
depends upon speech alone to win success.

3. Not a Disconnected String of Stories

Nor, in the strictest vaudeville sense, is a monologue merely a
string of stories that possesses no unity as a whole and owns as
its sole reason of being that of amusement and entertainment.  For
instance, apropos of nothing whatever an entertainer may say:

  I visited Chinatown the other evening and took dinner in one of
  the charming Oriental restaurants there.  The first dish I ordered
  was called Chop Suey.  It was fine.  They make it of several
  kinds of vegetables and meats, and one dark meat in particular
  hit my taste.  I wanted to find out what it was, so I called the
  waiter.  He was a solemn-looking Chinaman, whose English I could
  not understand, so I pointed to a morsel of the delicious dark
  meat and, rubbing the place where all the rest of it had gone,
  I asked:


    The Chink grinned and said:

    "No.  No.  Bow-wow."

Before the laughter has subsided the entertainer continues:

  That reminds me of the deaf old gentleman at a dinner party who
  was seated right next to the prettiest of the very young ladies
  present.  He did his best to make the conversation agreeable,
  and she worked hard to make him understand what she said.  But
  finally she gave it up in despair and relapsed into a pained
  silence until the fruit was passed.  Then she leaned over and

  "Do you like bananas?"

  A smile of comprehension crept over the deaf old man's face and
  he exclaimed:

  "No, I like the old-fashioned night-gowns best."

And so, from story to story the entertainer goes, telling his funny
anecdotes for the simple reason that they are funny and create
laughter.  But funny as they are, they are disconnected and,
therefore, do not meet the requirement of unity of character, which
is one of the elements of the pure monologue.

4. Not a Connected Series of Stories Interspersed With Songs and
the Like

If the entertainer had told the stories of the Chinaman and the
deaf old gentleman as though they had happened to a single character
about whom all the stories he tells revolve, his act and his
material would more nearly approach the pure monologue form.  For

  Casey's a great fellow for butting into queer places to get a
  bite to eat.  The other evening we went down to Chinatown and
  in one of those Oriantal joints that hand out Chop Suey in real
  china bowls with the Jersey City dragoons on 'em, we struck a
  dish that hit Casey just right.

  "Mither av Moses," says Casey, "this is shure the atein fer ye;
  but what's thot dilicate little tid-bit o' brown mate?"

  "I don't know," says I.

  "Oi'll find out," says Casey.  "Just listen t'me spake that
  heathen's language."

  "Here, boy," he hollers, "me likee, what you call um?"

  The Chink stares blankly at Casey.  Casey looks puzzled, then
  he winks at me.  Rubbing his hand over the place where the rest
  of the meat had gone, he says:


  A gleam shot into the Chink's almond eyes and he says:

  "No.  No.  Bow-wow."

  It took seven of us to hold Casey, he felt that bad.  But that
  wasn't a patchin' to the time we had dinner with a rich friend
  o' ours and Casey was seated right next to the nicest little old
  lady y'ever saw. . . .

And so on until the banana story is told, with Casey the hero and
victim of each anecdote.

But an entertainer feels no necessity of making his entire offering
of related anecdotes only.  Some monologists open with a song
because they want to get the audience into their atmosphere, and
"with" them, before beginning their monologue.  The song merely
by its melody and rhythm helps to dim the vividness of impression
left by the preceding act and gives the audience time to quiet
down, serving to bridge the psychic chasm in the human mind that
lies between the relinquishing of one impression and the reception
of the next.

Or the monologist may have a good finishing song and knows that
he can depend on it for an encore that will bring him back to tell
more stories and sing another song.  So he gives the orchestra
leader the cue, the music starts and off he goes into his song.

Or he may have some clever little tricks that will win applause,
or witty sayings that will raise a laugh, and give him a chance
to interject into his offering assorted elements of appeal that
will gain applause from different classes of people in his audience.
Therefore, as his purpose is to entertain, he sings his song,
performs his tricks, tells his witty sayings, or perhaps does an
imitation or two, as suits his talent best.  And a few end their
acts with serious recitations of the heart-throb sort that bring
lumps into kindly throats and leave an audience in the satisfied
mood that always comes when a touch of pathos rounds off a hearty

But by adding to his monologue unrelated offerings the monologist
becomes an "entertainer," an "impersonator," or whatever title
best describes his act.  If he stuck to his stories only and told
them all on a single character, his offering would be a monologue
in the sense that it observes the unity of character, but still
it would not be a pure monologue in the vaudeville sense as we now
may define it--though a pure monologue might form the major part
of his "turn."


Having seen in what respects other single talking acts--the
soliloquy, the "talking single" that has no unity of material, the
disconnected string of stories, and the connected series of stories
interspersed with songs--differ from the pure monologue, it will
now be a much simpler task to make plain the elements that compose
the real vaudeville monologue.

The real monologue possesses the following eight characteristics:

1. It is performed by one person.
2. It is humorous.
3. It possesses unity of character.
4. It is not combined with songs, tricks or any
   other entertainment form.
5. It takes from ten to fifteen minutes to deliver.
6. It is marked by compression.
7. It is distinguished by vividness.
8. It follows a definite form of construction.

Each of these eight characteristics has either been mentioned
already or will be taken up in detail later, so now we can combine
them into a single paragraphic definition:

  The pure vaudeville monologue is a humorous talk spoken by one
  person, possesses unity of character, is not combined with any
  other entertainment form, is marked by compression, follows a
  definite form of construction and usually requires from ten to
  fifteen minutes for delivery.

It must be emphasized that because some single talking acts do not
meet every one of the requirements is no reason for condemning
them [1]. They may be as fine for entertainment purposes as the
pure monologue, but we must have some standard by which to work
and the only true standard of anything is its purest form.
Therefore, let us now take up the several parts that make up the
pure monologue as a whole, and later we shall consider the other
monologue variations that are permissible and often desirable.

[1] Frank Fogarty, "The Dublin Minstrel," one of the most successful
monologists in vaudeville, often opens with a song and usually
ends his offering with a serious heart-throb recitation.  By making
use of the song and serious recitation Mr. Fogarty places his act
in the "entertainer" class, but his talking material is, perhaps,
the best example of the "gag"-anecdotal-monologue to be found in

Mr. Fogarty won The New York Morning Telegraph contest to determine
the most popular performer in vaudeville in 1912, and was elected
President of "The White Rats"--the vaudeville actors' protective
Union--in 1914.    [end footnote]

If you have not yet turned to the appendix and read Aaron Hoffman's
"The German Senator" do so now.  (See Appendix.)  It will be referred
to frequently to illustrate structural points.


1. Humor

All monologues, whether of the pure type or not, possess one element
in common--humor.  I have yet to hear of a monologist who did not
at least try to be funny.  But there are different types of monologic

"Each eye," the Italians say, "forms its own beauty," so every
nation, every section, and each individual forms its own humor to
suit its own peculiar risibilities.  Still, there are certain
well-defined kinds of stories and classes of points in which we
Americans find a certain delight.

What these are the reader knows as well as the writer and can
decide for himself much better than I can define them for him.
Therefore, I shall content myself with a mere mention of the basic
technical elements that may be of suggestive help.

(a) _The Element of Incongruity_.  "The essence of all humor," it
has been said, "is incongruity," and in the monologue there is no
one thing that brings better laugh-results than the incongruous.
Note in the Appendix the closing point of "The German Senator."
Could there be any more incongruous thing than wives forming a

(b) _Surprise_.  By surprise is meant leading the audience to
believe the usual thing is going to happen, and "springing" the
unusual--which in itself is often an incongruity, but not necessarily

(c) _Situation_.  Both incongruity and surprise are part and parcel
of the laughter of a situation.  For instance; a meeting of two
people, one of whom is anxious to avoid the other--a husband, for
instance, creeping upstairs at three A. M. meeting his wife--or
both anxious to avoid each other--wife was out, too, and husband
overtakes wife creeping slowly up, doing her best not to awaken
him, each supposing the other in bed and asleep.  The laughter
comes because of what is said at that particular moment in that
particular situation--"and is due," Freud says, "to the release
from seemingly unpleasant and inevitable consequences."

(d) _Pure Wit_.  Wit exists for its own sake, it is detachable
from its context, as for example:

  And what a fine place they picked out for Liberty to stand.
  With Coney Island on one side and Blackwell's Island on the
  other. [1]

[1] The German Senator.  See Appendix.

(e) _Character_.  The laughable sayings that are the intense
expression at the instant of the individuality of the person voicing
them, is what is meant by the humor of character.  For instance:
the German Senator gets all "balled up" in his terribly long effort
to make a "regular speech," and he ends:

  We got to feel a feeling of patriotic symptoms--we got to feel
  patriotic symp--symps--you got to feel the patri--you can't help
  it, you got to feel it.

These five suggestions--all, in the last analysis, depending on
the first, incongruity--may be of assistance to the novice in
analyzing the elements of humor and framing his own efforts with
intelligence and precision.

In considering the other elemental characteristics of the monologue,
we must bear in mind that the emphasizing of humor is the monologue's
chief reason for being.

2. Unity of Character

Unity of character does not mean unity of subject--note the variety
of subjects treated in "The German Senator"--but, rather, the
singleness of impression that a monologue gives of the "character"
who delivers it, or is the hero of it.

The German Senator, himself, is a politician "spouting," in a
perfectly illogical, broken-English stump speech, about the condition
of the country and the reason why things are so bad.  Never once
do the various subjects stray far beyond their connection with the
country's deplorable condition and always they come back to it.
Furthermore, not one of the observations is about anything that a
politician of his mental calibre would not make.  Also the
construction of every sentence is in character.  This example is,
of course, ideal, and the precision of its unity of character one
of the great elements of a great monologue.

Next to humor, unity of character is the most important requirement
of the monologue.  Never choose a subject, or write a joke, that
does not fit the character delivering the monologue.  In other
words, if you are writing a pure monologue, do not, just because
it is humorous, drag in a gag [1] or a point [2] that is not in
character or that does not fit the subject.  Make every turn of
phrase and every word fit not only the character but also the

[1] A _gag_ is the vaudeville term for any joke or pun.

[2] A _point_ is the laugh-line of a gag, or the funny observation
of a monologue.

3. Compression

We have long heard that "brevity is the soul of wit," and certainly
we realize the truth in a hazy sort of way, but the monologue
writer should make brevity his law and seven of his ten commandments
of writing.  Frank Fogarty, who writes his own gags and delivers
them in his own rapid, inimitable way, said to me:

"The single thing I work to attain in any gag is brevity.  I never
use an ornamental word, I use the shortest word I can and I tell
a gag in the fewest words possible.  If you can cut out one word
from any of my gags and not destroy it, I'll give you five dollars,
and it'll be worth fifty to me to lose it.  "You can kill the whole
point of a gag by merely an unnecessary word.  For instance, let
us suppose the point of a gag is 'and he put the glass there';
well, you won't get a laugh if you say, 'and then he picked the
glass up and put it there.' Only a few words more--but words are

"Take another example.  Here's one of my best gags, a sure-fire
laugh if told this way:

"O'Brien was engaged by a farmer to milk cows and do chores.  There
were a hundred and fifty cows, and three men did the milking.  It
was hard work, but the farmer was a kind-hearted, progressive man,
so when he went to town and saw some milking-stools he bought three
and gave 'em to the men to sit down on while at work.  The other
two men came back delighted, but not O'Brien.  At last he appeared,
all cut-up, and holding one leg of the stool.

"'What's the matter?' said the farmer.

"'Nothing, only I couldn't make the cow sit down on it.'

"When I tell it this way it invariably gets a big laugh.  Now
here's the way I once heard a 'chooser' [1] do it.

[1] _Chooser_--one who chooses some part of another performer's act
and steals it for his own use.

"'O'Brien came to this country and looked around for work.  He
couldn't get a job until at last a friend told him that a farmer
up in the country wanted a man to milk cows.  So O'Brien got on a
trolley car and went out to the end of the line, took a side-door
pullman from there, was ditched and had to walk the rest of the
way to the farm.  But at last he got to the farmer's place and
asked him for the job.

"'"Sure I can use you," said the farmer, "here's a milk pail and
a milking-stool.  Take 'em and go out and milk the cows in the

"'Now O'Brien didn't know how to milk a cow, he'd never milked a
cow in his whole life, but he needed a job so he didn't tell the
farmer he hadn't ever milked a cow.  He took the pail and the
milking-stool and went out to the barn.  After half an hour he
came back to the farm house all cut-up, and he had one leg of the
milking-stool in his hand.

"'"What's the matter?" asked the farmer, "How'd you get all cut
up--been in a fight or something?"

"'"No," said O'Brien, "I couldn't get the cow to sit on it.'"

"See the difference?  There's only one right way to tell any gag
and that's to make it brief, little--like the works of a watch
that'll fit in a thin watch case and be better and finer than a
big turnip of a pocket clock."

So, then, each point and gag in a monologue is told in the fewest,
shortest words possible and the monologue, as a whole, is marked
by compression.  Remember, "brevity is the soul of wit"--never
forget it.

4. Vividness

If a successful monologue writer has in mind two gags that are
equally funny he will invariably choose the one that can be told
most vividly--that is, the one that can be told as if the characters
themselves were on the stage.  For instance, the words, "Here stood
John and there stood Mary," with lively, appropriate gestures by
the monologist, make the characters and the scene seem living on
the stage before the very eyes of the audience.  That is why the
monologist illustrates his points and gags with gestures that

Every gag and every point of great monologues are told in words
that paint pictures.  If the gag is supposititious, and the direct
right-here-they-stood method cannot be used, the point is worded
so strikingly, and is so comically striking in itself, that the
audience sees--visualizes--it. [1]

[1] Walter Kelly, "The Virginia Judge," offers a fine example of
the monologist who makes his words picturize.  He "puts his stories
over" almost without a gesture.

Unlike the playlet, the monologue does not have flesh-and-blood
people on the stage to act the comic situation.  The way a point
or gag is constructed, the words used, the monologist's gestures,
and his inflections, must make the comic situation live in vivid

Therefore, in selecting material the monologue writer should choose
those gags and points that can be told in pictures, and every word
he uses should be a picture-word.

5. Smoothness and Blending

A monologue--like the thin-model watch mentioned--is made up of
many parts.  Each part fits into, the other--one gag or point
blends perfectly into the following one--so that the entire monologue
seems not a combination of many different parts, but a smoothly
working, unified whole.

Count the number of different points there are in "The German
Senator" and note how each seemingly depends on the one before it
and runs into the one following; you will then see what is meant
by blending.  Then read the monologue again, this time without the
Panama Canal point--plainly marked for this exposition--and you
will see how one part can be taken away and still leave a smoothly
reading and working whole.

It is to careful blending that the monologue owes its smoothness.
The ideal for which the writer should strive is so to blend his
gags and points that, by the use of not more than one short sentence,
he relates one gag or point to the next with a naturalness and
inevitableness that make the whole perfectly smooth.

We are now, I think, in a position to sum up the theory of the
monologue.  The pure vaudeville monologue, which was defined as a
humorous talk spoken by one person, possesses unity of character,
is not combined with any other entertainment form, is marked by
compression, follows a definite form of construction, and usually
requires from ten to fifteen minutes for delivery.  Humor is its
most notable characteristic; unity of the character delivering it,
or of its "hero," is its second most important requirement.  Each
point, or gag, is so compressed that to take away or add even one
word would spoil its effect; each is expressed so vividly that the
action seems to take place before the eyes of the audience.  Finally,
every point leads out of the preceding point so naturally, and
blends into the following point so inevitably, that the entire
monologue is a smooth and perfect whole.




Before an experienced writer takes up his pencil he has formed
definitely in his mind just what he is going to write about--that
is the simple yet startling difference between the experienced
writer and the novice.  Not only does the former know what his
subject is, but he usually knows how he is going to treat it, and
even some striking phrases and turns of sentences are ready in his
mind, together with the hundreds of minute points which, taken
together, make up the singleness of impression of the whole.

But just as it is impossible for the human mind--untrained, let
us say, in the art of making bricks--to picture at a glance the
various processes through which the clay passes before it takes
brick form, so it is identically as impossible for the mind of the
novice to comprehend in a flash the various purposes and half-purposes
that precede the actual work of writing anything.

True as this is of writing in general, it seems to me particularly
true of writing the monologue, for the monologue is one of those
precise forms of the art of writing that may best be compared to
the miniature, where every stroke must be true and unhesitating
and where all combine unerringly to form the composite whole.

In preparing monologue material the writer usually is working in
the _sounds_ of spoken--and mis-spoken--words, and the humor that
lies in the twisting of ideas into surprising conclusions.  He
seldom deliberately searches for a theme--more often some
laugh-provoking incident or sentence gives him an idea and he
builds it into a monologue with its subject for the theme.

1. Themes to Avoid

Anything at all in the whole range of subjects with which life
abounds will lend itself for a monologue theme--provided the writer
can without straining twist it to the angle of humor; but propriety
demands that nothing blatantly suggestive shall be treated, and
common sense dictates that no theme of merely local interest shall
be used, when the purpose of the monologue is to entertain the
whole country.  Of course if a monologue is designed to entertain
merely a certain class or the residents of a certain city or section
only, the very theme--for instance, some purely local happening
or trade interest--that you would avoid using in a monologue planned
for national use, would be the happiest theme that could be chosen.
But, as the ambitious monologue writer does not wish to confine
himself to a local or a sectional subject and market, let us
consider here only themes that have universal appeal.


      Politics                 Woman Suffrage
      Love                     Drink
      Marriage                 Baseball
      Woman's Dress            Money

While there are many more themes that can be twisted to universal
interest--and anyone could multiply the number given--these few
are used in whole or in part in nearly every successful monologue
now being presented.  And, they offer to the new writer the surest
ground to build a new monologue.  That they have all been done
before is no reason why they should not be done again:  the new
author has only to do them better--and a little different.  It is
all a matter of fresh vision.  What is there in any art that is
really new--but treatment?

Do not make the fatal mistake of supposing that these few themes
are the only themes possessing universal interest.  Anything in
the whole wide world may be the subject for a monologue, when
transmuted by the magic of common sense and uncommon ability into
universal fun.


As a monologue is a collection of carefully selected and smoothly
blended points or gags, with a suitable introduction to the routine
[1]--each point and gag being a complete, separate entity, and the
introduction being as truly distinct--the monologue writer, unlike
the playlet writer, may begin to write anywhere.  He may even write
the last point or gag used in the routine before he writes the
first.  Or he may write the twelfth point before he writes either
the first one or the last one.  But usually, he writes his
introduction first.

[1] _Routine_--the entire monologue; but more often used to suggest
its arrangement and construction.  A monologue with its gags and
points arranged in a certain order is one routine; a different
routine is used when the gags or points are arranged in a different
order.  Thus _routine_ means _arrangement_.  The word is also used to
describe the arrangement of other stage offerings--for instance, a
dance:  the same steps arranged in a different order make a new
"dance routine."

1. The Introduction

A monologue introduction may be just one line with a point or a
gag that will raise a snicker, or it may be a long introduction
that stamps the character as a "character," and causes amusement
because it introduces the entire monologue theme in a bright way.

An example of the short introduction is:

"D'you know me friend Casey?  He's the guy that put the sham in
shamrock," then on into the first gag that stamps Casey as a
sure-'nuff "character," with a giggle-point to the gag.

The very best example of the long introduction being done on the
stage today is the first four paragraphs of "The German Senator."
The first line, "My dear friends and falling Citizens," stamps the
monologue unquestionably as a speech.  The second line, "My heart
fills up with vaccination to be disabled," declares the mixed-up
character of the oration and of the German Senator himself, and
causes amusement.  And the end of the fourth paragraph--which you
will note is one long involved sentence filled with giggles--raises
the first laugh.

Nat Wills says the introduction to the gag-monologue may often
profitably open with a "local"--one about the town or some local
happening--as a local is pretty sure to raise a giggle, and will
cause the audience to think the monologist "bright" and at least
start their relations off pleasantly.  He says:  "Work for giggles
in your introduction, but don't let the audience get set--with a
big laugh--until the fifth or sixth joke."

The introduction, therefore, is designed to establish the monologist
with the audience as "bright," to stamp the character of the
"character" delivering it--or about whom the gags are told--and
to delay a big laugh until the monologist has "got" his audience.

2. The Development

The "point," you will recall, we defined as the funny observation
of a pure monologue--in lay-conversation it means the laugh line
of a joke; and "gag" we defined as a joke or a pun.  For the sake
of clearness let us confine "point" to a funny observation in a
monologue, and "gag" to a joke in a connected series of stories.

It is impossible for anyone to teach you how to write a really
funny point or a gag.  But, if you have a well-developed sense of
humor, you can, with the help of the suggestions for form given
here and the examples of humor printed in the appendix, and those
you will find in the funny papers and hear along the street or on
the stage, teach yourself to write saleable material.  All that
this chapter can hope to do for you is to show you how the best
monologue writes and the most successful monologists work to achieve
their notable results, and thus put you in the right path to
accomplish, with the least waste of time and energy, what they
have done.

Therefore, let us suppose that you know what is humorous, have a
well-developed sense of humor, and can produce really funny points
and gags.  Now, having your points and gags clearly framed in mind
and ready to set down on paper, you naturally ask, How shall I
arrange them?  In what order shall I place them to secure the best
effect for the whole monologue?

Barrett Wendell, professor of English at Harvard University, [1]
has suggested an effective mechanical aid for determining the
clearest and best arrangement of sentences and paragraphs in English
prose, and his plan seems especially adapted to help the monologue
writer determine a perfect routine.  Briefly his method may be
paraphrased thus:

[1] English Composition, page 165.

Have as many cards or slips of paper as you have points or gags.
Write only one point or gag on one card or slip of paper.  On the
first card write "Introduction," and always keep that card first
in your hand.  Then take up a card and read the point or gag on
it as following the introduction, the second card as the second
point or gag, and so on until you have arranged your monologue in
an effective routine.

Then try another arrangement.  Let us say the tenth joke in the
first routine reads better as the first joke.  All right, place
it in your new arrangement right after the introduction.  Perhaps
the fourteenth point or gag fits in well after the tenth gag--fine,
make that fourteenth gag the second gag; and so on through your
cards until you have arranged a new routine.

Your first arrangement can invariably be improved--maybe even your
seventh arrangement can be made better; very good, by shuffiing
the cards you may make as many arrangements as you wish and
eventually arrive at the ideal routine.  And by keeping a memorandum
of preceding arrangements you can always turn back to the older
routine--if that appears the best after all other arrangements
have been tried.

But what is really the ideal arrangement of a monologue?  How may
you know which routine is really the best?  Frankly, you cannot
_know_ until it has been tried out on an audience many, many
times--and has been proved a success by actual test.  Arranging a
routine of untried points and gags on paper is like trying to solve
a cut-out puzzle with the key-piece missing.  Only by actually
trying out a monologue before an audience and fitting the points
and gags to suit the monologist's peculiar style (indeed, this is
the real work of writing a monologue and will be described later
on) can you determine what really is the best routine.  And even
then another arrangement may "go" better in another town.  Still
there are a few suggestions--a very few--that can be given here
to aid the beginner.

Like ocean waves, monologic laughs should come in threes and
nines--proved, like most rules, by exceptions.  Note the application
of this rule in "The German Senator."

Study the arrangement of the points in this great monologue and
you will see that each really big point is dependent on several
minor points that precede it to get its own big laugh.  For instance,
take the following point:

  And if meat goes any higher, it will be worth more than money.

  Then there won't be any money.

  Instead of carrying money in your pocket, you'll carry meat

  A sirloin steak will be worth a thousand dollar bill.

  When you go down to the bank to make a deposit, instead of giving
  the cashier a thousand dollar bill, you'll slip him a sirloin

  If you ask him for change, he'll give you a hunk of bologny.

The first line blends this point with the preceding one about
the high cost of eggs.  The second line awakens interest and
prepares for the next, "Instead of carrying money in your pocket,
you'll carry meat around," which is good for a grin.  The next
line states the premise necessary for the first point-ending
"--you'll slip him a sirloin steak," which is always good for a
laugh.  Then the last line, "If you ask him for change, he'll
give you a hunk of bologny," tops the preceding laugh.

From this example you see what is meant by monologic laughs coming
in threes and nines.  The introduction of each new story--the line
after the blend-line--should awaken a grin, its development cause
a chuckle, and the point-line itself raise a laugh.

Each new point should top the preceding point until with the end
of that particular angle or situation, should come a roar of honest
laughter.  Then back to the grin, the chuckle, and on to the laugh
again, building up to the next big roar.

With the end of the monologue should come complete satisfaction
in one great burst of laughter.  This, of course, is the ideal.

3. How and Where to End

A monologue should run anywhere from ten to fifteen minutes.  The
monologist can vary his playing time at will by leaving out points
and gags here and there, as necessity demands, so the writer should
supply at least a full fifteen minutes of material in his manuscript.

"How shall I time my manuscript?" is the puzzling problem the new
writer asks himself.  The answer is that it is very difficult to
time a monologue exactly, because different performers work at
different speeds and laughs delay the delivery and, therefore,
make the monologue run longer.  But here is a very rough counting
scale that may be given, with the warning that it is far from

For every one hundred and fifteen to one hundred and forty words
count one minute for delivery.  This is so inexact, depending as
it does on the number of laughs and the monologist's speed of
delivery, that it is like a rubber ruler.  At one performance it
may be too long, at another too short.

Having given a full fifteen minutes of material, filled, let us
hope, with good points made up of grins, chuckles and laughs, now
choose your very biggest laugh-point for the last.  When you wrote
the monologue and arranged it into the first routine, that biggest
laugh may have been the tenth, or the ninth, or the fifteenth, but
you have spotted it unerringly as the very biggest laugh you
possess, so you blend it in as the final laugh of the completed

It may now be worth while thus to sum up the ideal structure:

A routine is so arranged that the introduction stamps the monologist
as bright, and the character he is impersonating or telling about
as a real "character."  The first four points or gags are snickers
and the fifth or sixth is a laugh. [1] Each point or gag blends
perfectly into the ones preceding and following it.  The introduction
of each new story awakens a grin, its development causes a chuckle,
and the point-line itself raises a laugh.  The final point or gag
rounds the monologue off in the biggest burst of honest laughter.

[1] It is true that some monologists strive for a laugh on the
very first point, but to win a big laugh at once is very rare.


When a writer delivers the manuscript of a monologue to a monologist
his work is not ended.  It has just begun, because he must share
with the monologist the pains of delivering the monologue before
an audience.  Dion Boucicault once said, "A play is not written,
but rewritten."  True as this is of a play, it is, if possible,
even more true of a monologue.

Of course, not all beginners can afford to give this personal
attention to staging a monologue, but it is advisable whenever
possible.  For, points that the author and the monologist himself
were sure would "go big," "die," while points and gags that neither
thought much of, "go big."  It is for precisely this purpose of
weeding out the good points and gags from the bad that even famous
monologists "hide away," under other names, in very small houses
for try-outs.  And while the monologist is working on the stage
to make the points and gags "get over," the author is working in
the audience to note the effect of points and finding ways to
change a phrase here and a word there to build dead points into
life and laughter.  Then it is that they both realize that Frank
Fogarty's wise words are true:  "There is only one way to tell a
gag.  If you can cut one word out from any of my gags I'll give
you five dollars, for it's worth fifty to me.  Words are costly."

Some entire points and gags will be found to be dead beyond
resurrection, and even whole series of gags and points must be
cast away and new and better ones substituted to raise the golden
laughs.  So the monologue is changed and built performance after
performance, with both the monologist and the author working as
though their very lives depended on making it perfect.

Then, when it is "set" to the satisfaction of both, the monologist
goes out on the road to try it out on different audiences and to
write the author continually for new points and gags.  It may be
said with perfect truth that a monologue is never finished.  Nat
Wills, the Tramp Monologist, pays James Madison a weekly salary
to supply him with new jokes every seventh day.  So, nearly every
monologist retains the author to keep him up to the minute with
material, right in the forefront of the laughter-of-the-hour.


The discussion of the monologue form has been exhaustive, for the
pure monologue holds within itself all the elements of the other
allied forms.  The only difference between a pure monologue and
any other kind is in the addition of entertainment features that
are not connected gags and points.  Therefore, to cover the field
completely it is necessary only to name a few of the many different
kinds of single talking acts and to describe them briefly.

The most common talking singles--all of whom buy material from
vaudeville writers--are:

(a) _The Talking Magician_--who may have only a few little tricks
to present, but who plays them up big because he sprinkles his
work with laughter-provoking points.

(b) _The "Nut Comedian"_--who does all manner of silly tricks to
make his audience laugh, but who has a carefully prepared routine
of "nut" material.

(c) _The Parody Monologist_--who opens and closes with funny
parodies on the latest song hits and does a monologue routine
between songs.

(d) _The "Original Talk"_ Impersonator--who does impersonations
of celebrities, but adds to his offering a few clever points and


Before you seek a market [1] for your monologue, be sure that it
fulfills all the requirements of a monologue and that it is the very
best work you can do.  Above all, make sure that every gag or point
you use is original with you, and that the angle of the subject you
have selected for your theme is honestly your own.  For if you have
copied even one gag or point that has been used before, you have laid
your work open to suspicion and yourself to the epithet of "chooser."

[1] See Chapter XXIV, Manuscripts and Markets.

The infringer--who steals gags and points bodily--can be pursued
and punished under the copyright law, but the chooser is a kind
of sneak thief who works gags and points around to escape taking
criminal chances, making his material just enough different to
evade the law.  A chooser damages the originator of the material
without himself getting very far.  No one likes a chooser; no one
knowingly will have dealings with a chooser.  Call a vaudeville
man a liar and he may laugh at you--call him a chooser and you'll
have to fight him.

There are, of course, deliberate choosers in the vaudeville business,
just as there are "crooks" in every line of life, but they never
make more than a momentary success.  Here is why they invariably

When you sit in the audience, and hear an old gag or point, you
whisper, "Phew, that's old," or you give your companion a knowing
look, don't you?  Well, half the audience is doing the very same
thing, and they, like you, receive the impression that all the
gags are old, and merely suppose that they haven't heard the other
ones before.

The performer, whose bread and butter depends on the audience
thinking him bright, cannot afford to have anything ancient in his
routine.  Two familiar gags or points will kill at least twenty-five
percent of his applause.  He may not get even one bow, and when
audiences do not like a monologist well enough to call him out for
a bow, he might as well say good-by to his chances of getting even
another week's booking.  Therefore the performer watches the
material that is offered him with the strained attention of an
Asiatic potentate who suspects there is poison in his breakfast
food.  He not only guards against old gags or points, but he takes
great care that the specific form of the subject of any routine
that he accepts is absolutely new.

Some of the deliberate choosers watch the field very closely and
as soon as anyone strikes a new vein or angle they proceed to work
it over.  But taking the same subject and working around it--even
though each gag or point is honestly new--does not and cannot pay.
Even though the chooser secures some actor willing to use such
material, he fails ultimately for two reasons:  In the first place,
the copier is never as good as the originator; and, in the second
place, the circuit managers do not look with favor upon copy-acts.

As the success of the performer depends on his cleverness and the
novelty of his material, in identically the same way the success
of a vaudeville theatre lies in the cleverness and novelty of the
acts it plays.  Individual house managers, and therefore circuit
managers, cannot afford to countenance copy-acts.  For this reason
a monologist or an act is often given exclusive rights to use a
precise kind of subject-material over a given circuit.  A copy-act
cannot keep going to very long with only a few segregated house
willing to play his act.

Therefore before you offer your monologue to a possible buyer, be
sure--absolutely sure--that your theme and every one of your points
and gags are original.



The word "two-act" is used to describe any act played by two
people.  It has nothing to do with the number of scenes or acts
of a drama.  When two people present a "turn," it is called a
two-act.  It is a booking-office term--a word made necessary by
the exigencies of vaudeville commerce.

If the manager of a theatre requires an acrobatic act to fill his
bill and balance his show he often inquires for an acrobatic
two-act.  It may matter little to him whether the act plays in One
or Full Stage--he wants an acrobatic act, and one presented by two
people.  If he requires any other kind of two-people-act, he
specifies the kind of two-act of which he is in need.

On the other hand, if a performer asks an author to write a
vaudeville two-act, an act of a certain definite character is
usually meant and understood.  For, among writers, the vaudeville
two-act--or "act in One" as it is often called--has come to mean
a talking act presented by two persons; furthermore, a talking act
that has certain well-defined characteristics.

1. What a Vaudeville Two-Act Is

The most carefully constructed definition cannot describe even the
simplest thing with satisfying exactness.  But the human mind is
so formed that it have a definition for a guide to learn anything
is new.  Therefore let us set up this dogmatic definition:

  A pure vaudeville two-act is a humorous talking act performed
  by two persons.  It possesses unity of the characters, is not
  combined with songs, tricks or any other entertainment form, is
  marked by compression, follows a definite form of construction,
  and usually requires from ten to fifteen minutes for delivery.

You have noticed that this definition is merely that of the monologue
very slightly changed.  It differs from it only in the number of
persons required for its delivery.  But, like many such verbal
jugglings, the likeness of the two-act to the monologue is more
apparent than real.

2. How the Two-Act Differs from the Monologue

Turn to the Appendix and read "The Art of Flirtation," by Aaron
Hoffman. [1] It was chosen for publication in this volume as an
example of the vaudeville two-act, for two reasons:  First, it is
one of the best vaudeville two-acts ever written; second, a careful
study of it, in connection with "The German Senator," will repay
the student by giving an insight into the difference in treatment
that the same author gives to the monologue and the two-act.

[1] The Art of Flirtation," by Aaron Hoffman, has been used in
vaudeville, on the burlesque stage, and in various musical comedies,
for years and has stood the test of time.

Aside from the merely physical facts that two persons deliver the
vaudeville two-act and but one "does" the monologue, you will
notice in reading "The Art of Flirtation," that the two-act depends
a surprising lot on "business" [1] to punch home its points and
win its laughs.  This is the first instance in our study of
vaudeville material in which "acting" [2] demands from the writer
studied consideration.

[1] _Business_ means any movement an actor makes on the stage.
To walk across the stage, to step on a man's toes, to pick up a
telephone, to drop a handkerchief, or even to grimace--if done to
drive the spoken words home, or to "get over" a meaning without
words--are all, with a thousand other gestures and movements,
_stage business_.

[2] Acting is action.  It comprises everything necessary to the
performing of a part in a play and includes business.

So large a part does the element of business play in the success
of the two-act that the early examples of this vaudeville form
were nearly all built out of bits of business.  And the business
was usually of the "slap-stick" kind.

3. What Slap-Stick Humor Is

Slap-stick humor wins its laughs by the use of physical methods,
having received its name from the stick with which one clown hits

A slap-stick is so constructed that when a person is hit a light
blow with it, a second piece of wood slaps the first and a
surprisingly loud noise, as of a hard blow, is heard.  Children
always laugh at the slap-stick clowns and you can depend upon many
grown-ups, too, going into ecstasies of mirth.

Building upon this sure foundation, a class of comedians sprang
up who "worked up" the laughter by taking advantage of the human
delight in expectation.  For instance:  A man would lean over a
wall and gaze at some distant scene.  He was perfectly oblivious
to what was going on behind him.  The comedy character strolled
out on the stage with a stick in his hand.  He nearly walked into
the first man, then he saw the seat of the man's trousers and the
provokingly tempting mark they offered.  In the early days of the
use of the slap-stick, the comedian would have spanked the man at
once, got one big laugh and have run off the stage in a comic
chase.  In the later days the comedian worked up his laugh into
many laughs, by spacing all of his actions in the delivery of the

As soon as the audience realized that the comedian had the opportunity
to spank the unsuspecting man, they laughed.  Then the comedian
would make elaborate preparations to deliver the blow.  He would
spit on his hands, grasp the stick firmly and take close aim--a
laugh.  Then he would take aim again and slowly swing the stick
over his shoulder ready to strike--a breathless titter.  Down would
come the stick--and stop a few inches short of the mark and the
comedian would say:  "It's a shame to do it!"  This was a roar, for
the audience was primed to laugh and had to give vent to its
expectant delight.  A clever comedian could do this twice, or even
three times, varying the line each time.  But usually on the third
preparation he would strike--and the house would be convulsed.

In burlesque they sometimes used a woman for the victim, and the
laughter was consequently louder and longer.  It is an interesting
commentary on the advancement of all branches of the stage in
recent years that even in burlesque such extreme slap-stick methods
are now seldom used.  In vaudeville such an elemental bit of
slap-stick business is rarely, if ever, seen.  Happily, a woman
is now never the victim.

But it was upon such "sure-fire" [1] bits of business that the
early vaudeville two-acts--as well as many other acts--depended
for a large percentage of their laughs.  It mattered little what
were the lines they spoke.  They put their trust in business--and
invariably won.  But their business was always of the same type
as that "bit" [2] of spanking the unsuspecting man.  It depended
for its humor on the supposed infliction of pain.  It was always
physical--although by no means always even remotely suggestive.

[1] Any act or piece of business or line in a speech that can be
depended on to win laughter at every performance is called

[2] Anything done on the stage may be called a _bit_.  A minor
character may have only a _bit_, and some one part of a scene that
the star may have, may be a _bit_.  The word is used to describe a
successful little scene that is complete in itself.

Because such acts did not depend on lines but on slap-stick humor,
they became known as slap-stick acts.  And because these vaudeville
two-acts--as we have elected to call them--were usually presented
by two men and worked in One, in front of a drop that represented
a street, they were called "sidewalk comedian slap-stick acts."

Their material was a lot of jokes of the "Who was that lady I saw
you with last night?"--"She weren't no lady, she was my wife,"
kind.  Two performers would throw together an act made up of
sure-fire comedy bits they had used in various shows, interpolate
a few old "gags"--and the vaudeville writer had very little

But to-day--as a study of "The Art of Flirtation" will show--wit
and structural skill in the material itself is of prime importance.
Therefore the writer is needed to supply vaudeville two-acts.  But
even to-day business still plays a very large part in the success
of the two-act.  It may even be considered fundamental to the
two-act's success.  Therefore, before we consider the structural
elements that make for success in writing the two-act, we shall
take up the matter of two-act business.

4. The "Business" of the Two-Act

The fact that we all laugh--in varying degrees--at the antics of
the circus clown, should be sufficient evidence of the permanence
of certain forms of humor to admit of a belief in the basic truth
that certain actions do in all times find a humorous response in
all hearts.  Certain things are fundamentally funny, and have made
our ancestors laugh, just as they make us laugh and will make our
descendants laugh.

"There's no joke like an old joke," is sarcastically but nevertheless
literally true.  There may even be more than a humorous
coincidence--perhaps an unconscious recognition of the sure-firedness
of certain actions--in the warnings received in childhood to "stop
that funny business."

5. Weber and Fields on Sure-Fire Business

However this may be, wherever actors foregather and talk about
bits of stage business that have won and always will win laughs
for them, there are a score or more points on which they agree.
No matter how much they may quarrel about the effectiveness of
laugh-bits with which one or another has won a personal success--due,
perhaps, to his own peculiar personality--they unite in admitting
the universal effectiveness of certain good old stand-bys.

Weber and Fields--before they made so much money that they retired
to indulge in the pleasant pastime of producing shows--presented
probably the most famous of all the sidewalk comedian slap-stick
acts. [1] They elevated the slap-stick sidewalk conversation act
into national popularity and certainly reduced the business of
their performance to a science--or raised it to an art.  In an
article entitled "Adventures in Human Nature," published in The
Associated Sunday Mazagines for June 23, 1912, Joe Weber and Lew
Fields have this to say about the stage business responsible, in
large measure, for the success of their famous two-act:

  The capitalizing of the audiences' laughter we have set down in
  the following statistics, ranged in the order of their value.
  An audience will laugh loudest at these episodes:

  (1) When a man sticks one finger into another man's eye.

  (2) When a man sticks two fingers into another man's eyes.

  (3) When a man chokes another man and shakes his head from side
  to side.

  (4) When a man kicks another man.

  (5) When a man bumps up suddenly against another man and knocks
  him off his feet.

  (6) When a man steps on another man's foot.

[1] The great success of the return of Weber and Fields to vaudeville
in 1915-16, with excerpts from their old successes, is only one
more proof of the perennial value of sure-fire business.

  Human nature--as we have analyzed it, with results that will be
  told you by the cashier at our bank--will laugh louder and oftener
  at these spectacles, in the respective order we have chronicled
  them, than at anything else one might name.  Human nature here,
  as before, insists that the object of the attacks--the other
  man--be not really hurt.

  Now, let us tell you how we arrived at our conclusions.  The eye
  is the most delicate part of the body.  If a man, therefore,
  pokes his two forefingers into the eyes of another man _without
  hurting them_, then human nature will make you scream with mirth;
  not at the sight of the poking of the fingers into the other
  man's eyes (as you who have seen us do this trick night in and
  night out have imagined), but because you get all the sensations
  of such a dangerous act without there being any actual pain
  involved in the case of the man you were watching.  You laugh
  because human nature tells you to.  You laugh because the man
  who had the fingers stuck into his eyes might have been hurt
  badly, but wasn't.

  The greatest laughter, the greatest comedy, is divided by a hair
  from the greatest tragedy.  Always remember that!  As the chance
  of pain, the proportion of physical misery, the proportion of
  tragedy, becomes diminished (see the other items in the table),
  so does the proportion of laughter become less and less.  We
  have often tried to figure out a way to do something to the
  other's kneecap--second in delicacy only to the eye--but the
  danger involved is too great.  Once let us figure out the trick,
  however, and we shall have capitalized another item that may be
  listed high in our table.  Here is how you can verify the truth
  of our observations yourself:

  You have seen those small imitation tacks made of rubber.  Exhibit
  one, put it on a chair, ask a stranger to sit down--and everybody
  who is in on the joke will scream with mirth.  Try it with a
  real tack, and everybody will take on a serious face and will
  want to keep the man from sitting down.

6. What George M. Cohan Has to Say

George M. Cohan spent his boyhood on the vaudeville stage as one
of "The Four Cohans."  In collaboration with George J. Nathan, Mr.
Cohan published in McClure's Magazine for November, 1913, an article
entitled "The Mechanics of Emotion."  Here is what he has to say
about some bits of business that are sure-fire laughs:  [1]

[1] These sure-fire bits of business should be considered as being
equally effective when used in any form of stage work.  Some of
them, however, lend themselves most readily to the vaudeville

  Here, then, are a few of the hundred-odd things that you constantly
  laugh at on the stage, though, when you see them in cold type,
  you will probably be ashamed of doing so.

  (1) Giving a man a resounding whack on the back under the guise
  of friendship.  The laugh in this instance may be "built up"
  steadily in a climacteric way by repeating the blow three times
  at intervals of several minutes.

  (2) A man gives a woman a whack on the back, believing in an
  absent-minded moment that the woman (to whom he is talking) is
  a man.

  (3) One character steps on the sore foot of another character,
  causing the latter to jump with pain.

  (4) The spectacle of a man laden with many large bundles.

  (5) A man or a woman starts to lean his or her elbow on a table
  or the arm of a chair, the elbow slipping off abruptly and
  suddenly precipitating him or her forward.

  (6) One character imitating the walk of another character, who
  is walking in front of him and cannot see him.

  (7) A man consuming a drink of considerable size at one quick

  (8) A character who, on entering an "interior" or room scene,
  stumbles over a rug.  If the character in point be of the
  "dignified" sort, the power of this laugh provoker is doubled.

  (9) Intoxication in almost any form. [1]

[1] Intoxication, however, must never be revolting.  To be welcomed,
it must always be funny; in rare instances, it may be pathetic.

  (10) Two men in heated conversation.  One starts to leave.
  Suddenly, as if fearing the other will kick him while his back
  is turned, this man bends his body inward (as if he actually had
  been kicked) and sidles off.

  (11) A man who, in trying to light his cigar or cigarette, strikes
  match after match in an attempt to keep one lighted.  If the man
  throws each useless match vigorously to the floor with a muttered
  note of vexation the laughter will increase.

  (12) The use of a swear-word. [2]

[2] The use of swear-words is prohibited in most first-class
vaudeville theatres.  On the walls of every B. F. Keith Theatre
is posted this notice:  "The use of 'Damn' and 'Hell' is forbidden
on the stage of this theatre.  If a performer cannot do without
using them, he need not open here."

  (13) A man proclaims his defiance of his wife while the latter
  is presumably out of hearing.  As the man is speaking, his wife's
  voice is heard calling him.  Meekly he turns and goes to her.
  This device has many changes, such as employer and employee.
  All are equally effective.

  (14) A pair of lovers who try several times to kiss, and each
  time are interrupted by the entrance of some one or by the ringing
  of the doorbell or telephone-bell or something of the sort.

  (15) A bashful man and a not-bashful woman are seated on a bench
  or divan.  As the woman gradually edges up to the man, the man
  just as gradually edges away from her.

  All these "laugh-getters" are known to the experienced as "high
  class"; that is, they may all be used upon the legitimate stage.
  On the burlesque and vaudeville stages devices of a somewhat
  lower intellectual plane have established a permanent standing
  An authority on this phase of the subject is Mr. Frederick
  Wyckoff, who catalogues the following as a few of the tricks
  that make a vaudeville audience laugh:

  Open your coat and show a green vest, or pull out your shirt
  front and expose a red undershirt.  Another excellent thing to
  do is to wear a shirt without sleeves and pull off your coat
  repeatedly. [1]

[1] Such ancient methods of winning laughs, however, belong to
vaudeville yesterdays.  It should be remembered that Mr. Nathan,
who bore the labor of writing this excellent article, is blessed
with a satirical soul--which, undoubtedly, is the reason why he
is so excellent and so famous a dramatic critic.

  Ask the orchestra leader if he is married.

  Have the drummer put in an extra beat with the cymbals, then
  glare at him.

  Always use an expression which ends with the query, "Did he not?"
  Then say, "He did not."

  The men who elaborated this kind of thing into a classic are
  Messrs. Weber and Fields.  They are the great presiding deities
  of "slap-stick" humor.  They have capitalized it to enormous
  financial profit.  They claim that Mr. Fields' favorite trick
  of poking his forefinger periodically in Mr. Weber's eye is worth
  a large fortune in itself.  A peculiarity of this kind of humor
  is that it finds its basis in the inflicting of pain.  A painful
  situation apparently contains elements of the ridiculous so long
  as the pain is not actually of a serious nature.  Here, too, the
  stage merely mirrors life itself.  We laugh at the person who
  falls on the ice, at the man who bumps against a chair or table
  in the dark, at the headache of the "morning after," at the boy
  who eats green apples and pays the abdominal penalty, at the
  woman whose shoes are so tight they hurt her, at the person who
  is thrown to the floor by a sudden lurch of a street-car, and
  at the unfortunate who sits on a pin.  A man chasing his rolling
  hat in the street makes everybody laugh.

  The most successful tricks or jokes are all based on the idea
  of pain or embarrassment.  Tacks made of rubber, matches that
  explode or refuse to light, exploding cigars or cigarettes,
  fountain-pens that smear ink over the fingers immediately they
  are put to use, "electric" bells with pins secreted in their
  push buttons, and boutonnieres that squirt water into the face
  of the beholder, are a few familiar examples.

Here, then, we have the bits of business that three of the ablest
producers of the legitimate stage--all graduates from vaudeville,
by the way--agree upon as sure-fire for the vaudeville two-act.
Paradoxically, however, they should be considered not as instructive
of what you should copy, but as brilliant examples of what you
should avoid.  They belong more to vaudeville's Past than to its
Present.  Audiences laughed at them yesterday--they may not laugh
at them tomorrow.  If you would win success, you must invent new
business in the light of the old successes.  The principles
underlying these laugh-getters remain the same forever.

7. Sure-Fire Laughs Depend upon Action and Situation, Not on Words

If you will read again what Weber and Fields have to say about
their adventures in human nature, you will note that not once do
they mention the lines with which they accompanied the business
of their two-act.  Several times they mention situation--which is
the result of action, when it is not its cause--but the words by
which they accompanied those actions and explained those situations
they did not consider of enough importance to mention.  Every
successful two-act, every entertainment-form of which acting is
an element--the playlet and the full-evening play as well--prove
beyond the shadow of a doubt that what audiences laugh at--what
you and I laugh at--is not words, but actions and situations.

Later on, this most important truth--the very life-blood of stage
reality--will be taken up and considered at greater length in the
study of the playlet.  But it cannot be mentioned too often.  It
is a vital lesson that you must learn if you would achieve even
the most fleeting success in writing for the stage in general and
vaudeville in particular.

But by action is not meant running about the stage, or even wild
wavings of the arms.  _There must be action in the idea--in the
thought_--even though the performers stand perfectly still.

So it is not with words, witty sayings, funny observations and
topsy-turvy language alone that the writer works, when he constructs
a vaudeville two-act.  It is with clever ideas, expressed in
laughable situations and actions, that his brain is busy when he
begins to marshal to his aid the elements that enter into the
preparation of two-act material.



It is very likely that in your study of "The German Senator" and
"The Art of Flirtation," there has crossed your mind this thought:
Both the monologue and the two-act are composed of points and gags.
The only difference--besides the merely physical difference of two
persons delivering the gags and the greater amount of business
used to "get them over" [1]--lies in the way the gags are constructed.
The very same gags--twisted just a little differently--would do
equally well for either the monologue or the two-act.

[1] To _get over_ a vaudeville line or the entire act, means to
make it a success--to make it get over the foot-lights so that the
audience may see and appreciate it, or "get" it.


There is just enough truth in this to make it seem an illuminating
fact.  For instance, take the "janitor point" in "The German
Senator."  We may imagine the characters of a two-act working up
through a routine, and then one saying to the other:

  A child can go to school for nothing, and when he grows up to
  be a man and he is thoroughly educated he can go into the public
  school and be a teacher and get fifty dollars a month.

The other swiftly saying:

  And the janitor gets ninety-five.

There would be a big laugh in this arrangement of this particular
gag, without a doubt.  But only a few points of "The German Senator"
could be used for a two-act, with nearly as much effect as in the
monologue form.  For instance, take the introduction.  Of course,
that is part and parcel of the monologue form, and therefore seems
hardly a fair example, yet it is particularly suggestive of the
unique character of much monologic material.

But take the series of points in "The German Senator," beginning:
"We were better off years ago than we are now."  Picture the effect
if one character said:

Look at Adam in the Garden of Eat-ing.


Life to him was a pleasure.


There was a fellow that had nothing to worry about.


Anything he wanted he could get.


But the old fool had to get lonesome.


And that's the guy that started all our trouble etc. etc. etc.

Even before the fourth speech it all sounded flat and tiresome,
didn't it?  Almost unconsciously you compared it with the brighter
material in "The Art of Flirtation."  But, you may say:  "If the
business had been snappy and funny, the whole thing would have
raised a laugh."

How could business be introduced in this gag--without having the
obvious effect of being lugged in by the heels?  Business, to be
effective, must be the body of the material's soul.  The material
must suggest the business, so it will seem to be made alive by it.
It must be as much the obvious result of the thought as when your
hand would follow the words, "I'm going to give you this.  Here,
take it."

Herein lies the reason why two-act material differs from monologic
material.  Experience alone can teach you to "feel" the difference

Yet it is in a measure true that some of the points and gags that
are used in many monologues--rarely the anecdotal gag, however,
which must be acted out in non-two-act form--would be equally
effective if differently treated in the two-act.  But often this
is not due so much to the points themselves as to the fault of the
writer in considering them monologic points.

The underlying cause of many such errors may be the family likeness
discernible in all stage material.  Still, it is much better for
the writer fully to recompense Peter, than to rob Peter to pay
Paul inadequately.

Nevertheless, aside from the "feel" of the material--its individual
adaptability--there is a striking similarity in the structural
elements of the monologue and the two-act.  Everything in the
chapter on "The Nature of the Monologue" is as true of the two-act
as of the monologue, if you use discrimination.  Refer to what was
said about humor, unity of character, compression, vividness,
smoothness and blending, and read it all again in the light of the
peculiar requirements of the two-act.  They are the elements that
make for its success.


The two-act--like all stage material in which acting plays a
part--is not written; it is constructed.  You may write with the
greatest facility, and yet fail in writing material for the
vaudeville stage.  The mere wording of a two-act means little, in
the final analysis.  It is the action behind the words that suggests
the stage effect.  It is the business--combined with the acting--that
causes the audience to laugh and makes the whole a success.  So
the two-act, like every other stage form, must--before it is
written--be thought out.

In the preceding chapter, you read of the elements that enter into
the construction of a two-act.  They are also some of the broad
foundation elements which underlie, in whole or in part, all other
stage-acting--material.  A few of the two-act elements that have
to do more particularly with the manuscript construction have been
reserved for discussion in the paragraphs on development.  In this
chapter we shall consider what you must have before you even begin
to think out your two-act--your theme.

1. Selecting a Theme

Imitation may be the sincerest flattery, but it is dangerous for
the imitator.  And yet to stray too far afield alone is even more
hazardous.  Successful vaudeville writers are much like a band of
Indians marching through an enemy's country--they follow one another
in single file, stepping in each other's footprints.  In other
words, they obey the rules of their craft, but their mental strides,
like the Indians' physical footsteps, are individual and distinct.

2. Fundamental Themes

Experience has taught effective writers that certain definite
themes are peculiarly adaptable to two-act form and they follow
them.  But success comes to them not because they stick to certain
themes only--they win because they vary these fundamental themes
as much as they can and still remain within the limits of proved
theatrical success.

(a) _The Quarrel Theme_.  Search my memory as diligently as I may,
I cannot now recall a single successful two-act that has not had
somewhere in its routine a quarrel, while many of the most successful
two-acts I remember have been constructed with a quarrel as their
routine motives.

With this observation in mind, re-read "The Art of Flirtation" and
you will discover that the biggest laughs precede, arise from, or
are followed by quarrels.  Weber and Fields in their list of the
most humorous business, cite not only mildly quarrelsome actions,
but actually hostile and seemingly dangerous acts.  The more hostile
and the more seemingly dangerous they are, the funnier they are.
Run through the Cohan list and you will discover that nearly every
bit of business there reported is based on a quarrel, or might
easily lead to a fight.

(b) _The "Fool" Theme_.  To quote again from Weber and Fields:

  There are two other important items in human nature that we have
  capitalized along with others to large profit.  Human nature,
  according to the way we analyzed it, is such a curious thing
  that it will invariably find cause for extreme mirth in seeing
  some other fellow being made a fool of, no matter who that fellow
  may be, and in seeing a man betting on a proposition when he
  cannot possibly win.  We figured it out, in the first place,
  that nothing pleased a man much more than when he saw another
  man being made to look silly in the eyes of others.

  For example, don't you laugh when you observe a dignified looking
  individual strutting down the street wearing a paper tail that
  has been pinned to his coat by some mischievous boys? [1]

[1] From the Weber and Fields article already quoted.

Note how the "fool" theme runs all through "The Art of Flirtation."
Go to see as many two-acts as you can and you will find that one
or another of the characters is always trying to "show up" the

(c) _The "Sucker" Theme_.

  As for the quirk in human nature that shows great gratification
  at the sight of a man betting on something where he is bound to
  be the loser:  in inelegant language, this relates simply to the
  universal impulse to laugh at a "sucker."  It is just like
  standing in front of a sideshow tent after you have paid your
  good money, gone in, and been "stung," and laughing at everyone
  else who pays his good money, comes out, and has been equally
  "stung."  You laugh at a man when he loses the money he has bet
  on a race that has already been run when the wager has been
  posted.  You laugh at a man who bets a man ten dollars "receive"
  is spelled "recieve," when you have just looked at the
  dictionary and appreciate that he hasn't a chance. . . .  Comedy
  that lives year after year--no matter whether you choose to call
  it "refined" or not--never comes to its exploiters by accident.
  The intrinsic idea, the germ, may come accidentally; but the
  figuring out of the elaboration and execution of the comedy takes
  thinking and a pretty fair knowledge of your fellow men. [1]

[1] From the Weber and Fields article.

Although there are very many two-acts--among them "The Art of
Flirtation"--which do not make use of this third fundamental theme,
there are a great many that depend for their biggest laughs upon
this sure-fire subject.

In common with the "fool" theme, the "sucker" theme lends itself
to use as a part or bit of a two-act.  And both these themes are
likely to be interspersed with quarrels.

There are, of course, other themes that might be classed with these
three fundamental themes.  But they tend to trail off upon doubtful
ground.  Therefore, as we are considering only those that are on
incontrovertible ground, let us now turn our attention to the act
themes which we will call:

3. Subject Themes

What can you bring to the vaudeville stage in the way of themes
that are new?  That is what you should ask yourself, rather than
to inquire what has already been done.

Anything that admits of treatment on the lines of the two-act as
it has been spread before you, offers itself as a subject theme.
In the degree that you can find in it points that are bright,
clever, laughter-provoking and business-suggestive, does it recommend
itself to you as a theme.

Here is the merest skimming of the themes of the two-acts presented
in one large city during one week:

Flirting:  done in a burlesque way.  Our own example, "The Art of

Quarrelsome musicians in search of a certain street.  One is always
wrong.  Gags all on this routine subject.

Getting a job:  "sucker" theme.  One character an Italian politician,
the other an Italian laborer.

Wives:  one man is boss at home, the other is henpecked.  Furthermore,
the wives don't agree.  Quarrel theme.

Old times:  two old schoolmates meet in the city.  One a "fly guy,"
the other a simple, quiet country fellow.  "Fool" theme, in the
old days and the present.

Note the variety of subjects treated.  If my memory serves me
correctly, everyone of these acts had a quarrel either as its
entire subject, or the usual quarrels developed frequently in the
routine.  These quarrels, as in most two-acts, were fundamental
to much of their humor.  But no two of the acts had the same subject

It would seem, then, that in thinking out the two-act, the author
would do well to avoid every theme that has been used--if such a
thing is humanly possible, where everything seems to have been
done--and to attempt, at least, to bring to his two-act a new
subject theme.

But if this is impossible, the writer should bring to the old theme
a new treatment.  Indeed, a new treatment with all its charm of
novelty will make any old theme seem new.  One of the standard
recipes for success in any line of endeavor is:  "Find out what
somebody else has done, and then do that thing--better."  And one
of the ways of making an old theme appear new, is to invest it
with the different personalities of brand new characters.


From the time when vaudeville first emerged as a commanding new
form of entertainment, distinct from its progenitor, the legitimate
stage, and its near relatives, burlesque and musical comedy, there
have been certain characters indissolubly associated with the
two-act.  Among them are the Irish character, or "Tad"; the German,
or "Dutch," as they are often misnamed; the "black-face," or
"Nigger"; the farmer, or "Rube"; the Swedish, or "Swede"; the
Italian, or "Wop"; and the Hebrew, or "Jew."

Not much chance for a new character, you will say--but have you
thought about the different combinations you can make?  There is
a wealth of ready humor waiting not only in varying combinations,
but in placing the characters in new businesses.  For example,
doesn't a "Jew" aviator who is pestered by an insurance agent or
an undertaker, strike you as offering amusing possibilities?

But don't sit right down and think out your two-act on the lines
of the combination I have suggested on the spur of the moment.
Others are sure to be ahead of you.  You can only win success with
new characters that are all your own.  Then you are likely to be
the first in the field.

As a final warning, permit the suggestion that bizarre combinations
of characters very probably will be difficult to sell.  Make your
combinations within the limits of plausibility, and use characters
that are seen upon the stage often enough to be hailed with at
least a pleasant welcome.


"Comedy" and "Straight"

The characters of the two-act are technically called the "comedian"
and the "straight-man."  The comedian might better be called the
"laugh-man," just as the straight is more clearly termed the

In the early days of the business the comedian was always
distinguishable by his comedy clothes.  One glance would tell you
he was the comical cuss.  The straight-man dressed like a "gent,"
dazzling the eyes of the ladies with his correct raiment.  From
this fact the names "comedian" and "straight" arose.

But today you seldom can tell the two apart.  They do not dress
extravagantly, either for comedy or for fashion effect.  They often
dress precisely alike--that is, so far as telling their different
characters is concerned.  Their difference in wealth and intelligence
may be reflected in their clothes, but only as such differences
would be apparent in real life.  Indeed, the aim today is to mimic
reality in externals, precisely as the real characters themselves
are impersonated in every shade of thought and artistic inflection
of speech.  There are, to be sure, exceptions to this modern

The original purposes of their stage names, however, remain as
true today as they did when the two-act first was played.  The
comedian has nearly all the laugh lines and the straight-man feeds

Not only must you keep the characters themselves pure of any
violation of their unity, but you must also see to it that every
big laugh is given to the comedian.  If the comedian is the one
"getting the worst of it"--as is almost invariably the case--he
must get the worst of it nearly every time.  But that does not
influence the fact that he also gets almost all the laugh lines.

Note the working out of the laugh lines in "The Art of Flirtation."
You will see that only on the rarest of occasions does the
straight-man have a funny line given him.

The only time the feeder may be given a laugh line, is when the
laugh is what is called a "flash-back."  For example, take the
point in "The Art of Flirtation" beginning:


  And does she answer?


  She's got to; it says it in the book.


  Does she answer you with a handkerchief?


  Yes, or she might answer you with an umbrella.

This is a flash-back.  But, the comedian gets a bigger laugh on
the next line--worked up by a gesture:

                   COMEDIAN Over the head.

Or take this form of the flash-back, which may seem an even clearer


Oh, I know how to be disagreeable to a lady.  You ought to hear
me talk to my wife.


To your wife?  Any man can be disagreeable to his wife.  But

and so on into the introduction to the next point.  It is always
a safe rule to follow that whenever you give the straight-man a
flash-back, top it with a bigger laugh for the comedian.  How many
flash-backs you may permit in your two-act, depends upon the
character of the material, and also varies according to the bigness
of the roars that the business adds to the comedian's laughs.  No
stated rule can be given you.  In this, as in everything else, you
must carve your own way to win your own business.



You have selected your theme, chosen your characters, thought out
every angle of business, and mapped nearly all of your points, as
well as your big laugh-lines:  now you are ready to put your two-act
on paper.  Before "taking your pen in hand," stop for a moment of

You can now determine how likely you are to succeed as a writer
of the two-act, by this simple self-examination:

How much of my two-act have I thought out clearly so that it is
playing before my very eyes?

If you have thought it all out, so that every bit of business moves
before your eyes, as every point rings in your ears, you are very
likely to turn out an acceptable two-act--if you have not played
a "chooser's" part, and your points are real points.

But do not imagine because you are positive that you have thought
everything out beforehand, and now have come to writing it down,
that your job of thinking is ended.  Not at all; there are a few
things still to be thought out, while you are writing.


As in the monologue--because your material is made up of points--you
may begin nearly anywhere to write your two-act.  And like the
monologue, you need not have a labored formal introduction.

The Introduction

Still, your introduction is no less comprehensively informing
because it has not the air of formality.  If your characters by
their appearance stamp themselves for what they are, you may trust
complete characterization--as you should in writing every form of
stage material--to what each character does and says.

But in your very first line you should subtly tell the audience,
so there cannot possibly be any mistake, what your subject is.

Why are those two men out there on the stage?

What is the reason for their attitude toward each ther?

If they are quarreling, why are they quarreling?

If they are laughing, why are they laughing?

But don't make the mistake of trying to tell too much.  To do that,
would be to make your introduction draggy.  You must make the
audience think the characters are bright--precisely as the
introduction of the monologue is designed to make the audience
think the monologist is bright.  Write your introduction in very
short speeches.  Show the attitude of the characters clearly and
plainly, as the first speech of our two-act example shows the
characters are quarreling:


  Say, whenever we go out together you always got a kick coming.
  What's the matter with you?

Then get into your subject-theme quickly after you have given the
audience time to get acquainted and settled, with the memory of
the preceding act dimmed in their minds by the giggle-points of
your introduction.

The introduction of the two-act is designed to stamp the characters
as real characters, to establish their relations to each other,
to give the audience time to settle down to the new "turn," to
make them think the performers are "bright" and to delay the first
big laugh until the psychological moment has come to spring the
initial big point of the subject theme, after the act has "got"
the audience.


It would seem needless to repeat what has already been stated so
plainly in the chapters on the monologue, that no one can teach
you how to write excruciatingly funny points and gags, and that
no one can give you the power to originate laughter-compelling
situations.  You must rise or fall by the force of your own ability.

There are, however, two suggestions that can be given you for the
production of a good two-act.  One is a "don't," and the other a
"do."  Don't write your points in the form of questions and answers.
The days of the "Why did the chicken cross the road?"--"Because
she wanted to get on the other side" sort of two-act, is past.
Write all your points in conversational style.

Never write:

  What were you doing at Pat's dinner lathering your face with a
  charlotte russe?

Write it:

  So you were down at Pat's house for dinner, and you went and
  lathered your face with a charlotte russe--I saw you.

Of course when a legitimate question is to be asked, ask it.  But
do not deliberately throw your points into question form.  Your
guide to the number of direct queries you would use should be the
usual conversational methods of real life.

Your subject, of course, in a large measure determines how many
questions you need to ask.  For instance, if your theme is one
that develops a lot of fun through one character instructing the
other, a correspondingly large number of questions naturally would
be asked.  But, as "The Art of Flirtation" plainly shows, you can
get a world of fun out of even an instruction theme, without the
use of a wearying number of inquiries.  The two-act fashion today
is the direct, conversational style.

Now for the second suggestion:

Although some exceedingly successful two-acts have been written
with many themes scattered through their twelve or more minutes,
probably a larger number have won success through singleness of
subject.  A routine with but one subject worked up to its most
effective height is often more likely to please.

Furthermore, for the reason that the two-act is breaking away from
the offering that is merely pieced together out of successful
bits--precisely as that class of act struggled away from the old
slap-stick turn--the single-routine now finds readier sale.  The
present tendency of the two-act seems to be to present clever
characterization--and so to win by artistic acting, as before it
won by cruder methods.

Therefore, strive for unity of routine.  Treat but one subject and
amplify that one subject with singleness of purpose.

The point, or the gag, of a two-act is very much like that of the
monologue.  In so far as construction is concerned--by this I mean
laugh-wave construction--they are identical.  Study "The Art of
Flirtation," and you will see how little laughs precede big laughs
and follow after, mounting into still bigger laughs that rise into
roars of laughter.

1. Introducing a Point

If you were telling a joke to a friend you would be sure to tell
him in your very first sentence all the things he would need in
order to understand the point of the joke, wouldn't you?  You would
take great care not to leave out one salient bit of information
that would make him see the joke plainly--you would be as logical
as though you were trying to sell him a bill of goods.  Take the
same attitude toward each point that you introduce into your
two-act.  Remember, you are wholesaling your "jokes" to the
comedians, who must retail them to their audiences.  Therefore,
introduce each new point as clearly and as briefly as you can.

Let us take a point from "The Art of Flirtation" and see how it
is constructed.  The very first line the straight-man speaks when
he comes out on the stage unmistakably declares his relation to
the comedian.  When he shows the book, he explains precisely what
it is.  And while laugh after laugh is worked out of it, the precise
things that the book teaches are made clear.


  No.  It ain't ten cent love.  It's fine love.  (Opens book)
  See--here is the destructions.  Right oil the first page you
  learn something.  See--how to flirt with a handkerchief.


  Who wants to flirt with a handkerchief?  I want to flirt with a


  Listen to what the book says.  To a flirter all things have got
  a language.  According to this book flirters can speak with the
  eye, with the fan, with the cane, with the umbrella, with the
  handkerchief, with anything; this book tells you how to do it.


  For ten cents.

Note that the straight-man does not say, "with the eye, cane,
umbrella--" and so on through the list.  He says "With the eye,
with the fan, with the cane--."  There can be no mistake--as there
might be if the items were enumerated swiftly.  Each one is given
importance by the "with the eye, with the fan."  The words "with
the" lend emphasis and a humorous weight.


  Shut up.  Now when you see a pretty woman coming along who wants
  to flirt with you, what is the first thing a man should do?


  Run the other way.


  No, no.  This is the handkerchief flirtation. . . .

You see precisely what the subject of this particular point is
because it is stated in unmistakable words.


  . . .As soon as a pretty woman makes eyes at you, you put your
  hands in your pockets.


  And hold on to your money.

Now this is a big laugh at every performance--a sure-fire laugh
when it is well done.  Note that it is the fourth line the comedian
has after the specific point introduction, ". . .See--how to flirt
with a handkerchief?"  Now the line "Who wants to flirt with a
handkerchief?  I want to flirt with a woman," is not intended to
be a real laugh-line.  It serves as an audience settler, gives
emphasis to the explanation of just what the book tells and helps
to blend into the next line.

There's a first laugh on, "For ten cents."  A bigger laugh comes
on, "Run the other way."  And the bigest--in this point-division--
on the third laugh line "And hold on to your money."

2. Blending into the Following Point

When you have a big laugh, you must make the next line carry you
on smoothly into the succeeding lint.  It matters not whether the
points are all related to the same general subject or not--although
we are considering here only the single-routine two-act--you must
take great care that each point blends into the following one with
logical sequence.

The line, "Who wants to flirt with a handkerchief?  I want to flirt
with a woman," helps in the blending of the point division we have
just examined.

The straight-man's line following the big laugh line in that point
division, "No, you take out your handkerchief," (biz. [1]) is
another example of the blend-line.  And it is the very first
introduction of the peculiar style of business that makes of "The
Art of Flirtation" so funny an act.

[1] _Biz._ is often used in vaudeville material for _bus._, the
correct contraction of _business_.

3. The Use of Business

Let us continue in the examination of this example.


  Suppose you ain't got a handkerchief?


  Every flirter must have a handkerchief.  It says it in the book.
  Now you shake the handkerchief three times like this.  (Biz) Do
  you know what that means?


  (Biz. of shaking head.)


  That means you want her to give you--


  Ten cents.

The reason why these two words come with such humorous effect,
lies in two causes.  First, "ten cents" has been used before with
good laugh results--as a "gag line," you recall--and this is the
comedian's magical "third time" use of it.  It is a good example
of the "three-sequence mystery" which Weber and Fields mentioned,
and which has been used to advantage on the stage for many, many

Second, the comedian had refused to answer the straight-man's
question.  He simply stood there and shook his head.  It was the
very simple business of shaking his head that made his interruption
come as a surprise and gave perfect setting for the "gag-line."

Read the speeches that follow and you will see how business is
used.  Note particularly how the business makes this point stand
out as a great big laugh:


  . . .Den you hold your handkerchief by the comer like dis.


  Vat does that mean?


  Meet me on the corner.


  Och, dat's fine.  (Takes handkerchief). . . Den if you hold it
  dis way, dat means (biz.):  "Are you on the square?"

This line reads even funnier than many laughs in the act that are
bigger, but its business cannot be explained in words.  It seems
funnier to you because you can picture it.  You actually see it,
precisely as it is done.

Then the next line blends it into the next point, which is clearly
introduced with a grin--is developed into a laugh, a bigger laugh
by effective business, and then into a roar.

Point after point follows--each point topping the preceding
point--until the end of the two-act is reached in the biggest laugh
of all.


The business of the two-act, which secures its effects by actions
that are often wholly without words, makes the two-act more difficult
to time than a monologue.  Furthermore, even if the time-consuming
bits of business were negligible, the precise timing of a two-act
by the author is not really necessary.

Precisely as a monologist can vary the length of his offering by
leaving out gags, the two-act performers can shorten their offering
at will--by leaving out points.  Hence it is much better to supply
more points than time will permit to delivery in the finished
performance, than to be required to rewrite your material to stretch
the subject to fill out time.  All you need do is to keep the
two-act within, say, twenty minutes.  And to gauge the length
roughly, count about one hundred and fifteen words to a minute.

Therefore, having arranged your points upon separate cards, or
slips of paper, and having shuffied them about and tried them all
in various routines to establish the best, choose your very biggest
laugh for the last. [1] Wherever that biggest laugh may have been
in the sample routines you have arranged, take it out and blend
it in for your final big roar.

[1] See description of card system, Chapter VI, section III.

Remember that the last laugh must be the delighted roar that will
take the performers off stage, and bring them back again and again
for their bows.


The manuscript of a two-act is only a prophecy of what _may_ be.
It _may_ be a good prophecy or a bad prognostication--only actual
performance before an audience can decide.  As we saw in the
monologue, points that the author thought would "go big"--"die";
and unexpectedly, little grins waken into great big laughs.  There
is no way of telling from the manuscript.

When you have finished your two-act you must be prepared to construct
it all over again in rehearsal, and during all the performances
of its try-out weeks.  Not only must the points be good themselves,
they must also fit the performers like the proverbial kid gloves.

More two-acts--and this applies to all other stage-offerings as
well--have started out as merely promising successes, than have
won at the first try-out.  For this reason, be prepared to work
all the morning rehearsing, at the matinee and the night performances,
and after the theatre is dark, to conjure giggle points into great
big laughs, and lift the entire routine into the success your
ability and the performers' cleverness can make it.

Even after it has won its way into a contract and everybody is
happy, you must be prepared to keep your two-act up-to-the-minute.
While it is on the road, you must send to the performers all the
laughs you can think of--particularly if you have chosen for your
theme one that demands constant furbishing to keep it bright.


It is with direct purpose that the discussion of the two-act has
been confined to the kind of act that Weber and Fields made so
successful--and of which Mr. Hoffman's "The Art of Flirtation" is
a more up-to-date, mild and artistic form.  There are other forms
of the two-act, of course, but the kind of two-act we have discussed
is peculiarly typical of two-act material.  It holds within itself
practically all the elements of the two-act that the writer has
to consider.  It is only necessary now to describe the other forms

By "pure two-act form," I mean the two-act that is presented without
songs, tricks, or any other entertainment elements.  Yet many of
the most successful two-acts open with a song, introduce songs or
parodies into the middle of their dialogue, or close with a song
or some novelty.

Do not imagine that a two-act in which songs are introduced cannot
be precisely as good as one that depends upon its talk alone.  It
may be an even better act.  If it pleases the audience better, it
is a better act.  Remember that while we have been discussing the
two-act from the writer's view-point, it is the applause of the
audience that stamps every act with the final seal of approval.
But, whether a two-act makes use of songs or tricks or anything
else, does not change the principles on which all two-act points
and gags are constructed.

The more common talking two-acts are:

1. The Sidewalk Conversation or Gag Act

This form may or may not open and close with songs, and depends
upon skillfully blended, but not necessarily related, gags and

2. The Parody Two-Act

This sort of act opens and closes with parodies on the latest
song-hits, and uses talk for short rests and humorous effect between
the parodies by which the act makes its chief appeal.

3. The Singing Two-Act

This type makes its appeal not by the use of songs, but because
the voices are very fine.  Such an act may use a few gags and
unrelated jokes--perhaps of the "nut" variety--to take the act out
of the pure duet class and therefore offer wider appeal.

4. The Comedy Act for Two Women

Such acts may depend on precisely the same form of routine the
pure talking two-act for men uses.  Of course, the treatment of
the subject themes is gentler and the material is all of a milder

5. The Two-Act with Plot Interest

Acts of this character make use of a comedy, burlesque, melodramatic
or even a dramatic plot.  This form of sketch seldom rises into
the playlet class.  It is a two-act merely because it is played
by two persons.  Often, however, this form of the two-act uses a
thread of plot on which to string its business and true two-act
points.  It may or may not make use of songs, parodies, tricks or
other entertainment elements.  We have now come to a form of two-act
which is of so popular a nature that it requires more than passing
mention.  This is

6. The Flirtation Two-Act

Usually presented with songs making their appeal to sentiment,
almost always marked by at least one change of costume by the
woman, sometimes distinguished by a special drop and often given
more than a nucleus of plot, this very popular form of two-act
sometimes rises into the dignity of a little production.  Indeed,
many two-acts of this kind have been so successful in their little
form they have been expanded into miniature musical comedies [1].

[1] See Chapter XXX, The One-Act Musical Comedy.

(a) _Romance_ is the chief source of the flirtation two-act's
appeal.  It is the dream-love in the heart of every person in the
audience which makes this form of two-act "go" so well.  Moonlight,
a girl and a man--this is the recipe.

(b) _Witty Dialogue_ that fences with love, that thrusts, parries
and--surrenders, is what makes the flirtation two-act "get over."
It is the same kind of dialogue that made Anthony Hope's "Dolly
Dialogues" so successful in their day, the sort of speeches which
we, in real life, think of afterward and wish we had made.

(c) _Daintiness of effect_ is what is needed in this form of
two-act.  Dialogue and business, scenery, lights and music all
combine to the fulfillment of its purpose.  The cruder touches of
other two-act forms are forgotten and the entire effort is
concentrated on making an appeal to the "ideal."  Turn to the
Appendix, and read "After the Shower," and you will see how these
various elements are unified.  This famous flirtation two-act has
been chosen because it shows practically all the elements we have



The playlet is a very definite thing--and yet it is difficult to
define.  Like the short-story, painting as we know it today,
photography, the incandescent lamp, the telephone, and the myriad
other forms of art and mechanical conveniences, the playlet did
not spring from an inventor's mind full fledged, but attained its
present form by slow growth.  It is a thing of life--and life
cannot be bounded by words, lest it be buried in the tomb of a
hasty definition.

To attempt even the most cautious of definitions without having
first laid down the foundations of understanding by describing
some of the near-playlet forms to be seen on many vaudeville bills
would, indeed, be futile.  For perhaps the surest way of learning
what a thing is, is first to learn what it is not.  Confusion is
then less likely to creep into the conception, and the definition
comes like a satisfactory summing up of familiar points that are
resolved into clear words.


Even in the old music hall days, when a patron strolled in from a
hard day's work and sat down to enjoy an even harder evening's
entertainment, the skit or sketch or short play which eventually
drifted upon the boards--where it was seen through the mists of
tobacco smoke and strong drink--was _the_ thing.  The admiration
the patrons had for the performers, whom they liberally treated
after the show, did not prevent them from actively driving from
the stage any offering that did not possess the required dramatic
"punch." [1] They had enjoyed the best of everything else the music
hall manager could obtain for their amusement and they demanded
that their bit of a play be, also, the very best of its kind.

[1] It is worthy of note in this connection that many of the
dramatic and particularly the comedy offerings seen in the music
halls of twenty years ago, and in the "Honkitonks" of Seattle and
other Pacific Coast cities during the Alaskan gold rush, have,
expurgated, furnished the scenarios of a score of the most successful
legitimate dramas and comedies of recent years.  Some of our
greatest legitimate and vaudeville performers also came from this
humble and not-to-be-boasted-of school.  This phase of the growth
of the American drama has never been written.  It should be recorded
while the memories of "old timers" are still fresh.

No matter what this form of entertainment that we now know by the
name of vaudeville may be called, the very essence of its being
is variety.  "Topical songs"--we call their descendants "popular
songs"--classic ballads, short concerts given on all sorts of
instruments, juggling, legerdermain, clowning, feats of balancing,
all the departments of dancing and of acrobatic work, musical
comedy, pantomime, and all the other hundred-and-one things that
may be turned into an amusing ten or twenty minutes, found eager
welcome on the one stage that made it, and still makes it, a
business to present the very newest and the very best of everything.
To complete its claim to the title of variety, to separate itself
from a likeness to the circus, to establish itself as blood brother
of the legitimate stage, and, most important of all, to satisfy
the craving of its audiences for _drama_, vaudeville tried many
forms of the short play before the playlet was evolved to fill the

Everything that bears even the remotest likeness to a play found
a place and had a more or less fleeting--or lasting--popularity.
And not only was every form of play used, but forms of entertainment
that could not by reason of their very excellencies be made to
fill the crying want, were pressed into service and supplied with
ill-fitting plots in the vain attempt.

Musical acts, whose chief appeal was the coaxing of musical sounds
from wagon tires, drinking glasses, and exotic instruments, were
staged in the kitchen set.  And father just home from work would
say, "Come, daughter, let's have a tune."  Then off they would
start, give their little entertainment, and down would come the
curtain on a picture of never-to-be-seen domestic life.  Even
today, we sometimes see such a hybrid act.

Slap-stick sidewalk conversation teams often would hire an author
to fit them with a ready-made plot, and, pushed back behind the
Olio into a centre-door fancy set, would laboriously explain why
they were there, then go through their inappropriate antics and
finish with a climax that never "climaxed."  All kinds of two-acts,
from the dancing pair to the flirtatious couple, vainly tried to
give their offerings dramatic form.  They did their best to make
them over into little plays and still retain the individual elements
that had won them success.

The futility of such attempts it took years to realize.  It was
only when the stock opening, "I expect a new partner to call at
the house today in answer to my advertisement (which was read for
a laugh) and while I am waiting for him I might as well practice
my song," grew so wearisome that it had to be served with a special
notice in many vaudeville theatres, that these groping two-acts
returned to the pure forms from which they never should have
strayed.  But even today you sometimes see such an act--with a
little less inappropriate opening--win, because of the extreme
cleverness of the performers.


Among the dramatic forms--by which I mean acts depending on dialogue,
plot and "acting" for appeal--that found more or less success in
vaudeville, were sketches and short plays (not playlets) using
either comedy, farce, or dramatic plots, and containing either
burlesque or extravaganza.  Let us take these dramatic forms in
their order of widest difference from the playlet and give to each
the explanatory word it deserves.

1. Extravaganza Acts

Extravaganza is anything out of rule.  It deals comically with the
impossible and the unreal, and serves its purpose best when it
amazes most.  Relying upon physical surprises, as well as extravagant
stage-effects, the extravaganza act may be best explained, perhaps,
by naming a famous example--"Eight Bells."  The Byrne Brothers
took the elements of this entertainment so often into
vaudeville and out of it again into road shows that it is difficult
to remember where it originated.  The sudden appearances of the
acrobatic actors and their amazing dives through seemingly solid
doors and floors, held the very essence of extravaganza.  Uncommon
nowadays even in its pure form, the extravaganza act that tries
to ape the play form is seldom if ever seen.

2. Burlesque Acts

Burlesque acts, however, are not uncommon today and are of two
different kinds.  First, there is the burlesque that is travesty,
which takes a well-known and often serious subject and hits off
its famous features in ways that are uproariously funny.  "When
Caesar Sees Her," took the famous meeting between Cleopatra and
Marc Antony and made even the most impressive moment a scream. [1]
And Arthur Denvir's "The Villain Still Pursued Her" (See Appendix),
an exceptionally fine example of the travesty, takes the well-
remembered melodrama and extracts laughter from situations that
once thrilled.

[1] In musical comedy this is often done to subjects and personalities
of national interest.  The Ziegfeld perennial Follies invariably
have bits that are played by impersonators of the national figure
of the moment.  Sometimes in musical revues great dramatic successes
are travestied, and the invariable shouts of laughter their
presentation provokes are an illuminating exemplification of the
truth that between tragedy and comedy there is but a step.

Second, there are the acts that are constructed from bits of comedy
business and depend for their success not on dialogue, but on
action.  Merely a thread of plot holds them together and on it is
strung the elemental humor of the comedy bits, which as often as
not may be slap-stick.  The purpose being only to amuse for the
moment, all kinds of entertainment forms may be introduced.  One
of the most successful examples of the burlesque tab, [2] James
Madison's "My Old Kentucky Home" (See Appendix), serves as the
basic example in my treatment of this vaudeville form.

[2] _Tab_ is short for tabloid.  There may be tabloid musical
comedies--running forty minutes or more--as well as _burlesque

3. Short Plays

Short plays, as the name implies, are merely plays that are short.
They partake of the nature of the long play and are simply short
because the philosophic speeches are few and the number of scenes
that have been inserted are not many.  The short play may have
sub-plots; it may have incidents that do not affect the main design;
its characters may be many and some may be introduced simply to
achieve life-like effect; and it usually comes to a leisurely end
after the lapse of from twenty minutes to even an hour or more.

Again like the full-evening play, the one-act play that is merely
short paints its characters in greater detail than is possible in
the playlet, where the strokes are made full and broad.  Furthermore,
while in the playlet economy of time and attention are prime
requisites, in the short play they are not; to take some of the
incidents away from the short play might not ruin it, but to take
even one incident away from a playlet would make it incomplete.

For many years, however, the following tabloid forms of the
legitimate drama were vaudeville's answer to the craving of its
audiences for drama.

(a) _Condensed Versions, "Big" Scenes and Single Acts of Long
Plays_.  For example--an example which proves three points in a
single instance:  the need for drama in vaudeville, vaudeville's
anxiety for names, and its willingness to pay great sums for what
it wants--Joseph Jefferson was offered by F. F.  Proctor, in 1905,
the then unheard-of salary of $5,000 a week for twelve consecutive
weeks to play "Bob Acres" in a condensed version of "The Rivals."
Mr. Jefferson was to receive this honorarium for himself alone,
Mr. Proctor agreeing to furnish the condensed play, the scenery
and costumes, and pay the salaries of the supporting cast.  The
offer was not accepted, but it stood as the record until Martin
Beck paid Sarah Bernhardt the sum of $7,500 a week for herself and
supporting players during her famous 1913 tour of the Orpheum
Circuit.  In recent years nearly every legitimate artist of national
and international reputation has appeared in vaudeville in some
sort of dramatic vehicle that had a memory in the legitimate.

But that neither a condensed play, nor one "big" scene or a single
act from a long play, is not a playlet should be apparent when you
remember the impression of inadequacy left on your own mind by
such a vehicle, even when a famous actor or actress has endowed
it with all of his or her charm and wonderful art.

(b) _The Curtain-Raiser_.  First used to supplement or preface a
short three-act play so as to eke out a full evening's entertainment,
the little play was known as either an "afterpiece" or a
"curtain-raiser"; usually, however, it was presented before the
three-act drama, to give those who came early their full money's
worth and still permit the fashionables, who "always come late,"
to be present in time to witness the important play of the evening.
Then it was that "curtain-raiser" was considered a term of reproach.
But often in these days a curtain-raiser, like Sir James M. Barrie's
"The Twelve Pound Look," proves even more entertaining and worth
while than the ambitious play it precedes.

That Ethel Barrymore took "The Twelve Pound Look" into vaudeville
does not prove, however, that the curtain-raiser and the vaudeville
playlet are like forms.  As in the past, the curtain-raiser of
today usually is more kin to the long play than to the playlet.
But it is nevertheless true that in some recent curtain-raisers
the compact swiftness and meaningful effect of the playlet form
has become more apparent--they differ from the vaudeville playlet
less in form than in legitimate feeling.

Historically, however, the curtain-raiser stands in much the same
position in the genealogy of the playlet that the forms discussed
in the preceding section occupy.  As in the other short plays,
there was no sense of oneness of plot and little feeling of
coming-to-the-end that mark a good playlet.

Therefore, since the short play could not fully satisfy the
vaudeville patron's natural desire for drama, the sketch held the
vaudeville stage unchallenged until the playlet came.

4. Vaudeville Sketches

The vaudeville sketch in the old days was almost anything you might
care to name, in dramatic form.  Any vaudeville two-act that stepped
behind the Olio and was able to hold a bit of a plot alive amid
its murdering of the King's English and its slap-stick ways, took
the name of "a sketch."  But the "proper sketch," as the English
would say--the child of vaudeville and elder half-brother to the
playlet--did not make use of other entertainment forms.  It depended
on dialogue, business and acting and a more or less consistent
plot or near-plot for its appeal.  Usually a comedy--yet sometimes
a melodrama--the vaudeville sketch of yesterday and of today rarely
makes plot a chief element.  The _story_ of a sketch usually means
little in its general effect.  The general effect of the sketch
is--general.  That is one of the chief differences between it and
the playlet.

The purpose of the sketch is not to leave a single impression of
a single story.  It points no moral, draws no conclusion, and
sometimes it might end quite as effectively anywhere before the
place in the action at which it does terminate.  It is built for
entertainment purposes only, and furthermore, for entertainment
purposes that end the moment the sketch ends.  When you see a
sketch you carry away no definite impression, save that of
entertainment, and usually you cannot remember what it was that
entertained you.  Often a sketch might be incorporated into a
burlesque show or a musical comedy and serve for part of an act,
without suffering, itself, in effect. [1] And yet, without the
sketch of yesterday there would be no playlet today.

[1] Not so many years ago, a considerable number of vaudeville
sketches were used in burlesque; and vice versa, many sketches
were produced in burlesque that afterward had successful runs in
vaudeville.  Yet they were more than successful twenty-minute
"bits," taken out of burlesque shows.  They had a certain completeness
of form which did not lose in effect by being transplanted.

(a) _The Character Sketch_.  Some sketches, like Tom Nawn's "Pat
and the Geni," and his other "Pat" offerings, so long a famous
vaudeville feature, are merely character sketches.  Like the
near-short-story character-sketch, the vaudeville sketch often
gives an admirable exposition of character, without showing any
change in the character's heart effected by the incidents of the
story.  "Pat" went through all sorts of funny and startling
adventures when he opened the brass bottle and the Geni came forth,
but he was the very same Pat when he woke up and found it all a
dream. [1]

[1] The Ryan and Richfield acts that have to do with Haggerty and
his society-climbing daughter Mag, may be remembered.  For longer
than my memory runs, Mag Haggerty has been trying to get her father
into society, but the Irish brick-layer will never "arrive."  The
humor lies in Haggerty's rich Irishness and the funny mistakes he
always makes.  The "Haggerty" series of sketches and the "Pat"
series show, perhaps better than any others, the closeness of the
character-sketch short-story that is often mistaken for the true
short-story, to the vaudeville sketch that is so often considered
a playlet.

Indeed, the vaudeville sketch was for years the natural vehicle
and "artistic reward" for clever actors who made a marked success
in impersonating some particular character in burlesque or in the
legitimate.  The vaudeville sketch was written around the personality
of the character with which success had been won and hence was
constructed to give the actor opportunity to show to the best
advantage his acting in the character.  And in the degree that it
succeeded it was and still is a success--and a valuable entertainment
form for vaudeville.

(b) _The Narrative Sketch_.  Precisely as the character sketch is
not a playlet, the merely narrative sketch is not a true playlet.
No matter how interesting and momentarily amusing or thrilling may
be the twenty-minute vaudeville offering that depends upon incident
only, it does not enlist the attention, hold the sympathy, or
linger in the memory, as does the playlet.

Character revelation has little place in the narrative sketch, a
complete well-rounded plot is seldom to be found, and a change in
the relations of the characters rarely comes about.  The sketch
does not convince the audience that it is complete in itself--rather
it seems an incident taken out of the middle of a host of similar
experiences.  It does not carry the larger conviction of reality
that lies behind reality.

(1) _The Farce Sketch_.  Nevertheless such excellent farce sketches
as Mr. and Mrs. Sydney Drew, Rice and Cohen, Homer Mason and
Margaret Keeler, and other sterling performers have presented in
vaudeville, are well worth while.  The fact that many of the minor
incidents that occur in such finely amusing sketches as Mason and
Keeler's "In and Out" [1] do not lend weight to the ending, but
seem introduced merely to heighten the cumulative effect of the
farce-comedy, does not prove them, or the offering, to be lacking
in entertainment value for vaudeville.  Rather, the use of just
such extraneous incidents makes these sketches more worth while;
but the introduction of them and the dependence upon them, for
interest, does mark such offerings as narrative sketches rather
than as true playlets.

[1] By Porter Emerson Brown, author of A Fool There Was, and other
full-evening plays.

(2) _The Straight Dramatic and Melodramatic Sketch_.  In identically
the same way the introduction into one-act dramas and melodramas
of "bits" that are merely added to heighten the suspense and make
the whole seem more "creepy," without having a definite--an
inevitable--effect upon the ending makes and marks them as narrative
dramas and melodramas and not true playlet forms.

From the foregoing examples we may now attempt

5. A Definition of a Vaudeville Sketch

  A Vaudeville Sketch is a simple narrative, or a character sketch,
  presented by two or more people, requiring usually about twenty
  minutes to act, having little or no definite plot, developing
  no vital change in the relations of the characters, and depending
  on effective incidents for its appeal, rather than on the
  singleness of effect of a problem solved by character revelation
  and change.

It must be borne in mind that vaudeville is presenting today all
sorts of sketches, and that nothing in this definition is levelled
against their worth.  All that has been attempted so far in this
chapter has been to separate for you the various forms of dramatic
and near-dramatic offerings to be seen in vaudeville.  A good
sketch is decidedly worth writing.  And you should also remember
that definitions and separations are dangerous things.  There are
vaudeville sketches that touch in one point or two or three the
peculiar requirements of the playlet and naturally, in proportion
as these approach closely the playlet form, hair-splitting separations
become nearly, if not quite, absurd.

Furthermore, when an experienced playwright sits down to write a
vaudeville offering he does not consider definitions.  He has in
his mind something very definite that he plans to produce and he
produces it irrespective of definitions.  He is not likely to stop
to inquire whether it is a sketch or a playlet. [1] The only
classifications the professional vaudeville writer considers, are
failures and successes.  He defines a success by the money it
brings him.

[1] In discussing this, Arthur Hopkins said:  "When vaudeville
presents a very good dramatic offering, 'playlet' is the word used
to describe it.  If it isn't very fine, it is called a 'sketch.'"

But today there is a force abroad in vaudeville that is making for
a more artistic form of the one-act play.  It is the same artistic
spirit that produced out of short fiction the short-story.  This
age has been styled the age of the short-story and of vaudeville--it
is, indeed, the age of the playlet.

The actor looking for a vaudeville vehicle today is not content
with merely an incident that will give him the opportunity to
present the character with which he has won marked success on the
legitimate stage.  Nor is he satisfied with a series of incidents,
however amusing or thrilling they may be.  He requires an offering
that will lift his work into a more artistic sphere.  He desires
a little play that will be remembered after the curtain has been
rung down.

This is the sort of vehicle that he must present to win success
in vaudeville for any length of time.  While vaudeville managers
may seem content to book an act that is not of the very first rank,
because it is played by someone whose ability and whose name glosses
over its defects, they do not encourage such offerings by long
contracts.  Even with the most famous of names, vaudeville
managers--reflecting the desires of their audiences--demand
acceptable playlets.


Edgar Allan Woolf, one of the day's most successful playlet writers
who has won success year after year with vaudeville offerings that
have been presented by some of the most famous actors of this
country and of England, said when I asked him what he considered
to be the difference between the sketch and the playlet:

"There was a time when the vaudeville sketch was moulded on lines
that presented less difficulties and required less technique of
the playwright than does the playlet of today.  The curtain generally
rose on a chambermaid in above-the-ankle skirts dusting the furniture
as she told in soliloquy form that her master and mistress had
sent for a new butler or coachman or French teacher.  How the
butler, coachman or French teacher might make her happier was not

"Then came a knock on the door, followed by the elucidating remark
of the maid, 'Ah, this must be he now.' A strange man thereupon
entered, who was not permitted to say who he was till the piece
was over or there would have been no piece.  The maid for no reason
mistook him for the butler, coachman or French teacher, as the
case may have been, and the complications ensuing were made hilarious
by the entrance of the maid's husband who, of course, brought about
a comedy chase scene, without which no 'comedietta' was complete.
Then all characters met--hasty explanations--and 'comedy curtain.'

"Today, all these things are taboo.  A vaudeville audience resents
having the 'protiasis' or introductory facts told them in monologue
form, as keenly as does the 'legitimate' audience.  Here, too, the
actor may not explain his actions by 'asides.' And 'mistaken
identity' is a thing of the past.

"Every trivial action must be thoroughly motivated, and the finish
of the playlet, instead of occurring upon the 'catabasis,' or
general windup of the action, must develop the most striking feature
of the playlet, so that the curtain may come down on a surprise,
or at least an event toward which the entire action has been

"But the most important element that has developed in the playlet
of today is the problem, or theme.  A little comedy that provokes
laughter yet means nothing, is apt to be peddled about from week
to week on the 'small time' and never secure booking in the better
houses.  In nearly all cases where the act has been a 'riot' of
laughter, yet has failed to secure bookings, the reason is to be
found in the fact that it is devoid of a definite theme or central

"The booking managers are only too eager to secure playlets--and
now I mean precisely the _playlet_--which are constructed to develop
a problem, either humorous or dramatic.  The technique of the
playlet playwright is considered in the same way that the three-act
playwright's art of construction is analyzed by the dramatic


We have seen what the playlet is not.  We have considered the
various dramatic and near-dramatic forms from which it differs.
And now, having studied its negative qualities, I may assemble its
positive characteristics before we embark once more upon the
troubled seas of definition.  The true playlet is marked by the
following ten characteristics:

1--A clearly motivated opening--not in soliloquy form.

2--A single definite and predominating problem or theme.

3--A single preeminent character.

4--Motivated speeches.

5--Motivated business and acting.

6--Unity of characters.



9--A finish that develops the most striking feature into a
surprise--or is an event toward which every speech and every action
has been progressing.

10--Unity of impression [1]

[1] See page 30, Writing the Short-Story, by J. Berg Esenwein,
published in "The Writer's Library," uniform with this volume.
Note the seven characteristics of the short-story and compare them
with the playlet's ten characteristics.  You will find a surprising
similarity between the short-story and the playlet in some points
of structure.  A study of both in relation to each other may give
you a clearer understanding of each.

Each of these characteristics has already been discussed in our
consideration of the dramatic forms--either in its negative or
positive quality--or will later be taken up at length in its proper
place.  Therefore, we may hazard in the following words

A Definition of a Playlet

  A Playlet is a stage narrative taking usually about twenty minutes
  to act, having a single chief character, and a single problem
  which predominates, and is developed by means of a plot so
  compressed and so organized that every speech and every action
  of the characters move it forward to a finish which presents the
  most striking features; while the whole is so organized as to
  produce a single impression.

You may haunt the vaudeville theatres in a vain search for a playlet
that will embody all of these characteristics in one perfect
example. [1] But the fact that a few playlets are absolutely perfect
technically is no reason why the others should be condemned.
Remember that precise conformity to the rules here laid down is
merely academic perfection, and that the final worth of a playlet
depends not upon adherence to any one rule, or all--save as they
point the way to success--but upon how the playlet as a whole
succeeds with the audience.

[1] Study the playlet examples in the Appendix and note how closely
each approaches technical perfection.

Yet there will be found still fewer dramatic offerings in vaudeville
that do not conform to some of these principles.  Such near-playlets
succeed not because they evade the type, but mysteriously in spite
of their mistakes.  And as they conform more closely to the standards
of what a playlet should be, they approach the elements that make
for lasting success.

But beyond these "rules"--if rules there really are--and far above
them in the heights no rules can reach, lies that something which
cannot be defined, which breathes the breath of life into words
and actions that bring laughter and tears.  Rules cannot build the
bridge from your heart to the hearts of your audiences.  Science
stands abashed and helpless before the task.  All that rules can
suggest, all that science can point out--is the way others have
built their bridges

For this purpose only, are these standards of any value to you.



The kind of playlet is largely determined by its characters and
their surroundings, and on these there are practically no limits.
You may have characters of any nationality; you may treat them
reverently, or--save that you must never offend--you may make them
as funny as you desire; you may give them any profession that suits
your purpose; you may place them in any sort of house or on the
open hills or in an air-ship high in the sky; you may show them
in any country of the earth or on the moon or in the seas under
the earth--you may do anything you like with them.  Vaudeville
wants everything--everything so long as it is well and strikingly
done.  Therefore, to attempt to list the many different kinds of
playlet to be seen upon the vaudeville stage would, indeed, be a
task as fraught with hazard as to try to classify minutely the
divers kinds of men seen upon the stage of life.  And of just as
little practical value would it be to have tables showing the
scores of superficial variations of character, nationality, time
and place which the years have woven into the playlets of the past.

In the "art" of the playlet there are, to be sure, the same three
"schools"--more or less unconsciously followed in nearly every
vaudeville instance--which are to be found in the novel, the
short-story, painting, and the full-length play.  These are, of
course, realism, romance, and idealism. [1] These distinctions,
however, are--in vaudeville--merely distinctions without being
valuable differences.  You need never give thought as to the school
to which you are paying allegiance in your playlet; your work will
probably be neither better nor worse for this knowledge or its
lack.  Your playlet must stand on its own legs, and succeed or
fail by the test of interest.  Make your playlet grip, that is the

[1] Should you wish to dally with the mooted question of the
difference between realism and romanticism--in the perplexing mazes
of which many a fine little talent has been snuffed out like a
flickering taper in a gust of wind--there are a score or more
volumes that you will find in any large library, in which the whole
matter is thrashed out unsatisfactorily.  However, if you wish to
spend a half-hour profitably and pleasantly, read Robert Louis
Stevenson's short chapter, A Note on Realism, to be found in his
suggestive and all-too-few papers on The Art of Writing.  In the
collection of his essays entitled Memories and Portraits will be
found an equally delightful and valuable paper, A Gossip on Romance.
A brief technical discussion will also be found in Writing the
Short-Story, by J. Berg Esenwein, pp. 64-67.

But do not confuse the word "romance," as it is used in the preceding
paragraph, with love.  Love is an emotional, not a technical
element, and consorts equally well with either romance or realism
in writing.  Love might be the heading of one of those tables we
have agreed not to bother with.  Into everything that is written
for vaudeville love may stray.  Or it may not intrude, if your
purpose demands that love stay out.  Yet, like the world, what
would vaudeville be, if love were left out?  And now we come to
those broad types of playlet which you should recognize instinctively.
Unless you do so recognize them--and the varying half-grounds that
lie between, where they meet and mingle quite as often as they
appear in their pure forms--you will have but little success in
writing the playlet.

In considering the broad types of playlet you should remember that
words are said to _denote_ definitely the ideas they delineate,
and to _connote_ the thoughts and emotions they do not clearly
express but arouse in the hearer or reader.  For example, what do
"farce," "comedy," "tragedy" and "melodrama" _connote_ to you?
What emotions do they suggest?  This is an important matter, because
all great artistic types are more or less fully associated with a
mood, a feeling, an atmosphere.

Webster's dictionary gives to them the following denotations, or

_Farce_:  "A dramatic composition, written without regularity, and
differing from comedy chiefly in the grotesqueness, extravagance
and improbability of its characters and incidents; low comedy."

Arthur Denvir's "The Villain Still Pursued Her" is one of the
best examples of the travesty vaudeville has produced. [1] James
Madison's "My Old Kentucky Home" is a particularly fine example
of burlesque in tabloid form. [1] These two acts have been chosen
to show the difference between two of the schools of farce.

[1] See Appendix.

_Comedy_:  "A dramatic composition or representation, designed for
public amusement and usually based upon laughable incidents, or
the follies or foibles of individuals or classes; a form of the
drama in which humor and mirth predominate, and the plot of which
usually ends happily; the opposite of tragedy."

Edgar Allan Woolf's "The Lollard" is an exceptionally good example
of satirical comedy. [1]

_Tragedy_:  "A dramatic composition, representing an important event
or a series of events in the life of some person or persons in
which the diction is elevated, the movement solemn and stately,
and the catastrophe sad; a kind of drama of a lofty or mournful
cast, dealing with the dark side of life and character."  Richard
Harding Davis's "Blackmail" is a notable example of tragedy. [1]

[1] See Appendix.

_Melodrama_:  "A romantic [connoting love] play, generally of a
serious character, in which effect is sought by startling incidents,
striking situations, exaggerated sentiment and thrilling denouement,
aided by elaborate stage effects.  The more thrilling passages are
sometimes accentuated by musical accompaniments, the only surviving
relic of the original musical character of the melodrama."

Taylor Granville's "The System" is one of the finest examples of
pure melodrama seen in vaudeville. [2]

[2] Written by Taylor Granville, Junie MacCree and Edward Clark;
see Appendix.

There are, of course, certain other divisions into which these
four basic kinds of playlet--as well as the full-length play--may
be separated, but they are more or less false forms.  However,
four are worthy of particular mention:

_The Society Drama_:  The form of drama in which a present-day story
is told, and the language, dress and manners of the actors are
those of polite modern society. [1] You will see how superficial
the distinction is, when you realize that the plot may be farcical,
comic, tragic or melodramatic.

[1] As the dramas of the legitimate stage are more often remembered
by name than are vaudeville acts, I will mention as example of the
society drama Clyde Fitch's The Climbers.  This fine satire skirted
the edge of tragedy.

The same is true of

_The Problem Drama_:  The form of drama dealing with life's
"problems"--of sex, business, or what not. [2]

[2] Ibsen's Ghosts; indeed, nearly every one of the problem master's
plays offer themselves as examples of the problem type.

And the same is likewise true of

_The Pastoral-Rural Drama_:  The form of drama dealing with rustic
life. [3]

[3] The long play Way Down East is a fine example of the pastoral--or
rural--drama of American life.

And also of

_The Detective Drama_:  [4] The form of drama dealing with the
detection of crime and the apprehension of the criminal.  I cannot
recollect a detective playlet--or three-act play, for that
matter--that is not melodramatic.  When the action is not purely
melodramatic, the lines and the feeling usually thrill with
melodrama. [5] "The System," which is a playlet dealing with the
detection of detectives, is but one example in point.

[4] Mr. Charlton Andrews makes a series of interesting and helpful
discriminations among the several dramatic forms, in his work The
Technique of Play Writing, published uniform with this volume in
"The Writer's Library."

[5] Sherlock Holmes, William Gillette's masterly dramatization of
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's famous detective stories, is melodramatic
even when the action is most restrained.

Here, then, we have the four great kinds of playlet, and four out
of the many variations that often seem to the casual glance to
possess elemental individuality.

Remember that this chapter is merely one of definitions and that
a definition is a description of something given to it after--not
before--it is finished.  A definition is a tag, like the label the
entomologist ties to the pin after he has the butterfly nicely
dead.  Of questionable profit it would be to you, struggling to
waken your playlet into life, to worry about a definition that
might read "Here Lies a Polite Comedy."

Professor Baker says that the tragedies of Shakespere may have
seemed to the audiences of their own day "not tragedies at all,
but merely more masterly specimens of dramatic story-telling than
the things that preceded them." [1] If Shakespere did not worry
about the precise labels of the plays he was busy writing and
producing, you and I need not.  Forget definitions--forget everything
but your playlet and the grip, the thrill, the punch, the laughter
of your plot.

[1] Development of Shakespere as a Dramatist, by Prof. Baker of
Harvard University.

To sum up:  The limits of the playlet are narrow, its requirements
are exacting, but within those limits and those requirements you
may picture anything you possess the power to present.  Pick out
from life some incident, character, temperament--whatever you
will--and flash upon it the glare of the vaudeville spot-light;
breathe into it the breath of life; show its every aspect and
effect; dissect away the needless; vivify the series of actions
you have chosen for your brief and trenchant crisis; lift it all
with laughter or touch it all with tears.  Like a searchlight your
playlet must flash over the landscape of human hearts and rest
upon some phase of passion, some momentous incident, and make it
stand out clear and real from the darkness of doubt that surrounds



Where does a playlet writer get his idea?  How does he recognize
a playlet idea when it presents itself to him?  How much of the
playlet is achieved when he hits on the idea?  These questions are
asked successful playlet writers every day, but before we proceed
to find their answers, we must have a paragraph or two of definition.


Whenever the word "problem" is used--as, "the problem of a playlet"--I
do not mean it in the sense that one gathers when he hears the
words "problem play"; nothing whatever of sex or the other problems
of the day is meant.  What I mean is grasped at first glance better,
perhaps, by the word "theme."  Yet "theme" does not convey the
precise thought I wish to associate with the idea.

A theme is a subject--that much I wish to convey--but I choose
"problem" because I wish to connote the fact that the theme of a
playlet is more than a subject:  it is precisely what a problem in
mathematics is.  Given a problem in geometry, you must solve
it--from its first statement all the way through to the "Q.E.D."
Each step must bear a plain and logical relation to that which
went before and what follows.  Your playlet theme is your problem,
and you must choose for a theme or subject only such a problem as
can be "proved" conclusively within the limits of a playlet.

Naturally, you are inclined to inquire as a premise to the questions
that open this chapter, What are the themes or subjects that offer
themselves as best suited to playlet requirements?  In other words,
what make the best playlet problems?  Here are a few that present
themselves from memory of playlets that have achieved exceptional

A father may object to his son's marrying anyone other than the
girl whom he has chosen for him, but be won over by a little
baby--"Dinkelspiel's Christmas," by George V. Hobart.

A slightly intoxicated young man may get into the wrong house by
mistake and come through all his adventures triumphantly to remain
a welcome guest--"In and Out," by Porter Emerson Brown.

A "crooked" policeman may build up a "system," but the honest
policemen will hunt him down, even letting the lesser criminal
escape to catch the greater--"The System," by Taylor Granville,
Junie MacCree and Edward Clark.

Youth that lies in the mind and not in the body or dress may make
a grandmother act and seem younger than her granddaughter--"Youth,"
by Edgar Allan Woolf.

A foolish young woman may leave her husband because she has "found
him out," yet return to him again when she discovers that another
man is no better than he is--"The Lollard," by Edgar Allan Woolf.

A man may do away with another, but escape the penalty because of
the flawless method of the killing--"Blackmail," by Richard Harding

A wide range of themes is shown in even these few playlets, isn't
there?  Yet the actual range of themes from which playlet problems
may be chosen is not even suggested.  Though I stated the problems
of all the playlets that were ever presented in vaudeville, the
field of playlet-problem possibilities would not be even adequately
suggested.  Anything, everything, presents itself for a playlet
problem--if you can make it human, interesting and alive.

What interests men and women?  Everything, you answer.  Whatever
interests you and your family, and your neighbor and his family,
and the man across the street and his wife's folks back home--is
a subject for a playlet.  Whatever causes you to stop and think,
to laugh or cry, is a playlet problem.  "Art is life seen through
a personality," is as true of the playlet as of any other art form.

Because some certain subject or theme has never been treated in a
playlet, does not mean that it cannot be.  It simply means that
that particular subject has never yet appealed to a man able to
present it successfully.  Vaudeville is hungering for writers able
to make gripping playlets out of themes that never have been treated
well.  To such it offers its largest rewards.  What do you know
better than anyone else--what do you feel keener than anyone else
does--what can you present better than anyone else?  That is the
subject you should choose for _your_ playlet problem.

And so you see that a playlet problem is not merely just "an idea";
it is a subject that appeals to a writer as offering itself with
peculiar credentials--as the theme that he should select.  It is
anything at all--anything that you can make _your own_ by your mastery
of its every angle.

1. What Themes to Avoid

(a) _Unfamiliar Themes_.  If a subject of which you have not a
familiar knowledge presents itself to you, reject it.  Imagine how
a producer, the actors and an audience--if they let the thing go
that far--would laugh at a playlet whose premises were false and
whose incidents were silly, because untrue.  Never give anyone an
opportunity to look up from a manuscript of yours and grin, as he
says:  "This person's a fool; he doesn't know what he's writing

(b) _"Cause" Themes_.  Although more powerful than the "stump" or
the pulpit today, and but little less forceful than the newspaper
as a means of exposing intolerable conditions and ushering in new
and better knowledge, the stage is not the place for propaganda.
The public goes to the theatre to be entertained, not
instructed--particularly is this true of vaudeville--and the writer
daring enough to attempt to administer even homeopathic doses of
instruction, must be a master-hand to win.  Once in a generation
a Shaw may rise, who, by a twist of his pen, can make the public
think, while he wears a guileful smile as he propounds philosophy
from under a jester's cap; but even then his plays must be edited--as
some of Shaw's are--of all but the most dramatic of his belligerently
impudent notions.

If you have a religious belief, a political creed, a racial
propagandum--in short, a "cause"--either to defend or to forward,
don't write it in a drama.  The legitimate stage might be induced
to present it, if someone were willing to pay the theatre's losses,
but vaudeville does not want it.  Choose any form of presentation--a
newspaper article, a magazine story, anything at all--save a playlet
for polemic or "cause" themes.

(c) _Hackneyed Themes_.  What has been "done to death" in vaudeville?
You know as well as the most experienced playlet-writer, if you
will only give the subject unbiased thought.  What are the things
that make you squirm in your seat and the man next you reach for
his hat and go out?  A list would fill a page, but there are two
that should be mentioned because so many playlets built upon them
are now being offered to producers without any hope of acceptance.
There is the "mistaken identity" theme, in which the entire action
hinges on one character's mistaking another for someone else--one
word spoken in time would make the entire action needless, but the
word is never spoken--or there would be no playlet.  And the
"henpecked husband," or the mistreated wife, who gets back at the
final curtain, is a second.  Twenty years hence either one of these
may be the theme of the "scream" of the season, for stage fashions
change like women's styles, but, if you wish your playlet produced
today, don't employ them.

(d) _Improper Themes_.  Any theme that would bring a blush to the
cheek of your sister, of your wife, of your daughter, you must
avoid.  No matter how pure your motive might be in making use of
such a theme, resolutely deny it when it presents itself to you.
The fact that the young society girl who offered me a playlet based
on, to her, an amazing experience down at the Women's Night
Court--where she saw the women of the streets brought before the
judge and their "men" paying the fines--was a clean-minded,
big-hearted girl anxious to help better conditions, did not make
her theme any cleaner or her playlet any better.

Of course, I do not mean that you must ignore such conditions when
your playlet calls for the use of such characters.  I mean that
you should not base your playlet entirely on such themes--you
should never make such a theme the chief reason of your playlet's

2. What Themes to Use

You may treat any subject or play upon any theme, whatsoever it
may be, provided it is not a "cause," is not hackneyed, is not
improper for its own sake and likely to bring a blush to the cheeks
of those you love, _is_ familiar to you in its every angle, and is
a subject that forms a problem which can be proved conclusively
within the requirements of a playlet.


1. The Three Forms of Dramatic Treatment

It is generally accepted by students of the novel and the short-story
that there are three ways of constructing a narrative:

(a) Characters may be fitted with a story.

(b) A sequence of events may be fitted with characters.

(c) An interesting atmosphere may be expressed by characters and
a sequence of events.

In other words, a narrative may be told by making either the
characters or the events or the atmosphere peculiarly and particularly

It should be obvious that the special character of vaudeville makes
the last-named--the story of atmosphere--the least effective;
indeed, as drama is action--by which I mean a clash of wills and
the outcome--no audience would be likely to sit through even
twenty minutes of something which, after all, merely results in a
"feeling."  Therefore the very nature of the pure story of atmosphere
eliminates it from the stage; next in weakness of effect is the
story of character; while the strongest--blood of its blood and
bone of its bone--is the story of dramatic events.  This is for
what the stage is made and by which it lives.  To be sure, character
and atmosphere both have their places in the play of dramatic
action, but for vaudeville those places must be subordinate.

These last two ways of constructing a story will be taken up and
discussed in detail later on, in their proper order; they are
mentioned here to help make clear how a playwright gets an idea.

2. Themes to fit Certain Players

It is not at all uncommon for a playlet writer to be asked to fit
some legitimate star, about to enter vaudeville, with a playlet
that shall have for its hero or its heroine the particular character
in which the star has had marked success. [1] And often a man and
wife who have achieved a reputation in vaudeville together will
order a new playlet that shall have characters modeled on the lines
of those in the old playlet.  Or, indeed, as I have know in many
instances, three performers will order a playlet in which there
must be characters to fit them all.  When a writer receives such
an order it would seem that at least a part of his task is already
done for him; but this is not the case, he still must seek that
most important things--a story.

[1] In precisely the same way writers of the full-evening play for
the legitimate stage are forever fashioning vehicles for famous
stars.  The fact that the chief consideration is the star and that
the play is considered merely as a "vehicle" is one of the reasons
why our plays are not always of the best.  Where you consider a
personality greater than a story, the story is likely to suffer.
Can you name more than one or two recent plays so fashioned that
have won more than a season's run?

3. Themes Born in the Mind of the Writer

The beginner, fortunately, is not brought face to face with this
problem; he is foot-free to wander wherever his fancy leads.  And
yet he may find in his thoughts a character or two who beg to serve
him so earnestly that he cannot deny them.  So he takes them,
knowing them so well that he is sure he can make them live--and
he constructs a story around them.

Or there may first pop into his mind a story in its entirety, full
fledged, with beginning, middle and ending--that is; thoroughly
motivated in every part and equipped with characters that live and
breathe.  Unhappily this most fortunate of occurrences usually
happens only in the middle of the night, when one must wake up
next morning and sadly realize it was but a dream.

4. The Newspaper as a Source of Ideas.

A playwright, let us say, reads in the newspapers of some striking
characters, or of an event that appeals to him as funny or as
having a deep dramatic import.  There may be only a few bald lines
telling the news.  features of the story in one sentence, or there
may be an entire column, discussing the case from every angle.
Whatever it is, the bit of news appeals to him, and maybe of all
men to him only, so he starts _thinking_ about the possibilities it
offers for a playlet.

5. Happenings of which the Playwright is Told or Which Occur
under his Notice

Some striking incident rises out of the life about the playwright
and he sees it or hears about it, and straightway comes the thought:
This is a playlet idea.  A large number of playlets have been
germinated so.

6. Experiences that Happen to the Playwright

Some personal experience which wakens in the mind of the playwright
the thought, Here's something that'll make a good playlet, is one
of the fruitful sources of playlet-germs.

But however the germ idea comes to him--whether as a complete
story, or merely as one striking incident, or just a situation
that recommends itself to him as worth while fitting with a story--he
begins by turning it over in his mind and casting it into dramatic


For the purpose of illustration, let us suppose that Taylor
Granville, who conceived the idea of "The System," had read in the
New York newspapers about the Becker case and the startling expose
of the alleged police "system" that grew out of the Rosenthal
murder, here is how his mind, trained to vaudeville and dramatic
conventions, might have evolved that excellent melodramatic playleet.

[1] As a matter of fact, Mr. Granville had the first draft of the
playlet in his trunk many months before the Rosenthal murder
occurred, and Mr. MacCree and Mr. Clark were helping him with the
final revisions when the fatal shot was fired.

In this connection it should be emphasized that the Becker case
did not make The System a great playlet; the investigation of the
New York Police Department only gave it the added attraction of
timeliness and, therefore, drew particular attention to it.  Dozens
of other playlets and many long plays that followed The System on
the wave of the same timely interest failed.  Precisely as Within
the Law, Bayard Veiller's great play, so successful for the Selwyn
Company, was given a striking timeliness by the Rosenthal murder,
The System reaped merely the brimming harvest of lucky accident.
And like Within the Law, this great playlet would be as successful
today as it was then--because it is "big" in itself. [end footnote]

The incidents of "the Becker Case" were these:  Herman Rosenthal,
a gambler of notorious reputation, one day went to District Attorney
Whitman with the story that he was being hounded by the police--at
the command of a certain Police Lieutenant.  Rosenthal asserted
that he had a story to tell which would shake up the New York
Police Department.  He was about to be called to testify to his
alleged story when he was shot to death in front of the Metropole
Hotel on Forty-third Street and the murderer or murderers escaped
in an automobile.  Several notorious underworld characters were
arrested, charged with complicity in the murder, and some, in the
hope, it has been said, of receiving immunity, confessed and
implicated Police Lieutenant Becker, who was arrested on the charge
of being the instigator of the crime. [1] These are the bare facts
as every newspaper in New York City told them in glaring headlines
at the time.  Merely as incidents of a striking story, Mr. Granville
would, it is likely, have turned them over in his mind with these

[1] Becker's subsequent trial, conviction, sentence to death and
execution occurred many months later and could not have entered
into the playwright's material, therefore they are not recounted

"If I take these incidents as they stand, I'll have a grewsome
ending that'll 'go great' for a while--if the authorities let me
play it--and then the playlet will die with the waning interest.
There isn't much that's dramatic in a gambler shown in the District
Attorney's Office planning to 'squeal,' and then getting shot for
it, even though the police in the playlet were made to instigate
the murder.  It'd make a great 'movie,' perhaps, but there isn't
enough time in vaudeville to go through all the motions:  I've got
to recast it into drama.

"I must 'forget' the bloody ending, too--it may be great drama,
but it isn't good vaudeville.  The two-a-day wants the happy ending,
if it can get it.

"And even if the Becker story's true in every detail, Rosenthal
isn't a character with whom vaudeville can sympathize--I'll have
to get a lesser offender, to win sympathy--a 'dip's' about right--
'The Eel.'

"There isn't any love-interest, either--where's the girl that
sticks to him through thick and thin?  I'll add his sweetheart,
Goldie.  And I'll give The Eel more sympathy by making Dugan's
motive the attempt to win her.

"Then there's got to be the square Copper--the public knows that
the Police force is fundamentally honest--so the Department has
got to clean itself up, in my playlet; fine, there's McCarthy, the
honest Inspector."

Here we have a little more, perhaps, than a bare germ idea, but
it is probably the sort of thing that came into Mr. Granville's
mind with the very first thought of "The System."  Even more might
have come during the first consideration of his new playlet, and--as
we are dealing now not with a germ idea only but primarily with
how a playwright's mind works--let us follow his supposititious
reasoning further:

"All right; now, there's got to be an incident that'll give Dugan
his chance to 'railroad' The Eel, and a money-society turn is
always good, so we have Mrs. Worthington and the necklace, with
Goldie, the suspected maid, who casts suspicion on The Eel.  Dugan
'plants' it all, gets the necklace himself, tries to lay it to The
Eel, and win Goldie besides--but a dictograph shows him up.  Now
a man-to-man struggle between Dugan and The Eel for good old
melodrama.  The Eel is losing, in comes the Inspector and saves
him--Dugan caught--triumph of the honest police--and Goldie and
The Eel free to start life anew together.  That's about it--for a
starter, anyway.

"Re-read these dramatic incidents carefully, compare them with the
incidents of the suggestive case as the newspapers reported them,
and you will see not only where a playwright may get a germ idea,
but how his mind works in casting it into stage form.

The first thing that strikes you is the dissimilarity of the two
stories; the second, the greater dramatic effectiveness of the
plot the playlet-writer's mind has evolved; third, that needless
incidents have been cut away; fourth, that the very premise of the
story, and all the succeeding incidents, lead you to recognize
them in the light of the denouement as the logical first step and
succeeding steps of which the final scene is inevitably the last;
fifth, however many doubts may hover around the story of the
suggesting incident, there is no cloud of doubt about the perfect
justice of the stage story; and, sixth, that while you greet the
ending of the suggesting story with a feeling of repugnance, the
final scene of the stage story makes the whole clearly, happily
and pleasantly true--truer than life itself, to human hearts which
forever aspire after what we sometimes sadly call "poetic justice."

Now, in a few short paragraphs, we may sum up the answer to the
question which opens this chapter, and answer the other two questions
as well.  A playlet writer may get the germ of a playlet idea:
from half-ideas suggested by the necessity of fitting certain
players; directly from his own imagination; from the newspapers;
from what someone tells him, or from his observation of incidents
that come under his personal notice; from experiences that happen
to him--in fact, from anywhere.


A playlet writer recognizes that the character or characters, the
incident or incidents, possess a funny, serious or tragic _grip_,
and the fact that he, himself, is gripped, is evidence that a
playlet is "_there_," if--IF--he can trust his own dramatic instinct.
A playlet writer recognizes an idea as a playlet idea, because he
is able so to recognize such an idea; there is no escape from this:
YOU MUST POSSESS DRAMATIC INSTINCT [1] to recognize playlet ideas
and write playlets.

[1] See the following chapter on "The Dramatic--the Vital Element
of Plot."


No two persons in this world act alike, and certainly no two persons
think alike.  How much of a playlet is achieved when the germ idea
is found and recognized, depends somewhat upon the idea--whether
it is of characters that must be fitted with a story, a series of
incidents, or one incident only--but more upon the writer.  I have
known playlets which were the results of ideas that originated in
the concepts of clever final situations, the last two minutes of
the playlet serving as the incentive to the construction of the
story that led inevitably up to the climax.  I have also known
playlets whose big scenes were the original ideas--the opening and
finish being fitted to them.  One or two writers have told me of
playlets which came almost entirely organized and motivated into
their minds with the first appearance of the germ idea.  And others
have told me of the hours of careful thinking through which they
saw, in divers half-purposes of doubt, the action and the characters
emerge into a definite, purposeful whole.

What one writer considers a full-fledged germ idea, may be to
another but the first faint evidence that an idea may possibly be
there.  The skilled playlet-writer will certainly grasp a germ
idea, and appraise its worth quicker than the novice can.  In the
eager acceptance of half-formed ideas that speciously glitter,
lies the pitfall which entraps many a beginner.  Therefore, engrave
on the tablets of your resolution this determination and single

  Never accept a subject as a germ idea and begin to write a playlet
  until you have turned its theme over in your mind a sufficient
  length of time to establish its worth beyond question.  Consider
  it from every angle in the light of the suggestions in this
  chapter, and make its characters and its action as familiar to
  you as is the location of every article in your own room.  Then,
  when your instinct for the dramatic tells you there is no doubt
  that here is the germ idea of a playlet, state it in one short
  sentence, and consider that statement as a problem that must be
  solved logically, clearly and conclusively, within the requirements
  of the playlet form.

With the germ idea the entire playlet may flood into the writer's
mind, or come in little waves that rise continually, like the ever
advancing tide, to the flood that touches high-water mark.  But,
however complete the germ idea may be, it depends upon the writer
alone whether he struggles like a novice to keep his dramatic head
above water, or strikes out with the bold, free strokes of the
practised swimmer.



What the dramatic is--no matter whether it be serious or comic in
tone--requires some consideration in a volume such as this, even
though but a brief discussion is possible and only a line of thought
may be pointed out.

This discussion is placed here in the sequence of chapters, because
it first begins to trouble the novice after he has accepted his
germ idea, and before he has succeeded in casting it into a stage
story.  Indeed, at that moment even the most self-sure becomes
conscious of the demands of the dramatic.  Yet this chapter will
be found to overlap some that precede it and some that
follow--particularly the chapter on plot structure, of which this
discussion may be considered an integral part--as is the case in
every attempt to put into formal words, principles separate in
theory, but inseparable in application.

In the previous chapter, the conscious thought that precedes even
the acceptance of a germ idea was insisted on--it was "played up,"
as the stage phrase terms a scene in which the emotional key is
pitched high--with the purpose of forcing upon your attention the
prime necessity of thinking out--not yet writing--the playlet.
Emphasis was also laid on the necessity for the possession of
dramatic instinct--a gift far different from the ability to think--by
anyone who would win success in writing this most difficult of
dramatic forms.  But now I wish to lay an added stress--to pitch
even higher the key of emphasis--on one fundamental, this vital
necessity:  Anyone who would write a playlet must possess in himself,
as an instinct--something that cannot be taught and cannot be
acquired--the ability to recognize and grasp the dramatic.

No matter if you master the technic by which the great dramatists
have built their plays, you cannot achieve success in writing the
playlet if you do not possess an innate sense of what is dramatic.
For, just as a man who is tone-deaf [1] might produce musical
manuscripts which while technically faultless would play inharmoniously,
so the man who is drama-blind might produce "perfect" playlet
manuscripts that would play in dramatic discords.

[1] Not organically defective, as were the ears of the great
composer, Beethoven, but tone-deaf, as a person may be color-blind.

1. What Dramatic Instinct Is

When you witness a really thrilling scene in a play you find
yourself sitting on the edge of your seat; you clench your hands
until the nails sink into your flesh; tears roll down your cheeks
at other scenes, until you are ashamed of your emotion and wipe
them furtively away; and you laugh uproariously at still other
scenes.  But your quickened heart-beats, your tears, and your
laughter are, however, no evidence that you possess dramatic
instinct--they are a tribute to the possession of that gift in the
person who wrote the play.  So do not confuse appreciation--the
ultimate result of another's gift--with the ability to create:
they are two very different things.

No more does comprehension of a dramatist's methods--a sort of
detached and often cold appreciation--indicate the possession of
gifts other than those of the critic.

  Dramatic instinct is the ability to see the dramatic moments in
  real life; to grasp the dramatic possibilities; to pick out the
  thrills, the tears and the laughter, and to lift these out from
  the mass and set them--combined, coherent and convincing--in a
  story that seems truer than life itself, when unfolded on the
  stage by characters who are more real than reality. [1]

[1] Arniel in his Journal says:  "The ideal, after all, is truer
than the real; for the ideal is the eternal element in perishable
things; it is their type, their sum, their 'raison d'etre,' their
formula in the book of the Creator, and therefore at once the most
exact and the most condensed expression of them."

Elizabeth Woodbridge in her volume, The Drama, says:  "It is in
finding the mean between personal narrowness which is too selective,
and photographic impersonality that is not selective at all, that
the individuality of the artist, his training, and his ideals, are
tested.  It is this that determines how much his work shall possess
of what we may call poetic, or artistic, truth."  [end footnote]

Yet, true as it is that dramatic ability inevitably shines through
finished drama when it is well played upon the stage, there are
so many determining factors of pleasing theme, acting, production
and even of audience--and so many little false steps both in
manuscript and presentation; which might be counted unfortunate
accident--that the failure of a play is not always a sure sign
that the playwright lacks dramatic instinct.  If it were, hardly
one of our successful dramatists of today would have had the heart
to persevere--for some wrote twenty full-evening plays before one
was accepted by a manager, and then plodded through one or more
stage failures before they were rewarded with final success.  If
producing managers could unerringly tell who has dramatic instinct
highly developed and who has it not at all, there would be few
play failures and the show-business would cease to be a gamble
that surpasses even horse-racing for hazard.

Not only is it impossible for anyone to weigh the quantity or to
assay the quality of dramatic instinct--whether in his own or
another's breast--but it is as nearly impossible for anyone to
decide from reading a manuscript whether a play will succeed or
fail.  Charles Frohman is reported to have said:  "A man who could
pick out winners would be worth a salary of a million dollars a

And even when a play is put into rehearsal the most experienced
men in the business cannot tell unerringly whether it will succeed
or fail before an audience.  An audience--the heart of the crowd,
the intellect of the mass, whatever you wish to call it--is at
once the jury that tries a play and the judge who pronounces
sentence to speedy death or a long and happy life.  It is an
audience, the "crowd," that awards the certificate of possession
of dramatic instinct. [1]

[1] [four paragraphs:]

From three of the ablest critics of the "theatre crowd" I quote a
tabloid statement:

"The theatre is a function of the crowd," says Brander Matthews,
"and the work of the dramatist is conditioned by the audience to
which he meant to present it.  In the main, this influence is
wholesome, for it tends to bring about a dealing with themes of
universal interest.  To some extent, it may be limiting and even
harmful--but to what extent we cannot yet determine in our present
ignorance of that psychology of the crowd which LeBon has analyzed
so interestingly."

Here is M. LeBon's doctrine neatly condensed by Clayton Hamilton:
"The mental qualities in which men differ from one another are the
acquired qualities of intellect and character; but the qualities
in which they are one are basic passions of the race.  A crowd,
therefore, is less intellectual and more emotional than the
individuals that compose it.  It is less reasonable, less judicious,
less disinterested, more credulous, more primitive, more partisan;
and hence, a man, by the mere fact that he forms a part of an
organized crowd, descends several rungs on the ladder of civilization.
Even the most cultured and intellectual of men, when he forms an
atom of a crowd, loses consciousness of his acquired mental
qualities, and harks back to his primal nakedness of mind.  The
dramatist, therefore, because he writes for the crowd, writes for
an uncivilized and uncultivated mind, a mind richly human, vehement
in approbation, violent in disapproval, easily credulous, eagerly
enthusiastic, boyishly heroic, and carelessly thinking."

And Clayton Hamilton himself adds that, ". . .both in its sentiments
and in its opinions, the crowd is hugely commonplace.  It is
incapable of original thought and of any but inherited emotion.
It has no speculation in its eyes.  What it feels was felt before
the flood; and what it thinks, its fathers thought before it.  The
most effective moments in the theatre are those that appeal to
commonplace emotions--love of women, love of home, love of country,
love of right, anger, jealousy, revenge, ambition, lust and

[end footnote]

2. What "Good Drama" Is

By what standards, then, do producers decide whether a play has
at least a good chance of success?  How is it possible for a manager
to pick a successful play even once in a while?  Why is it that
managers do not produce failures all the time?

Leaving outside of our consideration the question of changeable
fashions in themes, and the commercial element (which includes the
number of actors required, the scenery, costumes and similar
factors), let us devote our attention, as the manager does, to the
determining element--the story.

Does the story grip?  Does it thrill?  Does it lure to laughter?
Does it touch to tears?  Is it well constructed--that is, does it
interest every minute of the time?  Is every word, is every action,
thoroughly motivated?  Is the dialogue fine?  Are the characters
interesting, lovable, hateable, laughable, to be remembered?  Does
it state its problem clearly, so that everyone can comprehend it,
develop its angle absorbingly, and end, not merely stop, with
complete satisfaction?  Could one little scene be added, or even
one little passage be left out, without marring the whole?  Is it
true to life--truer than life?  If it is all this, it is good

Good drama is therefore more than plot.  It is more than story
plus characters, dialogue, acting, costumes, scenery--it is more
than them all combined.  Just as a man is more than his body, his
speech, his dress, his movings to and fro in the scenes where he
plays out his life, and even more than his deeds, so is a play
more than the sum of all its parts.  Every successful play, every
great playlet, possesses a soul--a character, if you like--that
carries a message to its audiences by means which cannot be analyzed.

But the fact that the soul of a great play cannot be analyzed does
not prevent some other dramatist from duplicating the miracle in
another play.  And it is from a study of these great plays that
certain mechanics of the drama--though, of course, they cannot
explain the hidden miracle--have been laid down as laws.

3. What is Dramatic?

These few observations upon the nature of drama, which have scarcely
been materially added to since Aristotle laid down the first over
two thousand years ago, will be taken up and discussed in their
relation to the playlet in the chapter on plot construction.  Here
they have no place, because we are concerned now not with _how_
the results are obtained, but with _what they are_.

Let us approach our end by the standard definition route.  The
word "drama" is defined by Webster as, "A composition in poetry
or prose, or both, representing a picture of human life, arranged
for action, and having a plot, developed by the words and actions
of its characters, which culminates in a final situation of human
interest.  It is usually designed for production on the stage,
with the accessories of costumes, scenery, music, etc."

"Dramatic," is defined as, "Of or pertaining to the drama; represented
by action; appropriate to or in the form of a drama; theatrical.
Characterized by the force and fidelity appropriate to the drama."

In this last sentence we have the first step to what we are seeking:
anything to be dramatic must be forceful, and it also must be
faithful to life.  And in the preceding sentence, "dramatic. . .
is theatrical," we have a second step.

But what is "forceful," and why does Webster define anything that
is dramatic as "theatrical"?  To define one shadow by the name of
another shadow is not making either clearer.  However, the necessary
looseness of the foregoing definitions is why they are so valuable
to us--they are most suggestive.

If the maker of a dictionary, [1] hampered by space restrictions,
finds it necessary to define "dramatic" by the word "theatrical,"
we may safely assume that theatrical effect has a foundation in
the very heart of man.  How many times have you heard someone say
of another's action, "Oh, he did that just for theatrical effect"?
Instantly you knew that the speaker was accusing the other of a
desire to impress you by a carefully calculated action, either of
the fineness of his own character or of the necessity and righteousness
of your doing what he suggested so forcefully.  We need not go
back several thousand years to Aristotle to determine what is
dramatic.  In the promptings of our own hearts we can find the
answer. [2]

[1] Webster's Dictionary was chosen because it is, historically,
closely associated with American life, and therefore would seem
to reflect the best American thought upon the peculiar form of our
own drama.

[2] Shelley, in his preface to Cenci, says:  "The highest moral
purpose aimed at in the highest species of the drama is the teaching
of the human heart, through its sympathies and antipathies, the
knowledge of itself."

What is dramatic, is not what falls out as things ordinarily occur
in life's flow of seemingly disconnected happenings; it is what
occurs with precision and purpose, and with results which are
eventually recognizable as being far beyond the forces that show
upon its face.  In an illuminating flash that reveals character,
we comprehend what led up to that instant and what will follow.
It is the revealing flash that is dramatic.  Drama is a series of
revealing flashes.

"This is not every-day life," we say, "but _typical_ life--life
as it would be if it were compactly ordered--life purposeful, and
leading surely to an evident somewhere."

And, as man's heart beats high with hope and ever throbs with
justice, those occurrences that fall out as he would wish them are
the ones he loves the best; in this we find the reason for "poetic
justice"--the "happy ending."  For, as "man is of such stuff as
dreams are made of," so are his plays made of his dreams.  Here
is the foundation of what is dramatic.

Yet, the dramatic ending may be unhappy, if it rounds the play out
with big and logical design.  Death is not necessarily poignantly
sad upon the stage, because death is life's logical end.  And who
can die better than he who dies greatly? [1] Defeat, sorrow and
suffering have a place as exquisitely fitting as success, laughter
and gladness, because they are inalienable elements of life.  Into
every life a little sadness must come, we know, and so the lives
of our stage-loves may be "draped with woe," and we but love them

[1] "The necessity that tragedy and the serious drama shall possess
an element of greatness or largeness--call it nobility, elevation,
what you will--has always been recognized.  The divergence has
come when men have begun to say what they meant by that quality,
and--which is much the same thing--how it is to be attained.  Even
Aristotle, when he begins to analyze methods, sounds, at first
hearing, a little superficial."  Elizabeth Woodbridge, The Drama,
pp. 23-24.

Great souls who suffer, either by the hand of Fate, or unjustly
through the machinations of their enemies, win our sympathy for
their sorrows and our admiration by their noble struggles.  If
Fate dooms them, there may be no escape, and still we are content;
but if they suffer by man's design, there must be escape from
sorrow and defeat through happiness to triumph--for, if it were
not so, they would not be great.  The heart of man demands that
those he loves upon the stage succeed, or fail greatly, because
the hero's dreams are our dreams--the hero's life is ours, the
hero's sorrows are our own, and because they are ours, the hero
must triumph over his enemies.

4. The Law of the Drama

Thus, for the very reason that life is a conflict and because man's
heart beats quickest when he faces another man, and leaps highest
when he conquers him, the essence of the dramatic is--conflict.
Voltaire in one of his letters said that every scene in a play
should represent a combat.  In "Memories and Portraits," Stevenson
says:  "A good serious play must be founded on one of the passionate
cruces of life, where duty and inclination come nobly to the
grapple."  Goethe, in his "William Meister" says:  "All events
oppose him [the hero] and he either clears and removes every
obstacle out of his path, or else becomes their victim."  But it
was the French critic, Ferdinand Brunetiere, who defined dramatic
law most sharply and clearly, and reduced it to such simple terms
that we may state it in this one free sentence:  "Drama is a
struggle of wills and its outcome."

In translating and expounding Brunetiere's theory, Brander Matthews
in his "A Study of the Drama" condenses the French critic's
reasoning into these illuminating paragraphs:

"It [the drama] must have some essential principle of its own.
If this essential principle can be discovered, then we shall be
in possession of the sole law of the drama, the one obligation
which all writers for the stage must accept.  Now, if we examine
a collection of typical plays of every kind, tragedies and melodramas,
comedies and farces, we shall find that the starting point of
everyone of them is the same.  Some one central character wants
something; and this exercise of volition is the mainspring of the
action. . . .  In every successful play, modern or ancient, we shall
find this clash of contending desires, this assertion of the human
will against strenuous opposition of one kind or another.

"Brunetiere made it plain that the drama must reveal the human
will in action; and that the central figure in a play must know
what he wants and must strive for it with incessant determination.
. . .Action in the drama is thus seen to be not mere movement or
external agitation; it is the expression of a will which knows

"The French critic maintained also that, when this law of the drama
was once firmly grasped, it helped to differentiate more precisely
the several dramatic species.  If the obstacles against which the
will of the hero has to contend are insurmountable, Fate or
Providence or the laws of nature--then there is tragedy, and the
end of the struggle is likely to be death, since the hero is
defeated in advance.  But if these obstacles are not absolutely
insurmountable, being only social conventions and human prejudices,
then the hero has a chance to attain his desire,--and in this case,
we have the serious drama without an inevitably fatal ending.
Change this obstacle a little, equalize the conditions of the
struggle, set two wills in opposition--and we have comedy.  And
if the obstacle is of still a lower order, merely an absurdity of
custom, for instance, we find ourselves in farce."

Here we have, sharply and brilliantly stated, the sole law of
drama--whether it be a play in five acts requiring two hours and
a half to present, or a playlet taking but twenty minutes.  This
one law is all that the writer need keep in mind as the great
general guide for plot construction.

Today, of course, as in every age when the drama is a bit more
virile than in the years that have immediately preceded it, there
is a tendency to break away from conventions and to cavil at
definitions.  This is a sign of health, and has in the past often
been the first faint stirring which betokened the awakening of the
drama to greater uses.  In the past few years, the stage, both
here and abroad, has been throbbing with dramatic unrest.  The
result has been the presentation of oddities--a mere list of whose
names would fill a short chapter--which have aimed to "be different."
And in criticising these oddities--whose differences are more
apparent than real--critics of the soundness and eminence of Mr.
William Archer in England, and Mr. Clayton Hamilton in America,
have taken the differences as valid ground for opposing Brunetiere's
statement of the law of the drama.

Mr. Hamilton, in his thought-provoking "Studies in Stage-craft,"
takes occasion to draw attention to the fact that Brunetiere's
statement is not as old as Aristotle's comments on the drama.  Mr.
Hamilton seemingly objects to the eagerness with which Brunetiere's
statement was accepted when first it was made, less than a quarter
century ago, and the tenacity with which it has been held ever
since; while acknowledging its general soundness he denies its
truth, more on account of its youth, it would seem, than on account
of the few exceptions that "prove it," putting to one side, or
forgetting, that its youth is not a fault but a virtue, for had
it been stated in Aristotle's day, Brunetiere would not have had
the countless plays from which to draw its truth, after the fruitful
manner of a scientist working in a laboratory on innumerable
specimens of a species.  Yet Mr. Hamilton presents his criticism
with such critical skill that he sums it all up in these judicial

". . .But if this effort were ever perfectly successful, the drama
would cease to have a reason for existence, and the logical
consequence would be an abolition of the theatre. . . .  But on the
other hand, if we judge the apostles of the new realism less by
their ultimate aims than by their present achievements, we must
admit that they are rendering a very useful service by holding the
mirror up to many interesting contrasts between human characters
which have hitherto been ignored in the theatre merely because
they would not fit into the pattern of the well-made play."

As to the foremost critical apostle of the "new realism"--which
seeks to construct plays which begin anywhere and have no dramatic
ending and would oppose the force of wills by a doubtfully different
"negation of wills"--let us now turn to Mr. William Archer and his
very valuable definition of the dramatic in his "Play-Making":

"The only really valid definition of the dramatic is:  any
representation of imaginary personages which is capable of interesting
an average audience assembled in a theatre. . . .  Any further
attempt to limit the term 'dramatic' is simply the expression of
an opinion that such-and-such forms of representation will not be
found to interest an audience; and this opinion may always be
rebutted by experiment."

Perhaps a truer and certainly as inclusive an observation would
be that the word "dramatic," like the words "picturesque" and
"artistic," has one meaning that is historical and another that
is creative or prophetic.  To say of anything that it is dramatic
is to say that it partakes of the nature of all drama that has
gone before, for "ic" means "like."  But dramatic does not mean
only this, it means besides, as Alexander Black expresses it, that
"the new writer finds all the world's dramatic properties gathered
as in a storehouse for his instruction.  Under the inspiration of
the life of the hour, the big man will gather from them what is
dramatic today, and the bigger man will see, not only what was
dramatic yesterday and what is dramatic today, but what will be
dramatic tomorrow and the day after tomorrow."

Now these admirably broad views of the drama and the dramatic are
presented because they are suggestive of the unrestricted paths
that you may tread in selecting your themes and deciding on your
treatment of them in your playlets.  True, they dangerously represent
the trend of "individualism," and a master of stagecraft may be
individual in his plot forms and still be great, but the novice
is very likely to be only silly.  So read and weigh these several
theories with care.  Be as individual as you like in the choice
of a theme--the more you express your individuality the better
your work is likely to be--but in your treatment tread warily in
the footprints of the masters, whose art the ages have proved to
be true.  Then you stand less chance of straying into the underbrush
and losing yourself where there are no trails and where no one is
likely to hear from you again.

5. The Essence of the Dramatic lies in Meaning, not in Movement
or in Speech

But clear and illuminating as these statements of the law of the
drama are, one point needs slight expansion, and another vital
point, not yet touched upon, should be stated, in a volume designed
not for theory but for practice.

The first is, "Action in the drama is thus seen to be not mere
movement or external agitation; it is the expression of a will
which knows itself."  Paradoxical as it may seem, action that is
dramatic is not "action," as the word is commonly understood.
Physical activity is not considered at all; the action of a play
is not acting, but plot--story.  Does the story move--not the
bodies of the actors, but the merely mental recounting of the
narrative?  As the French state the principle in the form of a
command, "Get on with the story!  Get on!"  This is one-half of the
playwright's action-problem.

The other half--the other question--deals, not with the story
itself, but with how it is made to "get on."  How it is told in
action--still mental and always mental, please note--is what
differentiates the stage story from other literary forms like the
novel and the short-story.  It must be told dramatically or it is
not a stage story; and the dramatic element must permeate its every
fibre.  Not only must the language be dramatic--slang may in a
given situation be the most dramatic language that could be used--and
not only must the quality of the story itself be dramatic, but the
scene-steps by which the story is unfolded must scintillate with
the soul of the dramatic--revealing flashes.

To sum up, the dramatic, in the final analysis, has nothing whatever
to do with characters moving agitatedly about the stage, or with
moving at all, because the dramatic lies not in what happens but
in what the happening means.  Even a murder may be undramatic,
while the mere utterance of the word "Yes," by a paralyzed woman
to a paralyzed man may be the most dramatic thing in the world.
Let us take another instance:  Here is a stage--in the centre are
three men bound or nailed to crosses.  The man at the left turns
to the one in the middle and sneers:

"If you're a god, save yourself and us."

The one at the left interrupts,

"Keep quiet!  We're guilty, we deserve this, but this Man doesn't."

And the Man in the centre says,

"This day shalt thou be with me in paradise."

Could there be anything more dramatic than that? [1]

[1] Do not attempt to stage this sacred scene.  However, Ran
Kennedy, who wrote The Servant in the House, did so at Winthrop
Ames' Little Theatre, New York, in an evening of one-act plays,
with surprising results.

To carry this truth still further, let me offer two examples out
of scores that might be quoted to prove that the dramatic may not
even depend upon speech.

In one of Bronson Howard's plays, a man the police are after
conspires with his comrades to get him safely through the cordon
of guards by pretending that he is dead.  They carry him out, his
face covered with a cloth.  A policeman halts them--not a word is
spoken--and the policeman turns down the cover from the face.
Dramatic as this all is, charged as it is with meaning to the man
there on the stretcher and to his comrades, there is even more
portentous meaning in the facial expression of the policeman as
he reverently removes his helmet and motions the bearers to go
on--the man has really died.

The movements are as simple and unagitated as one could imagine,
and not one word is spoken, yet could you conceive of anything
more dramatic?  Again, one of the master-strokes in Bulwer-Lytton's
"Richelieu" is where the Cardinal escapes from the swords of his
enemies who rush into his sleeping apartments to slay him, by lying
down on his bed with his hands crossed upon his breast, and by his
ward's lover (but that instant won to loyalty to Richelieu)
announcing to his fellow conspirators that they have come too
late--old age has forestalled them, "Richelieu is dead."

6. Comedy is Achieved in the Same Dramatic Way

The only difference between the sublime and the ridiculous is the
proverbial step.  The sad and the funny are merely a difference
of opinion, of viewpoint.  Tragedy and comedy are only ways of
looking at things.  Often it is but a difference of to whom the
circumstance happens, whether it is excruciatingly funny or
unutterably sad.  If you are the person to whom it happens, there
is no argument about it--it is sad; but the very same thing happening
to another person would be--funny.

Take for example, the everyday occurrence of a high wind and a
flying hat:  If the hat is yours, you chase it with unutterable
thoughts--not the least being the consciousness that hundreds may
be laughing at you--and if, just as you are about to seize the
hat, a horse steps on it, you feel the tragedy of going all the
way home without a hat amid the stares of the curious, and the
sorrow of having to spend your good money to buy another.

But let that hat be not yours but another's and not you but somebody
else be chasing it, and the grins will play about your mouth until
you smile.  Then let the horse step on the hat and squash it into
a parody of a headgear, just as that somebody else is about to
retrieve it--and you will laugh outright.  As Elizabeth Woodbridge
in summing up says, "the whole matter is seen to be dependent on
perception of relations and the assumption of a standard of

Incidentally the foregoing example is a very clear instance of the
comic effect that, like the serious or tragic effect, is achieved
without words.  Any number of examples of comedy which secure their
effect without action will occur to anyone, from the instance of
the lackadaisical Englishman who sat disconsolately on the race
track fence, and welcomed the jockey who had ridden the losing
horse that had swept away all his patrimony, with these words:
"Aw, I say, what detained you?" [1] to the comedy that was achieved
without movement or words in the expressive glance that the owner
of the crushed headgear gave the guileless horse.

[1] It would seem needless to state categorically that the sources
of humor, and the technical means by which comedy is made comic,
have no place in the present discussion.  We are only concerned
with the flashes by which comedy, like tragedy, is revealed.

Precisely as the tragic and the serious depend for their best
effects upon character-revealing flashes and the whole train of
incidents which led up to the instant and lead away from it, does
the comic depend upon the revealing flash that is the essence of
the dramatic, the veritable soul of the stage.

7. Tragedy, the Serious, Comedy, and Farce, all Depend on their
Dramatic Meaning in the Minds of the Audience

No matter by what technical means dramatic effect is secured,
whether by the use of words and agitated movement, or without
movement, or without words, or sans both, matters not; the
illuminating flash which reveals the thought behind it all, the
meaning to the characters and their destiny--in which the audience
is breathlessly interested because they have all unconsciously
taken sides--is what makes the dramatic.  Let me repeat:  It is not
the incident, whatever it may be, that is dramatic, but the
illuminating flash that reveals to the minds of the audience the
_meaning_ of it.

Did you ever stand in front of a newspaper office and watch the
board on which a baseball game, contested perhaps a thousand miles
away, is being played with markers and a tiny ball on a string?
There is no playing field stretching its cool green diamond before
that crowd, there are no famous players present, there is no crowd
of adoring fans jamming grand stand and bleachers; there is only
a small board, with a tiny ball swaying uncertainly on its string,
an invisible man to operate it, markers to show the runs, and a
little crowd of hot, tired men and office boys mopping their faces
in the shadeless, dirty street.  There's nothing pretty or pleasant
or thrillingly dramatic about this.

But wait until the man behind the board gets the flashes that tell
him that a Cravath has knocked the ball over the fence and brought
in the deciding run in the pennant race!  Out on the board the
little swaying ball flashes over the mimic fence, the tiny piece
of wood slips to first and chases the bits of wood that represent
the men on second and third--_home_! "Hurray!  Hurray!!  Hurray!!!"
yell those weary men and office boys, almost bursting with delight.
Over what?  Not over the tiny ball that has gone back to swaying
uncertainly on its string, not over the tiny bits of board that
are now shoved into their resting place, not even over those
runs--but over what those runs _mean_!

And so the playlet writer makes his audience go wild with delight--
not by scenery, not by costumes, not by having famous players, not by
beautifully written speeches, not even by wonderful scenes that
flash the dramatic, but by what those scenes in the appealing story
_mean_ to the characters and their destiny, whereby each person in
the audience is made to be as interested as though it were to _him_
these things were happening with all their _dramatic meaning_ of
sadness or gladness.

However, it is to the dramatic artist only that ability is given
to breathe nobility into the whole and to charge the singleness
of effect with a vitality which marks a milestone in countless

In this chapter we have found that the essence of drama is conflict--
a clash of wills and its outcome; that the dramatic consists in those
flashes which reveal life at its significant, crucial moments; and
that the dramatic method is the way of telling the story with such
economy of attention that it is comprehended by means of those
illuminating flashes which both reveal character and show in an
instant all that led up to the crisis as well as what will follow.

Now let us combine these three doctrines in the following definition,
which is peculiarly applicable to the playlet:

  Drama--whether it be serious or comic in tone--is a representation
  of reality arranged for action, and having a plot which is
  developed to a logical conclusion by the words and actions of
  its characters and showing a single situation of big human
  interest; the whole is told in a series of revealing flashes of
  which the final illuminating revelation rounds out the entire
  plot and leaves the audience with a single vivid impression.

Finally, we found that the physical movements of the characters
often have nothing to do with securing dramatic effect, and that
even words need not of necessity be employed.  Hence dramatic
effect in its final analysis depends upon what meaning the various
minor scenes and the final big situation have for the characters
and their destinies, and that this dramatic effect depends,
furthermore, upon the big broad meaning which it bears to the minds
of the audience, who have taken sides and feel that the chief
character's life and destiny represent their own, or what they
would like them to be, or fear they might be.  In the next chapter
we shall see how the dramatic spirit is given form by plot structure.



In the chapter on the germ idea we saw that the theme or subject
of a playlet is a problem that must be solved with complete
satisfaction.  In this chapter we shall see how the problem--which
is the first creeping form of a plot--is developed and expanded
by the application of formal elements and made to grow into a plot.
At the same time we shall see how the dramatic element of
plot--discussed in the preceding chapter--is given form and direction
in logical expression.


You will recall that our consideration of the germ idea led us
farther afield than a mere consideration of a theme or subject,
or even of the problem--as we agreed to call the spark that makes
the playlet go.  In showing how a playlet writer gets an idea and
how his mind works in developing it, we took the problem of "The
System" and developed it into a near-plot form.  It may have seemed
to you at the time that the problem we assumed for the purpose of
exposition was worked out very carefully into a plot, but if you
will turn back to it now, you will realize how incomplete the
elaboration was--it was no more complete than any germ idea should
be before you even consider spending time to build it into a

Let us now determine definitely what a playlet plot is, consider
its structural elements and then take one of the fine examples of
a playlet in the Appendix and see how its plot is constructed.

The plot of a playlet is its story.  It is the general outline,
the plan, the skeleton which is covered by the flesh of the
characters and clothed by their words.  If the theme or problem
is the heart that beats with life, then the scenery amid which the
animated body moves is its habitation, and the dramatic spirit is
the soul that reveals meaning in the whole.

To hazard a definition:

  A playlet plot is a sequence of events logically developed out
  of a theme or problem, into a crisis or entanglement due to a
  conflict of the characters' wills, and then logically untangled
  again, leaving the characters in a different relation to each
  other--changed in themselves by the crisis.

Note that a mere series of incidents does not make a plot--the
presence of crisis is absolutely necessary to plot.  If the series
of events does not develop a complication that changes the characters
in themselves and in their relations to each other, there can be
no plot.  If this is so, let us now take the sequence of events
that compose the story of "The Lollard" [1] and see what constitutes
them a plot.  I shall not restate its story, only repeat it in the
examination of its various points [2].

[1] Edgar Allan Woolf's fine satirical comedy to be found in the

[2] As a side light, you see how a playlet theme differs from a
playlet plot.  You will recall that in the chapter on "The Germ
Idea," the theme of The Lollard was thus stated in terms of a
playlet problem:  "A foolish young woman may leave her husband
because she has 'found him out,' yet return to him when she discovers
that another man is no better than he is."  Compare this brief
statement with the full statement of the plot given hereafter.

The coming of Angela Maxwell to Miss Carey's door at 2 A.M.--unusual
as is the hour--is just an event; the fact that Angela has left
her husband, Harry, basic as it is, is but little more than an
event; the entrance of the lodger, Fred Saltus, is but another
event, and even Harry Maxwell's coming in search of his wife is
merely an event--for if Harry had sat down and argued Angela out
of her pique, even though Fred were present, there would have been
no complication, save for the cornerstone motive of her having
left him.  If this sequence of events forms merely a mildly
interesting narrative, what, then, is the complication that weaves
them into a plot?

The answer is, in Angela's falling in love with Fred's broad
shoulders, wealth of hair and general good looks--this complication
develops the crisis out of Harry's wanting Angela.  If Harry hadn't
cared, there would have been no drama--the drama comes from Harry's
wanting Angela when Angela wants Fred; Angela wants something that
runs counter to Harry's will--_there_ is the clash of wills out
of which flashes the dramatic.

But still there would be no plot--and consequently no playlet--if
Harry had acknowledged himself beaten after his first futile
interview with Angela.  The entanglement is there--Harry has to
untangle it.  He has to win Angela again--and how he does it, on
Miss Carey's tip, you may know from reading the playlet.  But, if
you have read it, did you realize the dramatic force of the unmasking
of Fred--accomplished without (explanatory) words, merely by making
Fred run out on the stage and dash back into his room again? _There_
is a fine example of the revealing flash!  This incident--made big
by the dramatic--is the ironical solvent that loosens the warp of
Angela's will and prepares her for complete surrender.  Harry's
entrance in full regimentals--what woman does not love a uniform?--
is merely the full rounding out of the plot that ends with Harry's
carrying his little wife home to happiness again.

But, let us pursue this examination further, in the light of the
preceding chapter.  There would have been no drama if the _meaning_
of these incidents had not--because Angela is a "character" and
Harry one, too--been inherent in them.  There would have been no
plot, nothing of dramatic spirit, if Harry had not been made by
those events to realize his mistake and Angela had not been made
to see that Harry was "no worse" than another man.  It is the
_change_ in Harry and the _change_ in Angela that changes their
relations to each other--therein lies the essence of the plot. [1]

[1] Unfortunately, the bigger, broader meaning we all read into
this satire of life, cannot enter into our consideration of the
structure of plot.  It lies too deep in the texture of the
playwright's mind and genius to admit of its being plucked out by
the roots for critical examination.  The bigger meaning is there--we
all see it, and recognize that it stamps The Lollard as good drama.
Each playwright must work out his own meanings of life for himself
and weave them magically into his own playlets; this is something
that cannot be added to a man, that cannot be satisfactorily
explained when seen, and cannot be taken away from him.

Now, having determined what a plot is, let us take up its structural
parts and see how these clearly understood principles make the
construction of a playlet plot in a measure a matter of clear


We must swerve for a moment and cut across lots, that we may touch
every one of the big structural elements of plot and relate them
with logical closeness to the playlet, summing them all up in the
end and tying them closely into--what I hope may be--a helpful
definition, on the last page of this chapter.

The first of the structural parts that we must consider before we
take up the broader dramatic unities, is the seemingly obvious one
that _a plot has a beginning, a middle and an ending_.

There has been no clearer statement of this element inherent in
all plots, than that made by Aristotle in his famous twenty-century
old dissection of tragedy; he says:

"Tragedy is an imitation of an action, that is complete and whole,
and of a certain magnitude (not trivial). . . .  A whole is that
which has a beginning, middle and end.  A beginning is that which
does not itself follow anything by causal necessity, but after
which something naturally is or comes to be.  An end, on the
contrary, is that which itself naturally follows some other thing,
either by necessity or in the regular course of events, but has
nothing to follow it.  A middle is that which naturally follows
something as some other thing follows it.  A well-constructed plot,
therefore, must neither begin nor end at haphazard, but conform
to the type here described." [1]

[1] Aristotle, Poetics VII.

Let us state the first part of the doctrine in this way:

1. The Beginning Must State the Premises of the Problem Clearly
and Simply

Although life knows neither a beginning nor an end--not your life
nor mine, but the stream of unseparate events that make up
existence--a work of art, like the playlet, must have both.  The
beginning of any event in real life may lie far back in history;
its immediate beginnings, however, start out closely together and
distinctly in related causes and become more indistinctly related
the farther back they go.  Just where you should consider the event
that is the crisis of your playlet has its beginning, depends upon
how you want to tell it--in other words, it depends upon you.  No
one can think for you, but there are one or two observations upon
the nature of plot-beginnings that may be suggestive.

In the first place, no matter how carefully the dramatic material
has been severed from connection with other events, it cannot be
considered entirely independent.  By the very nature of things,
it must have its roots in the past from which it springs, and these
roots--the foundations upon which the playlet rises--must be
presented to the audience at the very beginning.

If you were introducing a friend of yours and his sister and brother
to your family, who had never met them before, you would tell which
one was your particular friend, what his sister's name was, and
his brother's name, too, and their relationship to your friend.
And, if the visit were unexpected, you would--naturally and
unconsciously--determine how they happened to come and how long
you might have the pleasure of entertaining them; in fact, you
would fix every fact that would give your family a clear understanding
of the event of their presence.  In other words, you would very
informally and delicately establish their status, by outlining
their relations to you and to each other, so that your family might
have a clear understanding of the situation they were asked to

This is precisely what must be done at the very beginning of a
playlet--the friends, who are the author's characters, must be
introduced to his interested family, the audience, with every bit
of information that is necessary to a clear understanding of the
playlet's situation.  These are the roots from which the playlet
springs--the premise of its problem.  Precisely as "The Lollard"
declares in its opening speeches who Miss Carey is and who Angela
Maxwell is, and that Angela is knocking at Miss Carey's door at
two o'clock in the morning because she has left Harry, her husband,
after a quarrel the roots of which lie in the past, so every playlet
must state in its very first speeches, the "whos" and "whys"--the
premises--out of which the playlet logically develops.

The prologue of "The Villain Still Pursued Her" is an excellent
illustration of this point.  When this very funny travesty was
first produced, it did not have a prologue.  It began almost
precisely as the full-stage scene begins now, and the audience did
not know whether to take it seriously or not.  The instant he
watched the audience at the first performance, the author sensed
the problem he had to face.  He knew, then, that he would have to
tell the next audience and every other that the playlet is a farce,
a roaring travesty, to get the full value of laughter that lies
in the situations.  He pondered the matter and saw that if the
announcement in plain type on the billboards and in the program
that his playlet was a travesty was not enough, he would have to
tell the audience by a plain statement from the stage before his
playlet began.  So he hit upon the prologue that stamps the act
as a travesty in its very first lines, introduces the characters
and exposes the roots out of which the action develops so clearly
that there cannot possibly be any mistake.  And his reward was the
making over of an indifferent success into one of the most successful
travesties in vaudeville.

This conveying to the audience of the knowledge necessary to enable
them to follow the plot is technically known as "exposition."  It
is one of the most important parts of the art of construction--indeed,
it is a sure test of a playwright's dexterity.  While there are
various ways of offering preliminary information in the long
drama--that is, it may be presented all at once in the opening
scene of the first act, or homeopathically throughout the first
act, or some minor bits of necessary information may be postponed
even until the opening of the second act--there is only one way
of presenting the information necessary to the understanding of
the playlet:  It must all be compressed into the very first speeches
of the opening scene.

The clever playlet writer is advertised by the ease--the
simplicity--with which he condenses every bit of the exposition
into the opening speeches.  You are right in the middle of things
before you realize it and it is all done so skillfully that its
straightforwardness leaves never a suspicion that the simplicity
is not innate but manufactured; it seems artless, yet its artlessness
is the height of art.  The beginning of a playlet, then, must
convey to the audience every bit of information about the characters
and their relations to each other that is necessary for clear
understanding.  Furthermore, it must tell it all compactly and
swiftly in the very first speeches, and by the seeming artlessness
of its opening events it must state the problem so simply that
what follows is foreshadowed and seems not only natural but

2. The Middle Must Develop the Problem Logically and Solve the
Entanglement in a "Big" Scene

For the purpose of perfect understanding, I would define the
"middle" of a playlet as that part which carries the story on from
the indispensable introduction to and into the scene of final
suspense--the climax--in which the chief character's will breaks
or triumphs and the end is decided.  In "The Lollard" this would
be from the entrance of Fred Saltus and his talk with Angela, to
Miss Carey's exposure of Fred's "lollardness," which breaks down
Angela's determination by showing her that her husband is no worse
than Fred and makes it certain that Harry has only to return to
his delightful deceptions of dress to carry her off with him home.

(a) _The "Exciting Force."_ The beginning of the action that we
have agreed to call the middle of a playlet, is technically termed
"the exciting force."  The substance of the whole matter is this:
Remember what your story is and tell it with all the dramatic force
with which you are endowed.

Perhaps the most common, and certainly the very best, place to
"start the trouble"--to put the exciting force which arouses the
characters to conflict--is the very first possible instant after
the clear, forceful and foreshadowing introduction.  The introduction
has started the action of the story, the chief characters have
shown what they are and the interest of the audience has been
awakened.  Now you must clinch that interest by having something
happen that is novel, and promises in the division of personal
interests which grow out of it to hold a punch that will stir the
sympathies legitimately and deeply.

(b) _The "Rising Movement."_ This exciting force is the beginning
of what pundits call "the rising movement"--in simple words, the
action which from now on increases in meaning vital to the characters
and their destinies.  What happens, of course, depends upon the
material and the treatment, but there is one point that requires
a moment's discussion here, although closely linked with the ability
to seize upon the dramatic--if it is not, itself, the heart of the
dramatic.  This important point is, that in every story set for
the stage, there are certain

(c) _Scenes that Must be Shown_.  From the first dawn of drama
until today, when the motion pictures are facing the very same
necessity, the problem that has vexed playwrights most is the
selection of what scenes must be shown.  These all-important scenes
are the incidents of the story or the interviews between characters
that cannot be recounted by other characters.  Call them dramatic
scenes, essential scenes, what you will, if they are not shown
actually happening, but are described by dialogue--the interest
of the audience will lag and each person from the first seat in
the orchestra to the last bench in the gallery will be disappointed
and dissatisfied.  For instance:

If, instead of Fred Saltus' appearing before the audience and
having his humorously thoughtless but nevertheless momentous talk
with Angela _in which Angela falls in love with him_, the interview
had been told the audience by Miss Carey, there would have been
no playlet.  Nearly as important is the prologue of "The Villian
Still Pursued Her"; Mr. Denvir found it absolutely necessary to
show those characters to the audience, so that they might see them
with their own eyes in their farcical relations to each other,
before he secured the effect that made his playlet.  Turn to "The
System" and try to find even one scene there shown that could be
replaced by narrative dialogue and you will see once more how
important are the "scenes that must be shown."

One of the all-rules-in-one for writing drama that I have heard,
though I cannot now recall what playwright told me, deals with
precisely this point.  He expressed it this way:  "First tell your
audience what you are going to do, then show it to them happening,
and then tell 'em it has happened!"  You will not make a mistake,
of course, if you show the audience those events in which the
dramatic conflict enters.  The soul of a playlet is the clash of
the wills of the characters, from which fly the revealing flashes;
a playlet, therefore, loses interest for the audience when the
scenes in which those wills clash and flash revealingly are not

It is out of such revealing scenes that the rising movement grows,
as Freytag says, "with a progressive intensity of interest."  But,
not only must the events progress and the climax be brought nearer,
but the scenes themselves must broaden with force and revealing
power.  They must grow until there comes one big scene--"big" in
every way--somewhere on the toes of the ending, a scene next to
the last or the last itself.

(d) _The Climax_.  Here is where the decisive blow is struck in a
moment when the action becomes throbbing and revealing in every
word and movement.  In "The Lollard" it is when Fred makes his
revealing dash through the room--this is the dramatic blow which
breaks Angela's infatuation.  It is the crowning point of the
crowning scene in which the forces of the playlet culminate, and
the "heart wallop"--as Tom Barry calls it [1]--is delivered and
the decision is won and made.

[1] Vaudeville Appeal and the "Heart Wallop," by Tom Barry, author
of The Upstart and Brother Fans, an interesting article in The
Dramatic Mirror of December 16, 1914.  For this and other valuable
information I wish to acknowledge my indebtedness and to express
my thanks to The Dramatic Mirror and its courteous Vaudeville
Editor, Frederick James Smith.

Whatever this decision may be and however it is won and made, the
climax must be first of all a real climax--it must be "big," whether
it be a comedy scream or the seldom-seen tragic tear.  Big in
movement and expression it must be, depending for effect not on
words but on the revealing flash; it must be the summit of the
action; it must be the event toward which the entire movement has
been rising; it must be the fulfillment of what was foreshadowed;
it must be keen, quick, perfectly logical and _flash_ the illuminating
revelation, as if one would say, "Here, this is what I've kept you
waiting for--my whole reason for being."  Need I say that such a
climax will be worth while?

And now, as the climax is the scene toward which every moment of
the playlet--from the first word of the introduction and the first
scene-statement of the playlet's problem--has been motivated, and
toward which it has risen and culminated, so also the climax holds
within itself the elements from which develops the ending.

3. The Ending Must Round the Whole Out Satisfyingly.

For the purpose of clearness, let me define the ending of a playlet
as a scene that lies between the climax or culminating scene--in
which the audience has been made to feel the coming-to-an-end
effect--and the very last word on which the curtain descends.  If
you have ever watched a sailor splicing a rope, you will know what
I mean when I say that the worker, reaching for the loose ends to
finish the job off neatly, is like the playlet writer who reaches
here and there for the playlet's loose ends and gathers them all
up into a neat, workmanlike finish.  The ending of a playlet must
not leave unfulfilled any promises of the premise, but must fulfill
them all satisfyingly.

The characteristics of a good playlet ending--besides the completeness
with which the problem has been "proved" and the satisfyingness
with which it all rounds out--are terseness, speed and "punch."
If the climax is a part of the playlet wherein words may not be
squandered, the ending is the place where words--you will know
what I mean--may not be used at all.  Everything that must be
explained must be told by means which reach into the spectator's
memory of what has gone before and make it the positive pole of
the battery from which flash the wireless messages from the scene
of action.  As Emerson defined character as that which acts by
mere presence without words, let me define the ending of a playlet
as that which acts without words by the simple bringing together
of the characters in their new relations.

The climax has said to the audience, "Here, this is what I've kept
you waiting for--my whole reason for being," therefore the ending
cannot dally--it must run swiftly to the final word.  There is no
excuse for the ending to linger over anything at all--the shot has
been fired and the audience waits only for the smoke to clear away,
that it may see how the bull's-eye looks.  The swifter you can blow
the smoke away, show them that you've hit the bull's-eye dead in the
centre, and bow yourself off amid their pleased applause, the better
your impression will be.

Take these three examples:

When Fred Saltus dashes revealingly across the stage and back into
his room again, "The Lollard's" climax is reached; and as soon
as Angela exclaims "What 'a lollard' _that_ is!" there's a ring
at the door bell and in comes Harry to win Angela completely with
his regimentals and to carry her off and bring the curtain down--
_in eight very short speeches_.

In "The System," the climax arrives when the honest Inspector
orders Dugan arrested and led away.  Then he gives "The Eel" and
Goldie their freedom and exits with a simple "Good Night"--and the
curtain comes down--_all in seven speeches_.

The climax of "Blackmail" seems to come when Fallon shoots Mohun
and Kelly breaks into the room--to the curtain it is _seven
speeches_.  But the real climax is reached when Kelly shouts over
the telephone "Of course, in self-defense, you fool, _of course_,
in self-defense."  This is--_the last speech_.

Convincing evidence, is this not, of the speed with which the
curtain must follow the climax?

And so we have come, to this most important point--the "finish"
or "the curtain," as vaudeville calls it.  The very last thing
that must be shown, and the final word that must be said before
the curtain comes down, are the last loose ends of the plot which
must be spliced into place--the final illuminating word to round
out the whole playlet humanly and cleverly.  "The Lollard" goes
back to Miss Carey's sleep, which Angela's knock on the door
interrupted:  "Now, thank Gawd, I'll get a little sleep," says Miss
Carey as she puts out the light.  A human, an everyday word it is,
spoken like a reminiscent thrill--and down comes the curtain amid
laughter and applause.  A fine way to end.

But not the only way--let us examine "The System."

"Well, we're broke again," says Goldie tearfully.  "We can't go
West now, so there's no use packing."  Now, note the use of business
in the ending, and the surprise.  The Eel goes stealthily to the
window L, looks out, and pulls the dictograph from the wall.  Then
he comes down stage to Goldie who is sitting on the trunk and has
watched him.  He taps her on the shoulder, taking Dugan's red
wallet out of his pocket.  "Go right ahead and pack," says The
Eel, while Goldie looks astonished and begins to laugh.  The
audience, too, look astonished and begin to laugh when they see
that red wallet.  It is a surprise--a surprise so cleverly constructed
that it hits the audience hard just above the laughter-and-applause-belt--
a surprise that made the act at least twenty-five per cent better
than it would have been without it.  And from it we may now draw
the "rules" for the use of that most helpful and most dangerous
element, surprise in the vaudeville finish:

Note first, that it was entirely logical for The Eel to steal the
wallet--he is a pickpocket.  Second, that the theft of the wallet
is not of trivial importance to Goldie's destiny and to his--they
are "broke" and they must get away; the money solves all their
problems.  And third, note that while The Eel's possession of the
wallet is a surprise, the wallet itself is _not_ a surprise--it
has first played a most important part in the tempting of Goldie
and has been shown to the audience not once but many times; and
its very color--red--makes it instantly recognizable; the spectators
know what it contains and what its contents mean to the destinies
of both The Eel and Goldie--it is only that The Eel has it, that
constitutes the surprise.

Now I must sound a warning against striving too hard after a
surprise finish.  The very nature of many playlets makes it
impossible to give them such a curtain.  If you have built up a
story which touches the heart and brings tears to the eyes, and
then turn it all into a joke, the chances are the audience will
feel that their sympathies have been outraged, and so the playlet
will fail.  For instance, one playlet was ruined because right on
top of the big, absorbing climax two of the characters who were
then off stage stuck their heads in at the door and shouted at the
hero of the tense situation, "April Fool."

Therefore, the following may be considered as an important "rule";
a playlet that touches the heart should never end with a trick or
a surprise. [1]

[1] See Chapter XVIII, section III, par. 4.

Now, let me sum up these four elements of surprise:

  A surprise finish must be fitting, logical, vitally important,
  and revealingly dramatic; if you cannot give a playlet a
  surprise-finish that shall be all of these four things at once,
  be content with the simpler ending.

The importance of a playlet's ending is so well understood in
vaudeville that the insistence upon a "great finish" to every
playlet has sometimes seemed to be over-insistence, for, important
as it is, it is no more important than a "great opening" and "great
scenes."  The ending is, of course, the final thing that quickens
applause, and, coming last and being freshest in the mind of the
audience, it is more likely to carry just a fair act to success
than a fine act is likely to win with the handicap of a poor finish.
But, discounting this to be a bit under the current valuation of
"great finishes," we still may round out this discussion of the
playlet's three important parts, with this temperate sentence:

  A well constructed playlet plot is one whose Beginning states
  the premises of its problem clearly and simply, whose Middle
  develops the problem logically and solves the entanglement in a
  "big" scene, and whose Ending rounds out the whole satisfyingly--
  with a surprise, if fitting.

But, temperate and helpful as this statement of a well constructed
plot may be, there is something lacking in it.  And that something
lacking is the very highest test of plot--lightly touched on at
various times, but which, although it enters into a playwright's
calculations every step of the way, could not be logically considered
in this treatise until the structure had been examined as a whole:
I mean the formidable-sounding, but really very simple dramatic


Now, but only for a moment, we must return to the straight line
of investigation from which we swerved in considering the structural
parts of a playlet plot.

At the beginning of this chapter we saw that a simple narrative
of events is made a plot by the addition of a crisis or entanglement,
and its resolution or untying.  Now, the point I wish to present
with all the emphasis at my command, is that complication does not
mean complexity.

1. Unity of Action

In other words, no matter how many events you place one after
another--no matter how you pile incident upon incident--you will
not have a plot unless you so _inter-relate_ them that the removal
of anyone event will destroy the whole story.  Each event must
depend on the one preceding it, and in turn form a basis for the
one following, and each must depend upon all the others so vitally
that if you take one away the whole collapses. [1]

[1] See Aristotle, Poetics, Chapter VIII, and also Poe's criticism,
The American Drama.

(a) _Unity of Hero is not Unity of Action._ One of the great errors
into which the novice is likely to fall, is to believe that because
he makes every event which happens happen to the hero, he is
observing the rule of unity.  Nothing could be farther from the
truth--nothing is so detrimental to successful plot construction.

[2] See Freytag's Technique of the Drama, p. 36.

Aristotle tried to correct this evil, which he saw in the plays
of the great Athenian poets, by saying:  "The action is the first
and most important thing, the characters only second;" and, "The
action is not given unity by being made to concern only one person."

Remember, unity of action means unity of _story_.

(b) _Double-Action is Dangerous to Unity_.  If you have a scene
in which two minor characters come together for a reason vital to
the plot, you must be extremely careful not to tell anything more
than the facts that are vital.  In long plays the use of what is
called "double-action "--that is, giving to characters necessary
to the plot an interest and a destiny separate from that of the
chief characters--is, of course, recognized and productive of fine
results.  But, even in the five-act play, the use of double-action
is dangerous.  For instance:  Shakespere developed Falstaff so
humorously that today we sometimes carelessly think of "Henry IV"
as a delightful comedy, when in reality it was designed as a serious
drama--and is most serious, when Falstaff's lines are cut from the
reading version to the right proportions for to-day's stage effect.
If Shakespere nodded, it is a nod even the legitimate dramatist
of today should take to heart, and the playlet writer--peculiarly
restricted as to time--must engrave deeply in his memory.

The only way to secure unity of action is to concentrate upon your
problem or theme; to realize that you are telling a _story_; to
remember that each character, even your hero, is only a pawn to
advance the story; and to cut away rigorously all non-essential
events.  If you will bear in mind that a playlet is only as good
as its plot, that a plot is a _story_ and that you must give to
your story, as has been said, "A completeness--a kind of universal
dovetailedness, a sort of general oneness," you will have little
difficulty in observing the one playlet rule that should never be
broken--Unity of action.

2. Unity of Time

The second of the classical unities, unity of time, is peculiarly
perplexing, if you study to "understand" and not merely to write.
Briefly--for I must reiterate that our purpose is practice and not
theory--the dramatists of every age since Aristotle have quarreled
over the never-to-be-settled problem of what space of time a play
should be permitted to represent.  Those who take the stand that
no play should be allowed to show an action that would require
more than twenty-four hours for the occurrences in real life, base
their premise on the imitative quality of the stage, rather than
upon the selective quality of art.  While those who contend that
a play may disregard the classical unity of time, if only it
preserves the unity of action, base their contention upon the fact
that an audience is interested not in time at all--but in story.
In other words, a play preserves the only unity worth preserving
when it deals with the incidents that cause a crisis and ends by
showing its effect, no matter whether the action takes story-years
to occur or happens all in a story-hour.

If we were studying the long drama it might be worth our while to
consider the various angles of this ancient dispute, but, fortunately,
we have a practical and, therefore, better standard by which to
state this unity in its application to the playlet.  Let us approach
the matter in this way:

Vaudeville is variety--it strives to compress into the space of
about two hours and a half a great number of different acts which
run the gamut of the entertainment forms, and therefore it cannot
afford more than an average of twenty minutes to each.  This time
limit makes it difficult for a playlet to present effectively any
story that does not occur in consecutive minutes.  It has been
found that even the lowering of the curtain for one second to
denote the lapse of an hour or a year, has a tendency to distract
the minds of the audience from the story and to weaken the singleness
of effect without which a playlet is nothing.

On the other hand, this "rule" is not unbreakable:  a master
craftsman's genius is above all laws.  In "The System" the first
scene takes place in the evening; scene two, a little later the
same evening; and scene three later that same night.  The story
is really continuous in time, but the story-time is not equal to
the playing-time even though this playlet consumes nearly twice
twenty minutes.  But, you will note, the scenery changes help to
keep the interest of the audience from flagging, and also stamp
the lapses of time effectively.

A still greater violation of the "rule"--if it were stated as
absolutely rigid--is to be found in Mr. Granville's later act,
"The Yellow Streak," written in collaboration with James Madison.
Here scene two takes place later in the evening of the first scene,
and the third scene after a lapse of four months.  But these two
exceptions, out of many that might be cited, merely prove that
dramatic genius can mold even the rigid time of the vaudeville
stage to its needs.

Of course, there is the possibility of foreshortening time to meet
the exigencies of vaudeville when the scene is not changed.  For
instance:  a character telephones that he will be right over and
solve the whole situation on which the punch of the playlet depends,
and he enters five actual minutes later--although in real life it
would take an hour to make the trip.  This is an extreme instance,
as time foreshortening goes, because it is one where the audience
might grasp the disparity, and is given for its side-light of
warning as well as for its suggestive value.

More simple foreshortenings of time are found in many playlets
where the effect of an hour-or-more of events is compressed into
the average twenty minutes.  As an example of this perfectly safe
use of shortening, note the quickness with which Harry returns to
Miss Carey's apartment when he goes out to change into his
regimentals.  And as still safer foreshortenings, note the quickness
with which Fred Saltus enters after Miss Carey goes to bed leaving
Angela on the couch; and the quickness with which Angela falls in
love with him--in fact, the entire compression inherent in the
dramatic events which cannot be dissociated from time compression.

A safe attitude for a playlet writer to take, is that all of his
action shall mimic time reality as closely as his dramatic moment
and the time-allowance of presentation will permit.  This is
considered in all dramatic art to be the ideal.

A good way to obviate disparaging comparison is to avoid reference
to time--either in the dialogue or by the movements of events.

To sum up the whole matter, a vaudeville playlet may be considered
as preserving unity of time when its action occurs in continuous
minutes of about the length the episode would take to occur in
real life.

3. Unity of Place

The commercial element of vaudeville often makes it inadvisable
for a playlet to show more than one scene--very often an otherwise
acceptable playlet is refused production because the cost of
supplying special scenes makes it a bad business venture. [1]

[1] See Chapter III.

Yet it is permissible for a writer to give his playlet more than
one place of happening--if he can make his story so compact and
gripping that it does not lose in effect by the unavoidable few
seconds' wait necessary to the changing of the scenery.  But, even
if his playlet is so big and dramatic that it admits of a change
of scenes, he must conform it to the obvious vaudeville necessity
of scenic alternation. [2] With this scenic "rule" the matter of
unity of place in the playlet turns to the question of a playwright's
art, which rules cannot limit.

[2] See Chapter I.

This third and last unity of the playlet may, however, for all
save the master-craftsman, be safely stated as follows:

Except in rare instances a playlet should deal with a story that
requires but one set of scenery, thus conserving the necessities
of commercial vaudeville, aiding the smooth running of a performance,
and preserving the dramatic unity of place.

We may now condense the three dramatic unities into a statement
peculiarly applicable to the playlet--which would seem as though
specially designed to fulfill them all:

  A playlet preserves the dramatic unities when it shows one action
  in one time and in one place.

And now it may be worth while once more to sum up what I have said
about the elements of plot--of which the skeleton of every playlet
must be made up:

A mere sequence of events is not a plot; to become a plot there
must develop a crisis or entanglement due to a conflict of the
characters' wills; the entanglement must be of such importance
that when it is untangled the characters will be in a different
relation to each other--changed in themselves by the crisis.  A
plot is divided into three parts:  a Beginning, a Middle and an
Ending.  The Beginning must state the premises of the playlet's
problem clearly and simply; the Middle must develop the problem
logically and solve the entanglement in a "big" scene, and the
Ending must round out the whole satisfyingly--with a surprise, if
fitting.  A plot, furthermore, must be so constructed that the
removal of anyone of its component parts will be detrimental to
the whole.  It is told best when its action occurs in continuous
time of about the length the episode would take to occur in real
life and does not require the changing of scenery.  Thus will a
playlet be made to give the _singleness_ of effect that is the height
of playlet art.



In this chapter the single word "character" must, of necessity,
do duty to express three different things.  First, by "characters,"
as used in the title, I mean what the programs sometimes more
clearly express by the words "persons of the play."  Second, in
the singular, it must connote what we all feel when we use the
word in everyday life, as "he is a man of--good or bad--character."
And third, and also in the singular, I would also have it connote,
in the argot of the stage, "a character actor," meaning one who
presents a distinct type--as, say, a German character, or a French
character.  It is because of the suggestive advantage of having
one word to express these various things that the single term
"characters" is used as the title of this chapter.  But, that there
may be no possible confusion, I shall segregate the different
meanings sharply.


In discussing how a playwright gets an idea, you will recall, we
found that there are two chief ways of fashioning the playlet:
First, a plot may be fitted with characters; second, characters
may be fitted with a plot.  In other words, the plot may be made
most prominent, or the characters may be made to stand out above
the story.  You will also remember we found that the stage--the
vaudeville quite as much as the legitimate--is "character-ridden,"
that is, an actor who has made a pronounced success in the delineation
of one character type forever afterward wants another play or
playlet "just like the last, but with a different plot," so that
he can go right on playing the same old character.  This we saw
has in some cases resulted in the story being considered merely
as a vehicle for a personality, often to the detriment of the
playlet.  Naturally, this leads us to inquire:  is there not some
just balance between characters and plot which should be preserved?

Were we considering merely dramatic theory, we would be perfectly
right in saying that no play should be divisible into plot and
characters, but that story and characters should be so closely
twinned that one would be unthinkable without the other.  As Brander
Matthews says, "In every really important play the characters make
the plot, and the story is what it is merely because the characters
are what they are."  An exceptionally fine vaudeville example--one
only, it is agreeable to note, out of many that might be quoted
from vaudeville's past and present--that has but two persons in
the playlet is Will Cressy's "The Village Lawyer."  One is a
penniless old lawyer who has been saving for years to buy a
clarionet.  A woman comes in quest of a divorce.  When he has
listened to her story he asks twenty dollars advance fee.  Then
he persuades her to go back home--and hands the money back.  There
is a splendid climax.  The old lawyer stands in the doorway of his
shabby office looking out into the night.  "Well," he sighs, "maybe
I couldn't play the darned thing anyway!"  If the lawyer had not
been just what he was there would have been no playlet.  But vital
as the indissoluble union of plot and characters is in theory, we
are not discussing theory; we are investigating practice, and
practice from the beginner's standpoint, therefore let us approach
the answer to our question in this way:

When you were a child clamoring for "a story" you did not care a
snap of your fingers about anything except "Once upon a time there
was a little boy--or a giant--or a dragon," who did something.
You didn't care what the character was, but whatever it was, it
had to do something, to be doing something all of the time.  Even
when you grew to youth and were on entertainment bent, you cared
not so much what the characters in a story were, just so long as
they kept on doing something--preferably "great" deeds, such as
capturing a city or scuttling a ship or falling in love.  It was
only a little later that you came to find enjoyment in reading a
book or seeing a play in which the chief interest came from some
person who had admirable qualities or was an odd sort of person
who talked in an odd sort of way.  Was it George Cohan who said
"a vaudeville audience is of the mental age of a nine-year-old

Theoretically and, of course, practically too, when it is possible,
the characters of a playlet should be as interesting as the plot.
Each should vitally depend upon the other.  But, if you must choose
whether to sacrifice plot-interest or character-interest, save the
interest of plot every time.  As Aristotle says, "the action is
the first and most important thing, the characters only secondary."

How a playwright begins to construct a play, whether he fits a
plot with characters, or fits characters with a plot, does not
matter.  What matters is how he ends.  If the story and the
characters blend perfectly the result is an example of the highest
art, but characters alone will never make a stage story--the playlet
writer must end with plot.  _Story_ is for what the stage is made.
Plot is the life blood of the playlet.  To vivify cold dramatic
incidents is the province of playlet characters.


While it is true that, no matter with what method he begins, a
playwright may end by having a successful playlet, the clearer way
to understanding is for us to suppose that you have your plot and
are striving to fit it with live people--therefore I shall assume
that such is the case.  For if the reverse were the case and the
characters were all ready to fit with a plot, the question would
be primarily not of characters but of plot.

1. The Number of Persons

How many people shall I have in my playlet? ought to be one of
the very first questions the writer asks, for enough has been said
in the earlier chapters, it would seem, to establish the fact that
vaudeville is first of all a commercial pursuit and after that an
artistic profession.  While there can be no hard and fast rule as
to the number of persons there may be in a playlet, business economy
dictates that there shall be no more than the action of the playlet
positively demands.  But before I say a short word about this
general "rule," permit me to state another that comes fast upon
its heels:  A really big playlet--big in theme, in grip of action,
and in artistic effect--may have even thrice the number of characters
a "little" playlet may possess.  Merit determines the number.

Let us find the reasons for these two general statements in this

In "The Lollard" there are four persons, while in "The System "
there are thirteen speaking parts and a number of "supers."  Would
it then be correct to suppose that "The System" is a "bigger"
playlet than "The Lollard"?  It would not be safe to assume any
such judgment, for the circuit that booked "The System" may have
been in need of a playlet using a large number of persons to make
what is known as a "flash," therefore the booking manager may have
given orders that this playlet be built to make that flash, and
the total return to the producer might not have been any greater
proportionally than the return to the producer of the numerically
smaller "The Lollard."  Therefore of two playlets whose total
effects are equal, the one having the lesser number of persons is
the better producing gamble, and for this reason is more likely
to be accepted when offered for sale.

If you will constantly bear in mind that you are telling a story
of action and not of character, you will find very little difficulty
in reducing the number of players from what you first supposed
absolutely necessary.  As just one suggestion:  If your whole playlet
hangs on an important message to be delivered, the property man,
dressed as a messenger boy, may hand in the message without a word.
I have chosen this one monotonously often-seen example because it
is suggestive of the crux of the problem--the final force of a
playlet is affected little by what the character says when he
delivers a vital message.  All that matters is the message itself.
The one thing to remember in reducing the number of characters to
the lowest possible number is--plot.

_Four Persons the Average_.  While there are playlets ranging in
number of characters from the two-person "The Village Lawyer,"
through "The Lollard's" four, to "The System's" thirteen speaking
parts, and even more in rare instances, the average vaudeville
playlet employs four people.  But it is a fact of importance to
note that a three-person playlet can be sold more easily--I am
assuming an equal standard of merit--than a four-person playlet.
And, by the same law of demand, a two-person playlet wins a quicker
market than a three-person playlet.  The reason for this average
has its rise in the demands of the dramatic, and not merely in
economy.  The very nature of the playlet makes it the more difficult
to achieve dramatic effect the more the number of characters is
reduced.  But while four persons are perfectly permissible in a
playlet designed for vaudeville's commercial stage, the beginner
would do well to make absolutely sure that he has reduced his
characters to their lowest number before he markets his playlet,
and, if possible, make a three-person or a two-person offering.

2. Selecting the Characters

There would seem to be little need, in this day of wide curiosity
about all the forms of writing and those of playwriting in particular,
to warn the beginner against straying far afield in search of
characters whom he will not understand even when he finds them.
Yet this is precisely the fault that makes failures of many otherwise
good playlets.  The whole art of selecting interesting characters
may be summed up in one sentence--choose those that you know.  The
most interesting characters in the world are rubbing elbows with
you every day.

Willard Mack--who developed into a successful legitimate playwright
from vaudeville, and is best known, perhaps, for the expansion of
his vaudeville act, "Kick in," into the long play of the same
name--has this to say on the subject:  "I say to the ambitious
playwright, take the types you are familiar with.  Why go to the
Northwest, to New Orleans in the 40's, to the court of Louis XIV,
for characters?  The milkman who comes to your door in the morning,
the motorman on the passing street car, the taxi driver, all have
their human-interest stories.  Anyone of them would make a drama.
I never attempt to write anything that has not suggested itself
from something in real life.  I must know it has existed." [1]

[1] Willard Mack on the "Vaudeville Playlet," The New York Dramatic
Mirror, March 3, 1915.

Precisely as it is impossible to tell anyone how to grasp the
dramatic and transplant it into a playlet, is it impossible to
show how to seize on character and transplant it to the stage.
Only remember that interesting characters are all about you, and
you will have little difficulty--if you have, as the French say,
the "flare."


It would seem that a playwright who has his plot all thought out
would experience little difficulty in fitting the characters of a
playlet into their waiting niches; it is easy, true enough--if his
plot is perfectly dovetailed and motivated as to character.  By
this I mean, that in even a playlet in which plot rides the
characters, driving them at its will to attain its end, logic must
be used.  And it certainly would not be logical to make your
characters do anything which such persons would not do in real
life.  As there must be unity in plot, so must there be unity in

The persons in a playlet are not merely puppets, even if plot is
made to predominate.  They are--let us hope--live persons.  I do
not mean that you have transplanted living people to the stage,
but that you have taken the elements of character that you require
out of life and have combined these into a consistent whole to
form characters necessary to your playlet.  Therefore, you must
be careful to make each character uniform throughout.  You must
not demand of any character anything you have not laid down in tbe
premises of your problem--which presupposes that each character
possesses certain definite and logical characteristics which make
the plot what it is.

Bearing this single requirement firmly in mind, you must so motivate
your plot that everything which occurs to a character rises out
of that character's personality; you must make the crisis the
outward evidence of his inner being and the change which comes
through the climax the result of inner change.  This was considered
in the chapters on the dramatic and on plot construction and
expressed when I said:  It is the _meaning_ hidden in the events
that makes the dramatic.  It is this inner meaning that lies in
the soul of the character himself which marks the change in his
own character and his own outward life.


How a playwright delineates character in the persons of his playlet,
is at once the easiest thing to explain and the most difficult for
which to lay down helpful methods, for while the novelist and the
short-story writer have three ways of telling their readers what
manner of man it is in whom he asks interest, the dramatist has
but two.

1. Methods of Characterization

First, a playwright may build up a characterization by having one
character tell another what sort of a person the third is.  Second,
he may make the character show by his own speech and actions what
he is.  This latter is the dramatic way, and peculiarly the playlet

As the first method is perfectly plain in itself, I shall dismiss
it with the suggestive warning that even this essentially undramatic
method must partake of the dramatic to be most effective:  to get
the most out of one character's describing a second to a third,
the reason for the disclosure must be bone-and-brawn a part of the

The two elements of the dramatic method are:  First, the character
may disclose his inner being by his own words, and second, by his

The first is so intimately connected with the succeeding chapter
on dialogue that I shall postpone its consideration until then and
discuss here the disclosure of character through action.

When you meet a man whom you have never met before, you carry away
with you a somewhat complete impression.  Even though he has spoken
but a word or two, his appearance first of all, the cut of his
clothes, his human twinkle, the way he lights his cigar, the
courteous way in which he gives precedence to another, or his rough
way of "butting into" a conversation, all combine to give him a
personality distinct from every other man's.  What he does not
disclose of himself by actions, you read into his personality
yourself.  "First impressions are the strongest," is a common
saying--we make them strong by reading character on sight, by
jumping at conclusions.  Man does not need to have a whole life
laid before him to form a judgment.  Little things are what drive
character impressions home.

It is this human trait of which the playwright makes use in the
delineation of character.  The playlet writer has even less time
than the legitimate dramatist to stamp character.  He must seize
on the essentials, and with a few broad strokes make the character
live as distinct from all other men.

For much of his characterization--aside from that absolutely
inherent in the plot--the playlet writer depends upon the actor.
By the use of costumes and of make-up, the age and station in life,
even the business by which a character earns his daily bread, are
made clear at a glance.  And by the trick of a twitching mouth, a
trembling hand, or a cunningly humble glance, the inner being is
laid bare, with the help of a few vital words which are made to
do duty to advance the story as well.

In a word, the playwright and the actor work in partnership, with
broad strokes, relying upon the eager imagination of the audience
to amplify the tiny sketch into a well-rounded, full personality.
This is the method simply stated.  It does not admit of the laying
down of precepts.

2. The Choice of Names

In the old days of vaudeville the persons of a playlet were often
named to fit their most prominent characteristic; for instance, a
sneaky fellow would be named Sam Sly, and a pretty girl Madge
Dimples.  But with the change in fashion in the long play, the
playlet has relegated this symbolical method of naming characters
to burlesque and the lurid types of melodrama, and even there it
is going out of fashion.

Today, names are carefully chosen to seem as life-like as do the
characters themselves.  Instead of trying to express characteristics
by a name, the very opposite effect is sought, except when the
character would in real life have a "monicker," or the naming of
the character in the old way would serve to relate the act more
closely to its form and awaken pleasing reminiscences. [1] The
method today is to select a name that shall fit a character in a
general way and yet be so unobtrusive that it will not be remarked.

[1] See The System and My Old Kentucky Home, in the Appendix.

Simple names are always the best.  The shorter they are the
better--usually nicknames, if true to life and the character, have
a "homey" sort of sound that is worth securing.  Bill, and Jack,
and Madge, and Flo, or anyone of a hundred others, sound less
formidable than William, and James, and Margaret, and Florence.
Names that are long and "romantic" are usually amusing; merely
listen to Algernon, Hortense, and Reginald Montmorency, and you
have to smile--and not always with pleasure.

But for a name to be simple or short or unromantic does not solve
the problem for all cases.  A long "romantic" name might be the
very best one you could choose for a certain character. [1] The
name you should select depends on what effect you wish to secure.
No one can tell you just what name to choose for a character you
alone have in mind.

[1] See The Villain Still Pursued Her in the Appendix.

But do not make the mistake of pondering too long over the naming
of your characters.  It is not the name that counts, it is the
character himself, and behind it all the action that has brought
the character into being--your gripping plot.

And now, let us sum up this brief discussion of characters and
characterization before we pass on to a consideration of dialogue.
Because of time-restriction, a playlet must depend for interest
upon plot rather than upon character.  The average number of persons
in a playlet is four.  Interesting characters are to be found
everywhere, and the playlet writer can delineate those he rubs
elbows with better than those he does not know well and therefore
cannot fully understand.  The same unity demanded of a plot is
required of a character--characters must be consistent.
Characterization is achieved by the dramatic method of letting
actions speak for themselves, is done in broad strokes growing out
of the plot itself, and is conveyed in close partnership with the
actor by working on the minds of the audience who take a meagre
first impression and instantly build it up into a full portrait.



We have now come to one of the least important elements of the
playlet--yet a decorative element which wit and cleverness can
make exceedingly valuable.

If it is true that scenery is the habitation in which the playlet
moves, that its problem is the heart beating with life, that the
dramatic is the soul which shines with meaning through the whole,
that plot is the playlet's skeleton which is covered by the flesh
of the characters--then the dialogue is, indeed, merely a playlet's
clothes.  Clothes do not make a man, but the world gives him a
readier welcome who wears garments that fit well and are becoming.
This is the whole secret of dialogue--speeches that fit well and
are becoming.

1. What is Dialogue?

It has been said that "Romeo and Juliet" played in English in any
country would be enjoyed by everyone, even though they could not
understand a word of what was said.  There is a story told about
a Slav in Pennsylvania who could not speak one word of English,
but who happened to come up from his work as a laborer in a coal
mine just as the people were filing in to the performance of "The
Two Orphans," and as he had nothing in particular to do, in he
went--and nearly broke up the performance by the loudness of his
sobbing.  I shall never forget an experience of my own, when I
took a good French friend to see David Warfield in "The Music
Master"; this young chap could not understand more than a word
here and there, but we were compelled to miss the last act because
he cried so hard during the famous lost-daughter scene that he was
ashamed to enter the theatre after the intermission.

Every great play is, in the last analysis, a pantomime.  Words are
unnecessary to tell a stage story that has its wellspring deep in
the emotions of the human heart.  Words can only embellish it.  A
great pantomimist--a Mlle. Dazie, who played Sir James M. Barrie's
"The Pantaloon" in vaudeville without speaking a word; a Pavlowa,
who dances her stories into the hearts of her audience; a Joe
Jackson, who makes his audiences roar with laughter and keeps them
convulsed throughout his entire act, with the aid of a dilapidated
bicycle, a squeaky auto horn and a persistently annoying cuff--does
not need words to tell a story.

The famous French playwright Scribe--perhaps the most ingenious
craftsman the French stage has ever seen--used to say, "When my
subject is good, when my scenario (plot) is very clear, very
complete, I might have the play written by my servant; he would
be sustained by the situation;--and the play would succeed."
Plutarch tells us that Menander, the master of Greek comedy, was
once asked about his new play, and he answered:  "It is composed
and ready; I have only the verses (dialogue) to write." [1]

[1] Reported in A Study of the Drama, by Brander Matthews.

If it is true that a great play, being in its final analysis a
pantomime, is effective without dialogue, and if some famous
dramatists thought so little of dialogue that they considered their
plays all written before they wrote the dialogue, then speech must
be something that has little _comparative_ value--something primarily
employed to aid the idea behind it, to add emphasis to plot--not
to exist for itself.

2. The Uses of Dialogue

Dialogue makes the dramatic story clear, advances it, reveals
character, and wins laughter--all by five important means:

(a) _Dialogue Conveys Information of Basic Events at the Opening_.
As we saw in the discussion of the structural elements of plot,
there are of necessity some points in the basic incidents chosen
for the story of a playlet that have their roots grounded in the
past.  Upon a clear understanding of these prior happenings which
must be explained immediately upon the rise of the curtain, depends
the effect of the entire sequence of events and, consequently, the
final and total effect of the playlet.  To "get this information
over" the characters are made to tell of them as dramatically as
possible.  For instance:

Angela Maxwell knocks on Miss Carey's door the instant the curtain
rises on "The Lollard," and as soon as Miss Carey opens the door
Angela says:  "Listen, you don't know me, but I've just left my
husband."  And the dialogue goes on to tell why she left Harry,
clearly stating the events that the audience must know in order
to grasp the meaning of those that follow.

At the very beginning of a playlet the dialogue must be especially
clear, vividly informing and condensed.  By "condensed," I meant
the dialogue must be tense, and supported by swift action--it must
without delay have done with the unavoidable explanations, and
quickly get into the rising movement of events.

(b) _Dialogue Brings out the Incidents Clearly_.  Never forgetting
that action makes dialogue but that dialogue never makes action,
let us take the admirable surprise ending of "The System," for an

The Inspector has left, after giving The Eel and Goldie their
freedom and advising them to clear out and start life anew.  The
audience knows they are in hard straits financially.  How are they
going to secure the money to get away from town?  Goldie expresses
it concisely:  "Well, we're broke again (tearfully). We can't go
West now, so there's no use packing."  This speech is like a
sign-post that points out the condition the events have made them
face.  And then like a sign-post that points the other way, it
adds emphasis to the flash of the surprise and the solution when
The Eel, stealthily making sure no one will see him and no one can
hear him, comes down to Goldie, sitting forlornly on the trunk,
taps her on the shoulder and shows her Dugan's red wallet.  Of
course, the audience knows that the wallet spells the solution of
all their problems, but The Eel clinches it by saying, "Go right
ahead and pack."

Out of this we may draw one observation which is at least interesting,
if not illuminating:  When an audience accepts the premises of a
playlet without question, it gives over many of its emotions and
most of its reasoning power into the author's hands.  Therefore
the author must think for his audience and keenly suggest by
dialogue that something is about to happen, show it as happening,
and make it perfectly clear by dialogue that it has actually
happened.  This is the use to which dialogue is put most
tellingly--bringing out the incidents in clear relief and at the
very same time interpreting them cunningly.

(c) _Dialogue Reveals Character Humanly_.  Character is tried,
developed and changed not by dialogue, but by action; yet the first
intimate suggestion of character is shown in dialogue; and its
trials, development and change are brought into clear relief--just
as events, of which character-change is the vital part, are made
unmistakably clear--by the often illuminating word that fits
precisely.  As J. Berg Esenwein says, "Just as human interest is
the heart of the narrative, so human speech is its most vivid
expression.  In everyday life we do not know a man until we have
heard him speak.  Then our first impressions are either confirmed,
modified, or totally upset." [1]

[1] Writing the Short-Slory, page 247.

It is by making all of his characters talk alike that the novice
is betrayed, whereas in giving each character individuality of
speech as well as of action the master dramatist is revealed.
While it is permissible for two minor characters to possess a hazy
likeness of speech, because they are so unimportant that the
audience will not pay much attention to them, the playlet writer
must give peculiar individuality to every word spoken by the chief
characters.  By this I do not mean that, merely to show that a
character is different, a hero or heroine should be made to talk
with a lisp or to use some catch-word--though this is sometimes
done with admirable effect.  What I mean is that the words given
to the chief characters must possess an individuality rising from
their inner differences; their speech should show them as not only
different from each other, but also different from every other
character in the playlet--in the whole world, if possible--and
their words should be just the words they and no others would use
in the circumstances.

If you will remember that you must give to the dialogue of your
chief characters a unity as complete as you must give to plot and
character as shown through action, you will evade many dialogue
dangers.  This will not only help you to give individuality to
each character, but also save you from making a character use
certain individual expressions at one time and then at another
talk in the way some other character has spoken.  Furthermore,
strict observance of this rule should keep you from putting into
the mouth of a grown man, who is supposed to be most manly,
expressions only a "sissy" would use; or introducing a character
as a wise man and permitting him to talk like a fool.  As in life,
so in dialogue--consistency is a test of worth.

Keep your own personality out of the dialogue.  Remember that your
characters and not you are doing the talking.  You have laid down
a problem in your playlet, and your audience expects it to fulfill
its promise dramatically--that is, by a mimicry of life.  So it
does not care to listen to one man inhabiting four bodies and
talking like a quartet of parrots.  It wants to hear four different
personalities talk with all the individuality that life bestows
so lavishly--in life.

You will find little difficulty in keeping your individuality out
of dialogue if you will only remember that you cannot write
intelligently of characters you do not know.  Make use of the
characters nearest you, submerge yourself in their individualities,
and you will then be so interested in them that you will forget
yourself and end by making the characters of your playlet show
themselves in their dialogue as individual, enthrallingly entertaining,
new, and--what is the final test of all dialogue--convincing.

(d) _Dialogue Wins Laughter_.  There are three sources from which
laughter rises out of dialogue.  First, from the word that is a
witticism, existing for its own sake.  Second, from the word that
is an intensely individual expression of character--the
character-revealing phrase.  Third, the word that is funny because
it is spoken at the right instant in the action.  All three have
a place in the playlet, but the last, the dialogue that rises out
of and illuminates a situation, is productive of the best results.
This is but another way of saying what cannot be too often repeated,
that the playlet is plot. [1]

[1] See Chapter V, in which humor was discussed in relation to the

Even in dialect, dialogue does not bother with anything much but
plot-expression of character.  Indicate the odd twist of a character's
thoughts as clearly as you can, but never try to reproduce all his
speech phonetically.  If you do, you will end disastrously, for
your manuscript will look like a scrambled alphabet which nobody
can decipher.  In writing dialect merely suggest the broken English
here and there--follow the method so clearly shown in "The German
Senator."  Remember that the actor who will be engaged to play the
part has studied the expression of that particular type all his
life.  His method of conveying what you intend is likely to be
different from your method.  Trust him--for you must.

(e) _Dialogue Advances the Action and Rounds Out the Plot_.
Precisely in the way that incidents are brought out clearly by
dialogue, dialogue advances the action and rounds out the plot at
the curtain.  Clear as I hope the method has been made, I wish to
point out two dialogue peculiarities which come with the rise of

First, as the action quickens, there inevitably occurs a compression
inherent in the dramatic that is felt by the dialogue.  Joe Maxwell's
epitome of vaudeville as he once expressed it to me in a most
suggestive discussion of the two-a-day, illustrates this point
better, perhaps, than a chapter would explain:  "Vaudeville is
meat," he said, "the meat of action, the meat of words."  There
is no _time_ in vaudeville climaxes for one word that does not point
out, or clinch home the action.  Here action speaks louder than
words.  Furthermore, in the speed of bodily movement there is
actually no time for words.  If two men are grappling in a life
and death struggle they can't stop for speech.

And second, as the playlet nears its ending there is no _need_ for
explanatory words--if the preceding action has been dramatic.
Every new situation rises out of the old, the audience knows it
all now, they even foresee the climax, and, in a well constructed
playlet, they feel the coming-to-an-end thrill that is in the air.
What need is there for dialogue?  Only a need for the clearing,
clinching kind, and for

_The Finish Line_.  While the last-speech of a playlet is bone of
the bone and blood of the blood of plot, the finish line is
peculiarly a part of dialogue.  It is here, in the last line, that
the tragic has a strangely illuminating force and the comic must
be given full play.  Indeed, a comedy act that does not end in a
"scream" is hardly worth anything.  And, as comedy acts are most
in demand in vaudeville, I shall relate this discussion solely to
the comic ending.  Here it is, then, in the last line of a comedy
act, that the whole action is rounded neatly off with a full play
of fancy--with emphasis on the use of wit.

Of course I do not mean that the last line may be permitted to
stray away from the playlet and crack an unrelated joke.  But the
last line, being a completing line, may return to some incident
earlier than the closing action.  It may with full profit even go
back to the introduction, as "The Lollard's" last line takes Miss
Carey back to her interrupted sleep with, "Now, thank Gawd, I'll
get a little sleep."

Or it may be merely a quaint line, like that which ended a very
successful playlet which has stuck in my memory, but whose title
I have forgotten.  Here the sweethearts were brought together,
they flew into each other's arms, they kissed.  Naturally the
curtain was on that kiss, but no--they drew apart and the girl
rubbed her lips with the back of her hand.  "Aw," said the boy,
"what you rubbing it off for?"  And the girl, half-crying,
half-laughing, answered, "I ain't rubbing it off; I'm rubbing it

Or the last line may be a character line, rounding back to the
opening, perhaps, but having its mainspring in character, like the
last line of "The Village Lawyer":  "Well," he sighs--as he watches
the money with which he could have satisfied his longing to buy a
clarionet, disappear--"Maybe I couldn't play the darned thing
anyway!" [1]

[1] Chapter XV, section I.

Example after example might be quoted to illustrate every possible
variation, yet in the end we would come to the very same conclusions
these four instances reveal.  The finish line is the concluding
thought of the action.  It may round back to the opening plainly;
bring out sharply the most prominent point developed; vividly
present a pleasing side-light with a punch; illuminate a character
point; take some completing element and twist it into a surprise--
indeed, the finish line may present anything at all, so long as it
thrills with human interest and laughter.

3. Fit and Becoming Dialogue

In playlet dialogue there is as much need of the dramatic spirit
as in the playlet plot.  Not what is said in real life, but what
must be said to express the action concisely, is its aim.  Playlet
dialogue cannot take time to reproduce small talk.  It must connote,
not denote, even the big things.  To omit is more important than
to include.  A whole life must be compressed into a single speech
and entire stages of progression be epitomized in a single sentence.
True enough, in really big scenes a character may rise to lofty
expression; but of all playlet moments, here sane selection and
compression are most vital.  The wind of talk must be made compressed

Conversation for conversation's sake is the one thing, above all
others that stamps a playlet as in vain.  I have seen producing
manager after producing manager run through manuscripts to select
for careful reading the ones with short speeches.  Those weighty
with long speeches were returned unread.  Why?  Because experience
had taught them that a playlet filled with long speeches is likely
to be filled with little else.  They realize that conversation as
an art died the day the first automobile did the mile in sixty
flat.  Speed is what the playlet needs, and talk slows the track.
In the classic words of vaudeville, if you must talk, "hire a

Where is it you hear more clever lines than anywhere else?  In
vaudeville.  Where is it that slang hits the hardest?  In vaudeville.
On what stage do people talk more nearly like you and I talk?  The
vaudeville stage.  For vaudeville is up-to-the-minute--vaudeville
is the instant's dramatic review.

And it is this speech of the instant that playlet dialogue needs--
the short, sharp, seemingly thoughtless but vividly pulsating words
of everyday life.  If today men talked in long speeches filled
with grandiloquent periods, the playlet would mimic their length
and tone, but men today do not speak that way and the playlet must
mimic today's shortness and crispness.  As Alexander Black says,
"The language of the moment is the bridge; that carries us straight
to the heart of the whole world, and all the past.  Life or fancy
that comes in the language of the moment comes to us _translated_.
Fantastically, the language of the street is always close to the
bones of art.  It is always closer to the Bible and to all the big
fellows than the language of the drawing rooms.  Art is only the
_expression_ of ideas.  Ideas, emotions, impulses, are more important
than the _medium_, just as religion is more important than theology.
There is just as much excuse for saying 'theology for its own sake'
as for saying 'art for art's sake.' The joy of a new word should
make us grateful for the fertility of the street out of which most
of the really strong words come.  The street doesn't make us fine,
but it keeps us from being too sweet and thin.  It loves the punch.
And the punch clears the path."  It is the punch in dialogue that
the playlet demands.

Before we agree upon what is fit and becoming dialogue, I think
it advisable to condense into a few words all that I have said on
the subject.  In its final analysis a playlet is a pantomime.
Dialogue is primarily employed to add emphasis to the plot.  It
does this by conveying information of basic events at the opening;
by bringing out the succeeding incidents clearly; by revealing
character humanly; by winning laughter; by advancing the action;
and by rounding out the plot in a finish line which thrills with
human interest and, in the comedy playlet, with laughter.  And
now, what is fit and becoming dialogue?  Fit dialogue is--what
fits the plot exactly.  Becoming dialogue is--what makes the plot
_seem_ even better.  But dialogue cannot make plot better, it can
only make it seem better--it can only dress it.  Remember that.



In considering the "business" of the playlet, we have come to the
place where it would seem that writing must be left behind and the
function of the producer entered upon.  For business is the detail
of stage action and movement.  But, while it is the peculiar
function of the producer to invent and to incorporate into the
playlet little bits of everyday movements of the characters to
lend the effect of real life to the mimic picture, it is the
province of the writer--in reducing his words to the lowest possible
number, in an effort to secure that "economy of attention" which
is the foundation of all art--to tell as much of his story as he
can by actions that speak even louder than words.  Every great
playwright is as much a producer as he is a writer.

As we saw in Chapter VII, "business" includes every movement an
actor makes while he is on the stage.  Thus a facial expression
may be called "business," _if it lends a peculiar significance
to a line_.  And a wild leap of a man on horseback through a
window--this has actually been done in a vaudeville act--is also
called business.  In fact everything, from "mugging," [1] walking
about, sitting down, picking up a handkerchief, taking off or
putting on a coat, to the wordless scenes into which large parts
of the story are condensed and made clear solely by situation--everything
is called "business."  But to differentiate the actor's part from
the work of the playwright, I shall arbitrarily call every action
which is as indivisible from acting as facial play, "pantomime";
while I shall employ the word "business" to express the use of
movement by the playwright for the purpose of condensing large
parts of the story and telling it wordlessly.

[1] "Mugging," considered by some to be one of the lowest forms
of comedy, is bidding for laughter by facial contortions unrelated
to the action or the lines--making the scene subservient to the
comical faces made by the actor.

1. The Part Business Plays in the Dramatic [2]

[2] The impossibility of keeping separate the _designing_ and the
_writing_ of business, will be seen as the chapter progresses,
therefore I shall treat both freely in one.

Let us turn to that part of the third scene of "The System" where
The Eel and Goldie--who have been given their liberty "with a
string to it" by Inspector McCarthy in his anxiety to catch Officer
Dugan red-handed--are "up against it" in their efforts to get away
from town.  They have talked it all over in Goldie's flat and The
Eel has gone out to borrow the money from Isaacson, the "fence."
Now when The Eel closes Goldie's door and runs downstairs, Goldie
listens intently until the outer door slams, then begins to
pack.  She opens the trunk first, gets her jacket from the couch
where she has thrown it, puts it in the trunk and then goes up
into the bedroom and gets a skirt.  She shakes the skirt as she
comes down stage.  Then a long, low whistle is heard--then the
rapping of a policeman's club.

"Bulls!" she gasps.  Looking up at the light burning, she turns
it out and closes the trunk at the same time.  And she stands still
until she sees the shadow of a man's hand cast by the moonlight
on the wall.  Then she gives a frightened exclamation and cowers
on the sofa.

Here we have packed into little more than sixty seconds a revelation
of the fear in which all crooks live, the unthinking faith and
love Goldie bears The Eel, and a quiet moment which emphasizes the
rush of the preceding events--a space also adding punch to the
climax of incidents which follow hot upon its heels.  When the
long, low whistle sounds and the policeman's club raps out its
alarm, the audience feels that the action is filled with tense
meaning--The Eel has been caught.  That hand on the wall is like
a coming event casting its shadow before, and when Goldie gives
her frightened exclamation and cowers on the couch, her visible
fear--coming in contrast to her commonplace packing to get
away--builds up the scene into a thrill that is capped by the
meaningful window entrance of Dugan.  "Ah!" says the audience,
"here's the first time they've gotten together alone.  It's the
first time we've really seen that Dugan is behind it all.  Something
big is going to happen."

All of these revealing flashes, which illumine like searchlights,
are told by movement.  The only word that is spoken is Goldie's
cry "Bulls!"  The only other sounds are the whistle and the rapping
of the club.  But if Goldie had taken up the time with telling the
audience how glad she was to pack and get away with The Eel to a
new life, and if she had expressed her fear by bewailing the
hardness of fate--the dramatic effect would have been lost.  Do
you see how words can kill and soundless movements vivify?

In "The Lollard," when Miss Carey wants to disillusionize Angela,
she does not sit down and argue her out of her insane infatuation
for Fred; nor does she tell Angela that Fred is a "lollard" and
weakly unmask him by describing his "lollard " points.  She cries
"Fire!  Fire!  Fire!"  Whereupon Fred dashes out on the stage and
Angela and the audience with their own eyes behold Fred as a
"lollard."  Here the whole problem of the playlet is solved in a
flash.  Not one word of explanatory dialogue is needed.

In "Three of a Kind," a comedy playlet produced by Roland West,
two crooks fleece a "sucker" and agree to leave the money in a
middle room while they sleep in opposite rooms.  They say they
trust each other implicitly, but each finds a pretext to sit up
and watch that money himself.  The comedy rises from their movements
around the room as they try to outmaneuver each other.

These three examples plainly show how movement, unexplained by
dialogue, may be used to condense a middle action, a climax, and
an opening.  Now, if you will turn to the surprise ending of "The
System"--which has been discussed before in its relation to
dialogue--you will see how business may condense an ending.  Indeed,
the very essence of the surprise ending lies in this dramatic
principle.  Of course, how the condensation of story into movement
is to be made in any given case depends upon the material, and the
writer's purpose.  But as a part of the problem let us see

2. How Pantomime Helps to Condense Story and Illumine Character

Consider the inimitable gesture the Latins use when they wish to
express their helplessness.  The shoulders shrug until the man
seems folding into himself, his hands come together approaching
his face and then he drops them despairingly to his side as if he
would say:  "But what can I do?"  A gesture such as this reveals
in a flash the depths of a human soul.  Volumes could say no more.

This is what the actor may bring to your playlet, and what you,
with the greatest caution, may sometimes--though rarely--indicate
in your manuscript.

"Walk up stage," said David Belasco to an actor who was proving
"difficult," "and when you turn your back, get some meaning into
it.  Make your back express--the whole play, if you can."  Most
certainly you would not write this in the directions for a
playlet--the producer would laugh at it and the actor would be
indignant.  But you might with the greatest helpfulness direct
that the character turn his back--and this is the point of the
problem--if, by turning his back on some one, the character conveys,
say, contempt for or fearlessness of an enemy's bravado.  Every
direction for acting in your playlet must be of such a kind that
_anyone_ can convey the meaning--because the emphasis is inherent
in the situation.  A stage direction ought not to depend for its
value on the actor's ability.  If this were not so, play writing
would consist chiefly in engaging fine actors.

When an actor receives a part he studies it not only to learn the
lines, but with the desire to familiarize himself with the character
so thoroughly that he may not seem to be playing it.  He hopes to
make the audience feel that the character is alive.  For this
reason, it is not amiss to indicate characteristic actions once
in a while.  A good example of this is found in "The Lollard,"
where Angela says to Miss Carey:  "But--excuse me--how do you know
so many different kinds of men if you've never been married?"

"Boarders," says Miss Carey quickly.  "To make ends meet, I've
always had to have a male boarder since I was left an orphan."
"She rises--turns her back to audience--gives a touch to her
pigtail, during laugh on this line.  This business always builds
laugh," say the directions.  It is such little touches that stamp
a character as individual; and therefore they are just the little
touches the playwright may add to his manuscript by way of suggestion
to the actor.  They may be very helpful, indeed, but they should
be made with great care and discretion.  For the actor, if he is
a capable performer, is ready when rehearsal begins with many
suggestions of a like nature.  He will often suggest something
that will not only exhibit character clearly, but will also condense
story by eliminating needless words and movement.

For instance:  F. F. Mackay was rehearsing to play the French count
in the famous old play, "One of Our Girls."  Mr. Bronson Howard
had directed in his manuscript that the count, when struck across
the face with a glove by an English officer, should become very
violent and angry, in accordance with the popular notion of an
excitable Frenchman's character.  "But Mr. Mackay," says Daniel
Frohman, "argued that the French count, having been shown in the
play to be an expert duellist with both the rapier and the pistol,
and having faced danger frequently, was not liable to lose control
of himself.  Mr. Howard readily saw the point.  The result was one
of the most striking situations in the American drama; for the
Frenchman received the insult without the movement of a muscle.
He stood rigid.  Only the flash of the eye for an instant revealed
his emotion.  Then the audience saw his face grow red, and then
pale.  This was followed by the quiet announcement from the count
that he would send his seconds to see the Englishman.

"This exhibition of facial emotion betrayed by the visible rush
of blood to the actor's face was frequently noted at the time.
It was a muscular trick, Mr. Mackay told me.  He put on a tight
collar for the scene and strained his neck against it until the
blood tame, and when he released the pressure, and the blood
receded, the effect was reached.  It was a splendid moment, and
it is one of the many effects that have been studied out during
the progress and development of a play during rehearsals."

It is for the great majority of such little touches, therefore,
that the playwright must depend on the actor and the producer to
add to his playlet.  However, the playwright may help to the limit
of his ability, by giving very short, very carefully thought out
directions in his manuscript.  But it is much better for the novice
to disregard suggestions to the actor for character analysis and
even to be sparing with his hints for facial expressions or slight
movements--and to content himself with an effort to condense his
story in the broader ways.

3. How Tediously Long Speeches may be Broken up by Movement

As the playlet is primarily action, and as the audience expects
the playlet to keep moving all the time, it is a common practise
to try to trick the audience into believing every speech is vibrant
with emotional force, by keeping the actors moving about the stage.
But the fact that a really vital speech may be killed by a movement
which distracts the attention of the audience ought to be proof
positive that needless movements about the stage are merely a
confession of poverty in the playlet.  Nevertheless, as a long
explanatory speech seems sometimes unavoidable, I devote two or
three short paragraphs to what has saved some playlets from absolute

If you are unable to tell every bit of your story by dramatic means
and therefore face a long speech that may seem tiresomely wordy,
break it up with natural movements which lend a feeling of homely
reality to the scene.  For instance, don't let the character who
is delivering that long speech tell it all uninterruptedly from
the chair in which he is sitting.  Let him rise after he has spoken
two or three sentences and cross to the other character, or do
something that will illustrate a point in his story, or have the
one who is listening interrupt now and then.  Inject motive into
the interruptions if you can; but in any event, keep your characters

But make the movements natural.  To this end, study the movements
of the men and women about you.  Try to invent new ways of expressing
the old things in movement.  Strive not so much to be "different,"
as to be vividly interesting.  You can make the movements of your
characters about the stage as brilliant as dialogue.

Above all, make sure that you do not let your characters wander
about the stage aimlessly.  To make it a complete unity every
little scene demands as careful thought as does the entire playlet.
A playlet may be suggestively defined as a number of minute-long
playlets moving vividly one after the other to make a vivid whole.
Remember this, and you may be able to save a tiresome scene from
ruining the entire effect of your playlet.

4. Why Business is More Productive of Comedy than Dialogue

As a playlet is nothing if it is not action, so a comedy playlet
is nothing if its comedy does not develop from situations.  By
"action," as the word is used here, I mean that the story of the
playlet is told by the movements of its characters.  In real life,
you know, comedy and tragedy do not come from what persons say
they are going to do--but from what they actually do.  Therefore,
the merry jests that one character perpetrates upon another must
be told not in words, but by showing the character actually
perpetrating them on the victim.  In a comedy playlet, the playwright
must be a practical joker.  Every funny happening in a playlet is
a "scene that must be shown."

For instance, in "Billy's Tombstones," the football player who is
in love with the girl, whom he has followed half around the world,
is shown first as losing his "tombstones"--his false teeth, made
necessary by the loss of his real ones in a famous college game;
then he is shown in his wild efforts to pronounce his sweetheart's
name without the dental help.  Much of the comedy arises from his
efforts to pronounce that loved name--and the climax comes when
the lost tombstones are found and Billy proposes to her in perfect
speech that lingers fondly on her name.

In farce--particularly in the old farces which depended on mistaken
identity, a motive force considered hardly worthy of use today--the
comedy arises very rarely from a witty saying in itself.  The fun
usually depends upon the humorous situations that develop.  "The
New Coachman"--one of those old farcical "screams"--contained an
exceptionally fine example of this point and is pertinent to-day
because it had no relation to mistaken identity in this humorous
scene.  Here the best fun of the comedy came from the use of a
stepladder by the supposed coachman, who got all tangled up in it.
After the first misstep with that stepladder, there was never any
time for more than a word here and there.  Of course, such a scene
depends upon the actor almost entirely, and therefore cannot be
indicated in the business by the playwright, but I use it for an
example because it is a peculiarly brilliant instance of the fact
that hearty laughter depends not on hearing, but on seeing.

But do not make the mistake of trying to patch together a comedy
playlet from the bits of funny stage business you have seen in
other acts.  If you present such a manuscript to a producer you
may be very sure it will be refused, for there are plenty of
producers and performers in vaudeville who can supply such an act
at a moment's notice from memory.

The sort of comedy expected from the playwright is comedy that
develops from situation.  It is in the invention of new situations
and new business to fit these situations that the playlet writer
finds his reward in production and profit.

5. Entrances, Exits and the Stage-Cross

Among the many definitions of drama--frequently misleading, but
equally often helpful--there is one which holds the whole art of
play writing lies in getting the characters on the stage naturally
and effectively and getting them off again--naturally and effectively.
But, even the most daring of definition makers has not yet told
us how this is to be accomplished in all cases.  The fact is, no
one can tell us, because a method that would be natural and effective
in a given playlet, would very likely be most unnatural and
ineffective in another.  All that can be said is that the same
dramatic sense with which you have constructed the story of your
playlet will carry you forward in the inevitable entrances and
exits.  How these moments are to be effective, lies in the very
nature of the story you are telling.  This is boldly begging the
question, but it is all that may with honest helpfulness be said.

However, regarding the stage-cross, and allied movements of the
actors, there are two suggestions that may be helpful.  The first
is founded on the old theory that a scene ought to be "dressed"
all the time--that is, if one character moves across the stage,
the other ought to move a little up stage to give him room to cross
and should then move down on the opposite side, to keep the scene
dressed or "balanced."  But no hard and fast rule can be given,
even for the stage-cross.  If it seems the easy and natural thing
for the characters to do this, all well and good.  But you should
feel no compulsion about it and really should give to the matter
but little thought.

The second is based on the common-sense understanding at which you
yourself will arrive if you will take the trouble to notice how
the slightest movement made by one of two persons to whom you are
telling a story distracts the other's attention.  Briefly, never
indicate business for a character during the moments when short
and vitally important speeches are conveying information to the

Both of these minor suggestions may be summed up in this sentence
with which I shall dismiss the subject:  The box sets in which the
playlet is played in vaudeville are usually not very deep and are
so arranged that every part of the scene is in plain view from
practically every seat in the house, therefore you may forget that
your story is being played in a mimic room and may make your
characters move as if the room were real.  If you will only keep
in mind you should have little trouble.

6. How "Business" is Indicated in Manuscript

In the old days before the boxed set, the manuscript of a play
bristled with such cryptic signs as R. U. E., and L. F. E., meaning,
when reduced to everyday English, "right upper entrance," "left
first entrance," and the like.  But as the old "entrances" of the
stage have been lost with the introduction of the box set, which
closely mimics a real room--being, indeed, a room with the fourth
wall removed--the modern stage directions are much simpler.  "Right
door," "centre door," "left door," are the natural directions to
be found in a playlet manuscript today.

It is a good general rule to avoid in your stage directions
expressions which show you are dealing with a stage scene and not
a scene of real life.  In the first place, if you attempt to be
technical, you are very likely to be over-technical and confusing.
In the second place, you will be more likely to produce a life-like
playlet if you are not forever groping among strange terms, which
make you conscious all the time that you are dealing with unreality.
Therefore choose the simplest directions, expressed in the fewest
possible words, to indicate the effects you have carefully thought
out:  Never forget that reality and simplicity go hand in hand.

And now it may be of advantage to sum up what has been said about
stage business in this chapter.  We have seen how business may be
used to condense the story of a playlet; how business is often--though
not always--the very heart of the dramatic; how pantomime may be
skillfully used to condense salient parts of the playlet story and
illumine character; how business may be employed to break up a
clumsy but necessarily long speech--thus sometimes saving a playlet
from the failure of the tedious;--and why business is more productive
of comedy than is dialogue.  We have concluded that the playlet
writer must not ape what has already been done, but can win success
only in the measure he succeeds in bringing to his playlet new
business which makes his new situations all the more vivid and
vital.  Finally, we have seen that entrances and exits must be
natural and effective, and that all stage business should be
conceived and thought of and indicated in the manuscript as simple
expressions of reality.

With this chapter, the six elements of a successful playlet have
been discussed from the angle of exposition.  In the next chapter
I shall make use of all this expository material and shall endeavor
to show how playlets are actually written.



While it is plain that no two writers ever have, nor ever will,
go about writing a playlet in precisely the same way, and impossible
as it is to lay down rules which may be followed with precision
to inevitable success, I shall present some suggestions, following
the logical order of composition.

First, however, I must point out that you should study the vaudeville
stage of _this week_, not of last year or even of last month, before
you even entertain a germ idea for a playlet.  You should be sure
before you begin even to think out your playlet, that its problem
is in full accord with the very best, and that it will fit into
vaudeville's momentary design with a completeness that will win
for it an eager welcome.

You should inquire of yourself first, "Is this a comedy or a serious
playlet I am about to write?"  And if the latter, "_Should_ I write
a serious playlet?"

One of vaudeville's keenest observers, Sime Silverman, editor of
Variety, said when we were discussing this point:  "Nobody ought
to write a tragic or even a serious playlet who can write anything
else.  There are two or three reasons why.  First, vaudeville likes
laughter, and while it may be made to like tears, a teary playlet
must be exceedingly well done to win.  Second, the serious playlet
must be so well done and so well advertised that usually a big
name is necessary to carry it to success; and the 'name' demands
so much money that it is sometimes impossible to engage an adequate
supporting cast.  Third, the market for tragic and serious playlets
is so small that there is only opportunity for the playlet master;
of course, there sometimes comes an unknown with a great success,
like 'War Brides,' [1] but only rarely.  Therefore, I would advise
the new writer to write comedy."

[1] Written by Miss Marion Craig Wentworth, and played by Olga

Miss Nellie Revell, whom B. F. Keith once called "The Big Sister
of Vaudeville," and who was Vaudeville Editor of the New York
Morning Telegraph before becoming General Press Representative of
the Orpheum Circuit, summed up her years of experience as a critic
in these words:

"The new writer should first try his hand at a comedy playlet.
Then after he has made a success of comedy, or if he is sure he
can't write anything but sobby playlets, let him try to make an
audience weep.  Vaudeville, like any other really human thing,
would rather laugh than cry, yet if you make vaudeville cry finely,
it will still love you.  But a serious playlet must be mighty well
done to get over--therein lies a stumbling block sometimes.  A few
great artists can make vaudeville sob finely--but only a few.
Comedy, good comedy, always gets by.

"How many comedy playlets are there to one serious playlet in
vaudeville?  I should say about ten to one.  That ought to convince
anybody that comedy is the thing to write for vaudeville."

There have been many hybrid playlets which have combined tragedy
and comedy to give some particular star an opportunity to show
versatility in acting. [1] But some of these playlets have been
merely vehicles for a personality, and therefore cannot be considered
in this discussion.

[1] See Chapter XII, section II, topic 2.

On the other hand, there have been some serious playlets which
have had comedy twists, or a light turn, which brought the curtain
down amid laughter that was perfectly logical and in good taste.
An example of the surprise ending that lightens the gloom is found
in "The Bomb," finely played by Wilton Lackaye, in which the Italian
who so movingly confesses to the outrage is merely a detective in
disguise, trapping the real bomb thrower--and suddenly he unmasks.
If a serious playlet can be made to end with a light touch that
is fitting, it will have a better chance in vaudeville.  But this
is one of the most difficult and dangerous effects to attempt.
The hazard is so great that success may come but once in many
efforts. [2]

[2] See Chapter XIV, section II, topic 3.

Since comedy should be the new writer's aim, the following discussion,
while conceived with the broad view to illustrate the writing of
the playlet in general, brings into particular prominence the
writing of comedy.


When should you begin to write your playlet?  Assuming that you
already have a germ idea, the next step is to express your theme
in a single short sentence, and consider it as your playlet problem,
which must be proved logically, clearly and conclusively.  To do
this you must dovetail your incidents into a playlet plot; but how
far should you think out your playlet before beginning to set it
down on paper?

1. The Use of the Scenario

Nearly all the playlet writers with whom I have talked during a
period of more than five years have with surprising unanimity
declared in favor of beginning with the scenario, the summary of
the dramatic action.  But they disagree as to the completeness
with which the scenario should be drawn up.

Some merely sketch the main outlines of the plot and leave to the
moment of actual writing the details that often make it a success.
Others write out a long scenario, boiling it down to the essence
for the stage version.  Still other playlet writers carry their
scenarios just far enough to make sure that they will not have to
think about the details of plot when they set about writing the
dialogue--they see that there is an effective reason for the
entrance of each character and a clear motive for exit.  But,
however they disagree as to the completeness the scenario should
show, they all agree that the plot should be firmly fixed in its
general outlines before pen is set to paper.

It may be of suggestive value as well as of interest to point out
that in olden times the scenario was the only part of the play the
playwright wrote.  The groundwork of the plot was fixed beyond
change, and then the actors were permitted to do as they pleased
within these limits.  Even today, in the construction of hurried
entertainments for club nights at the various actors' club-houses,
often only the scenario or general framework of the act is typewritten
and handed to the performers who are to take part.  All that this
tells them is that on some given cue they are to enter and work
opposite so-and-so, and are, in turn, to give an agreed-upon cue
to bring on such-and-such a performer.  In a word, the invaluable
part of any dramatic entertainment is the scenario.

One valuable aid to the making of a clear and effective scenario
is the use of a diagram of the set in which the act is to be played.
Reference to Chapter IV, "The Scenery Commonly Found in Vaudeville
Theatres," will place in your hands a wide--if not an exhaustive--
range of variations of the commonly found box sets.  Within the walls
of any one of these diagrams you may carefully mark the exact
location of chairs, tables and any other properties your action
demands.  Then, knowing the precise room in which your characters
must work, you can plot the details of their movements exactly
from entrances to exits and give to your playlet action a clearness
and preciseness it might not otherwise possess.

2. The Scenario not an Unalterable Outline

But there is one point I feel the necessity of emphasizing, whose
application each one must determine for himself:  While you ought
to consider your scenario as directive and as laying down the line
that should be followed, you ought not to permit your playlet to
become irrevocably fixed merely because you have written your
scenario.  It is often the sign of a dramatic mind, and of a healthy
problem too, that the playlet changes and develops as the theme
is carefully considered.  To produce the very best work, a scenario
must be thought of as clay to be molded, rather than as iron that
must be scrapped and melted again to be recast.


This section is so arranged that the elements of writing discussed
in the preceding chapters are summarized, and the vital elements
which could not be considered before are all given their proper
places in a step-by-step scheme of composition.  The whole forms
a condensed standard for review to refresh your memory before
writing, and by which to test your playlet after it is written.

Every playlet must have a beginning, a middle and an ending.  The
beginning must state the premises of the problem clearly and simply;
the middle must develop the problem logically and solve the
entanglement in a "big" scene, and the ending must round out the
whole satisfyingly--with a surprise, if fitting.

1. Points the Beginning Must Emphasize

Because the total effect of a playlet is complete oneness, there
lie in the "big" scene and in the ending certain results of which
the beginning must be the beginning or immediate cause.  Such
causes are what you must show clearly.

(a) _The Causes before the Curtain Rose_.  If the causes lie far
back in events that occurred before the curtain rose, you must
have those events carefully and clearly stated.  But while you
convey this necessary exposition as dramatically as possible, be
sure to make the involved dramatic elements subservient to clearness.

(b) _The Causes that Occur after the Curtain Rises_.  If the causes
do not lie in the past, but occur after the curtain rises, you
must show them as clearly occurring right then and there.  They
must be as plain as dawn, or the rest of the playlet will be
shrouded in the darkness of perplexing doubts.

(c) _The Character Motive from which the Complication Rises_.  If
the causes lie in character, you must show the motive of the person
of the playlet from whose peculiar character the complication rises
like a spring from its source.  You must expose the point of
character plainly.

But in striving to make your premises clear do not make the mistake
of being prolix--or you will be tedious.  Define character sharply.
Tell in quick, searching dialogue the facts that must be told and
let your opening scenes on which the following events depend, come
with a snap and a perfectly adequate but nevertheless, have-done-with-it

2. Points that Must Be Brought out in the Middle

In every scene of your playlet you must prepare the minds of your
audience to accept gladly what follows--and to look forward to it
eagerly.  You must not only plainly show what the causes of every
action _are_, but you must also make the audience feel what they
_imply_.  Thus you will create the illusion which is the chief
charm of the theatre--a feeling of superiority to the mimic
characters which the gods must experience as they look down upon
us.  This is the inalienable right of an audience.

(a) _The Scenes that Make Suspense_.  But while foreshadowing
plainly, you must not forestall your effect.  One of the most
important elements of playlet writing is to let your audience guess
_what_ is going to happen--but keep them tensely interested in _how_
it is going to happen.  This is what creates the playlet's enthralling

It is so important to secure suspense in a playlet that an experienced
writer who feels that he has not created it out of the body of his
material, will go back to the beginning and insert some point that
will pique the curiosity of the audience, leaving it unexplained
until the end.  He keeps the audience guessing, but he satisfies
their curiosity finely in the finish--this is the obligation such
a suspense element carries with it.

(b) _The Points that Balance the Preparation with the Result_.
Nothing could be more disastrous than to promise with weighty
preparation some event stupendously big with meaning and then to
offer a weak little result.  And it would be nearly as unfortunate
to foreshadow a weak little fulfillment and then to present a
tremendous result.  Therefore, you must so order your events that
you balance the preparation with the result, to the shade of a
dramatic hair.

But take care to avoid a too obvious preparation.  If you disclose
too plainly what you are aiming at your end is defeated in advance,
because your audience is bound to lapse into a cynically smiling
does-this-fellow-take-us-for-babies? attitude.

The art of the dramatic is the art that conceals art.  The middle
of your playlet must conceal just enough to keep the stream of
suspense flowing eagerly toward the end, which is dimly seen to
be inevitably approaching.

(c) _The One Event that Makes the Climax Really Big_.  From the
first speech, through every speech, and in every action, your
playlet has moved toward this one event, and now you must bring
it out so prominently that everything else sinks into insignificance.
This event is:  _The change in the relations of the characters_.

This is the planned-for result of all that has gone before.  Bear
firmly in mind that you have built up a suspense which this change
must _crown_.  Keep foremost the fact that what you have hidden
before you must now disclose.  Lay your cards on the table face
up--all except one.  This last card takes the final trick, completing
the hand you have laid down, and everyone watches with breathless
interest while you play:

3. The Single Point of the Finish

If you can make this final event a surprise, all the better.  But
if you cannot change the whole result in one dramatic disclosure,
you must be content to lay down your last card, not as a point in
itself surprising, but nevertheless dramatically.

_The Finish must be Complete--and Completely Satisfy_.  You have
sprung your climax; you have disclosed what it is that changes the
relations of your characters; now you must show that those relations
_have_ been changed.  And at the same time you bring forward the
last strand of plot that is loose and weave it into the now complete
design.  You must account for everything here in the finish, and
do it with speed.


Now let us say that you have expanded the first draft of your
plastic scenario into a nearly perfect manuscript.  But as you
read it over, you are not content.  You feel that it lacks "punch."
What is "punch," and how are you going to add it when it is lacking?

Willard Mack says:  "'Punch' is the most abused word I know.  The
dramatic punch is continually confused with the theatrical trick.
Critics said the third act of 'Kick In' [1]--in which the detective
is overpowered in a hand-to-hand fight after a hypodermic has been
jabbed into his wrist--had a punch.  It didn't. What it really had
was a theatric trick.  But the human punch was in the second act,
when the little frightened girl of the slums comes to see her
wounded lover--who is really dead.  If the needle should suddenly
be lost in playing the third act the scene would be destroyed.
But the other moment would have its appeal regardless of theatrical

[1] Developed into a long play from the vaudeville act of the same

Punch comes only from a certain strong human appeal in the story.
Punch is the thing that makes the pulse beat a little quicker,
because the heart has been touched.  Punch is the precise moment
of the dramatic.  It is the second in which the revelation flashes
upon the audience.

While whatever punch you may be able to add must lie in the heart
of your material--which no one but yourself can know--there are
three or four ways by which you may go about finding a mislaid

If you have turned the logical order of writing about and let your
playlet drag you instead of your driving it, you may find help in
asking yourself whether you should keep your secret from the

1. Have You Kept Your Audience in Ignorance Too Long?

While it is possible to write a most enthralling novel of mystery
or a detective short-story which suddenly, at the very last moment,
may disclose the trick by which it has all been built up, such a
thing is not successfully possible in a playlet.  You must not
conceal the identity of anyone of your characters from the audience.
Conceal his identity from every other character and you may construct
a fine playlet, but don't conceal his motive from the audience.

The very nature of the drama--depending as it does on giving to
the spectator the pleasure of feeling omniscient--precludes the
possibility of "unheralded surprise."  For instance, if you have
a character whom the audience has never seen before and of whom
they know nothing suddenly spring up from behind a sofa where he
has overheard two other characters conspiring--the audience may
think he is a stage-hand.  How would they know he was connected
with the other characters in the playlet if you neglected to tell
them beforehand?  They could not know.  The sudden appearance of
the unknown man from behind the sofa would have much the effect
of a disturbance in the rear of the theatre, distracting attention
from the characters on the stage and the plot of the playlet.

If your plot calls for an eavesdropper behind a sofa--though I
hope you will never resort to so ancient a device--you must first
let the audience know who he is and why he wants to eavesdrop; and
second you must show him going behind that sofa.  The audience
must be given the god-like pleasure of watching the other two
characters approach the sofa and sit down on it, in ignorance that
there is an enemy behind it into whose hands they are delivering

This is only a simple instance, but it points out how far the
ramifications to which this problem of not keeping a secret from
the audience may extend.  Moreover, it should suggest that it is
possible that your playlet lacks the required punch--because you
have kept something secret that you ought to have disclosed.
Therefore, go through your playlet carefully and try to discover
just what you have not treated with dramatic frankness.

On the other hand, of course, if you decide you must keep a
secret--some big mystery of plot--you must be sure that it is worth
keeping.  If you build up a series of mysterious incidents, the
solution must be adequate to the suspense.  But, I have treated
this angle of secret-keeping in "preparation versus result," so I
shall now direct your attention to the other side of the problem
of dramatic frankness--which may be the cause of the lack of punch:

2. Have You been too Frank at the Beginning?

Go back through the early moments of your playlet and see if you
have not given the whole thing away at the very beginning.  If you
have, you have, as we saw, killed your suspense, which is the road
on which punch lies in wait.  The way to remedy this defect is to
condense the preparation and so express it in action and by dialogue
that you leave opportunity for a revealing flash.

In going over your manuscript you must strive to attain the correct
balance between the two.  The whole art lies in knowing just what
to disclose and it when to disclose it--and what not and when not
to disclose.

3. Have You Been Too "Talky"?

Remember that vaudeville has no time for "fine speeches."  Cut
even the lines you have put in for the purpose of disclosing
character, and--save in rare instances--depend chiefly on character
revelation through _action_.

4. Have You Lost Your Singleness of Effect by Mixing Playlet Genres?

One of the most common reasons why playlets lack the effect of
vital oneness is to be found in the fault of mixing the kinds:
for example, making the first half a comedy and the second half
a tragedy.  It is as if a song began with one air and suddenly
switched to a totally different melody.  If your playlet is a
comedy, make it a comedy throughout; it if is a deeply human story,
let it end as it began; [1] if you are writing a straight drama
or a melodrama, keep your playlet straight drama or melodrama all
the way through.  Go over your playlet with the eye of a relentless
critic and make sure that you have not mixed your genres, which
only in the rarest cases can be done effectively.

[1] See Chapter XIV, section II, topic 3.

5. Are You Sure Your Action Is All Vital?

Finally, if every other investigation has failed to develop the
needed punch, go over your playlet again to see if it is possible
that you have erred in the first principle of the art.  If you
have permitted even one tiny scene to creep in that does not hold
a vital meaning to the single point of your climax, you have lost
by so much the possibility of the punch.  Remember, here, that a
great playlet can be played without a single word being spoken and
still be vividly clear to everyone.  Realizing this, chop every
second of action that is not vital.

6. The Punch Secured.

But long before you have exhausted these suggestions you will have
developed your punch.  Your punch has risen out of your material--
if you possess the sense of the dramatic.  If the punch has not
developed--with a series of minor punches that all contribute to
the main design of the "heart wallop"--there is something wrong
with your material.

But even a realization of this ought not to discourage you, for
there are instances every day of well-known playwrights who have
chosen the wrong material.  We all have seen these plays.  You
must do as they do--cast your playlet aside and begin anew with
new material.  The man who keeps at it is the only one who wins--but
he must keep at it with the right stuff.


When you have trimmed your playlet by cutting off _all_ the trimmings,
your thoughts naturally turn to a title.  More than likely you
have selected your title long before you have written "curtain"--it
is possible a title sprang into your mind out of the germ idea.
But even then, you ought now to select the _proper_ title.

1. What is a Proper Title?

A proper title is one that both names a playlet and concisely
suggests more than it tells.  For instance, "The System" suggests
a problem vital to all big cities--because the word "system" was on
everybody's tongue at the time.  "The Lollard" piques curiosity--what
is a "lollard," you are inclined to want to know; it also carries
a suggestion of whimsicality.  "The Villain Still Pursued Her,"
tells as plainly as a whole paragraph could that the playlet is a
travesty, making fun of the old blood-and-thunder melodrama.  "In
and Out" is a short, snappy, curiosity-piquing name; it is a title
that hangs out a sign like a question mark.  "Kick In" is of the
same class, but with the added touch of slang.  "War Brides" is
another luring title, and one that attracts on frankly dramatic
and "problem" grounds.  "Youth" is a title that suggests much more
than it tells--it connotes almost anything.  "Blackmail" has the
punch of drama and suggests "atmosphere" as well.  But these are
enough to establish the fact that a good title is one which suggests
more than it tells.  A good title frankly advertises the wares
within, yet wakens eager curiosity to see what those wares are.

2. What is an Improper Title?

An improper title, first, is one that does not precisely fit a
playlet as a name; or second, that tells too much.  For instance,
"Sweets to the Sweet" is the title of a playlet whose only reason
for being so named is because the young man brings the girl a box
of candy--it does not name the playlet at all precisely, its
connotation is misleading.  Do not choose a title just because it
is pretty.  Make your title really express the personality of your
playlet.  But more important still, do not let your title tell too
much.  If "The Bomb" were called "The Trap," much of the effect
of the surprise would be discounted, and the unmasking of the
detective who confesses to throwing the bomb to trap the real
criminal would come as something expected.  In a word, be most
careful not to select a title that "gives it all away."

3. Other Title Considerations

A short title seems to be the playlet fashion today; but tomorrow
the two- or three-word title may grow to a four- or five-word name.
Yet it will never be amiss to make a title short.

This same law of good use points to a similar variation in the
context of even the short title--I mean that every little while
there develops a fad for certain words.  There may at any time
spring up a wide use of words like "girl," or "fun," or color
words, like "red " or "purple" or "blond."  But your close study
of the vaudeville of the moment will show you when these fad-words
may be used advantageously in a title.

You need never worry over-long about a title for your playlet if
you put the emphasis in your own mind upon the fact that your title
is an advertisement.


But when you have a playlet manuscript that is full of laughter
and vibrant with dramatic thrills, and even after you have sold
it to a manager who has produced it, your work as a playlet writer
is not done.  You still must cut and polish it until it is a
flawless gem that flashes from the stage.  As Edgar Allan Woolf
expressed it to me in one of our conversations:

"The work of the author of a one-act comedy is not over until,
after several weeks of playing, his playlet has been so reshaped
and altered by him that not a single dull spot remains.  Individual
lines must be condensed so that they are as short as they possibly
can be made.  The elimination of every unnecessary word or phrase
is essential.  Where a line that develops the plot can be altered
so that it will still serve its purpose, and also score a laugh
on its own account, it must be so changed.  Where lines cannot be
changed, bits of comedy business may perhaps be inserted to keep
the audience from lapsing into listlessness.  For it is a deplorable
fact that a vaudeville audience that is not laughing outright at
a comedy becomes listless.  Vaudeville managers never book a playlet
that makes an audience smile--for while the humor that brings a
smile may be more brilliant than the comedy that gets a laugh, it
must always be remembered that vaudeville audiences come to laugh
and not to smile.  Some of the biggest laughs in every one of my
many acts I put in after the acts had been playing some weeks.
And I attribute whatever success they have had later in the best
vaudeville theatres to the improvements I have made during their
'breaking in' periods."

To sum up:  While no two writers ever have written and never will
write a playlet in precisely the same way, the wise beginner chooses
for his first playlet a comedy theme.  Your germ idea you express
in a single short sentence which you consider as the problem of
your playlet, to be solved logically, clearly and conclusively.
Instinct for the dramatic leads you to lift out from life's flowing
stream of events the separate incidents you require and to dovetail
them into a plot which tells the story simply by means of characters
and dialogue skillfully blended into an indivisible whole, flashing
with revealing meaning and ending with complete satisfaction.

After you have thought out your playlet, you set down so much of
it as you feel is necessary in the form of a scenario.  But you
do not consider this scenario as unchangeable.  Rather you judge
the value of the idea by the freedom with which it grows in
effectiveness.  And while this process is going on, you carefully
select the basic points in the beginning of the story that must
be brought out prominently.

Then you develop the story by making the points that foreshadow
your "big" scene stand out so as to weave the enthralling power
of suspense.  You let your audience guess _what_ is going to happen,
but keep them tensely interested in _how_ it is going to happen.
And you prepare your audience by a carefully preserved balance
between the promise and the performance for the one big point of
the climax which changes the relations of the characters to each

After you have shown the change as happening, you punch home the
fact that it has happened, and withhold your completing card until
the finish.  In your finish you play the final card and account
for the last loose strand of the plot, with a speed that does not
detract from your effect of complete satisfaction.

In seeking to "punch up" your playlet, you go over every word,
every bit of characterization, every moment of action, and eliminate
single words, whole speeches, entire scenes, to cut down the playlet
to the meat, seeking for lost punches particularly in the faults
of keeping secrets that should be instantly disclosed, and in the
too frank disclosures of secrets that ought to be kept in the
beginning.  And out of this re-writing there rises into view the
"heart wallop" which first attracted you.

Finally, when your playlet is finished, you decide on a proper
title.  Remembering that a title is an advertisement, you choose
a short name that both _names_ and _lures_.  And then you prepare
the manuscript for its market--which is discussed in a later

But when you have written your playlet and have sold it to a manager
who has produced it, your work is not yet done.  You watch it in
rehearsal, and during the "breaking in" weeks you cut it here,
change it there, make a plot-line do double duty as a laugh-line
in this spot, take away a needless word from another--until your
playlet flashes a flawless gem from the stage.  The final effect
in the medium of expression for which you write it is UNITY.  Every
part--acting, dialogue, action--blends in a perfect whole.  Not
even one word may be taken away without disturbing the total effect
of its vital oneness.



If you were asked, "What is a one-act musical comedy?" you might
answer:  "Let's see, a one-act musical comedy is--is--. Well, all
I remember is a lot of pretty girls who changed their clothes every
few minutes, two lovers who sang about the moon, a funny couple
and a whole lot of music."

Hazy?  Not at all.  This is really a clear and reasonably correct
definition of the average one-act musical colnedy, for this type
of act is usually about fifty per cent. girl, twenty per cent.
costumes and scenery, twenty-five per cent. music, and usually,
but not always, five per cent. comedy.  A musical comedy, therefore,
is not music and comedy--it is girls and music.  That is why the
trade name of this, one of the most pleasing of vaudeville acts,
is--a girl-act."

It was the girl-act, perhaps more than any other one style of act,
that helped to build vaudeville up to its present high standing.
On nearly every bill of the years that are past there was a girl-act.
It is a form of entertainment that pleases young and old, and
coming in the middle or toward the end of a varied program, it
lends a touch of romance and melody without which many vaudeville
bills would seem incomplete.

A girl-act is a picture, too.  Moreover, it holds a touch of
bigness, due to the number of its people, their changing costumes,
and the length of time the act holds the stage.  With its tuneful
haste, its swiftly moving events, its rapid dialogue, its succession
of characters, and its ever-changing, colorful pictures, the one-act
musical comedy is not so much written as put together.

1. The Musical Elements

Technically known as a girl-act, and booked by managers who wish
a "flash"--a big effect--the one-act musical comedy naturally puts
its best foot foremost as soon as the curtain rises.  And, equally
of course, it builds up its effects into a concluding best-foot.

The best-foot of a musical comedy is the ensemble number, in which
all the characters--save the principals, sometimes--join in a
rousing song.  The ensemble _is_ musical comedy, and one-act musical
comedy is--let this exaggeration clinch the truth--the ensemble. [1]

[1] Of course, I am discussing the usual musical comedy--the flash
of a bill--in pointing out so forcefully the value of the ensemble.
There have been some fine one-act musical comedies in which the
ensemble was not used at all.  Indeed, the musical comedy in one
act without any ensemble offers most promising possibilities.

Between the opening and the closing ensembles there is usually one
other ensemble number, and sometimes two.  And between these three
or four ensembles there are usually one or two single numbers--solos
by a man or a woman--and a duet, or a trio, or a quartet.  These
form the musical element of the one-act musical comedy.

2. Scenery and Costumes--The Picture-Elements

While the one-act musical comedy may be played in one set of scenery
only, it very often happens that there are two or three different
scenes.  The act may open in One, as did Joe Hart's "If We Said
What We Thought," and then go into Full Stage; or it may open in
Full Stage, go into One for a little musical number, and then go
back into a different full-stage scene for its finish.  It may
even be divided into three big scenes--each played in a different
set--with two interesting numbers in One, if time permits, or the
act be planned to make its appeal by spectacular effects.

Very often, as in Lasky's "A Night on a Houseboat," a big set-piece
or a trick scene is used to give an effect of difference, although
the entire act is played without dropping a curtain.

To sum up the idea behind the use of musical comedy scenery:  it
is designed to present an effect of bigness--to make the audience
feel they are viewing a "production."

The same thought is behind the continual costume changes which are
an integral part of the one-act musical comedy effect.  For each
ensemble number the girls' costumes are changed.  If there are
three ensembles there are three costumes, and four changes if there
are four ensembles.  Needless to say, it sometimes keeps the girls
hustling every minute the act is in progress, changing from one
costume to another, and taking that one off to don a third or a

The result in spectacular effect is as though a scene were changed
every time an ensemble number is sung.  Furthermore, the lights
are so contrived as to add to this effect of difference, and the
combination of different colors playing over different costumes,
moving about in different sets, forms an ever-changing picture
delightfully pleasing and big.

Now, as the musical comedy depends for its appeal upon musical
volume, numbers of people, sometimes shifting scenery, a kaleidoscopic
effect of pretty girls in ever changing costumes and dancing about
to catchy music, it does not have to lean upon a fascinating plot
or brilliant dialogue, in order to succeed.  But of course, as we
shall see, a good story and funny dialogue make a good musical
comedy better.

3. The Element of Plot

If your memory and my recollection of numerous musical comedies
of both the one-act and the longer production of the legitimate
stage are to be trusted, a plot is something not vital to the
success of a musical comedy.  Indeed, it is actually true that
many a musical comedy has failed because the emphasis was placed
on plot rather than on a skeleton of a story which showed the
larger elements to the best advantage.  Therefore I present the
plot element of the average one-act musical comedy thus:

Whereas the opening and the finish of the playlet are two of its
most difficult parts to write, in the musical comedy the beginning
and the finish are ready-made to the writer's hand.  However anxious
he may be to introduce a novel twist of plot at the end, the writer
is debarred from doing so, because he must finish with an ensemble
number where the appeal is made by numbers of people, costumes,
pretty girls and music.  At the beginning, however, the writer may
be as unconventional as he pleases--providing he does not take too
long to bring on his first ensemble, and so disappoint his audience,
who are waiting for the music and the girls.  Therefore the writer
must be content to "tag on" his plot to an opening nearly always--
if not always--indicated, and to round his plot out into an almost
invariably specified ending.

Between the opening and the closing ensembles the writer has to
figure on at least one, and maybe more, ensembles, and a solo and
a duet, or a trio and a quartet, or other combinations of these
musical elements.  These demands restrict his plot still further.
He must indeed make his plot so slight that it will lead out from
and blend into the overshadowing stage effects.  Necessarily, his
plot must first serve the demands of scenery and musical numbers--
then and only then may his plot be whatever he can make it.

The one important rule for the making of a musical comedy plot is
this:  _The plot of a one-act musical comedy should be considered
as made up of story and comedy elements so spaced that the time
necessary for setting scenery and changing costumes is neither too
long nor too short_.

More than one dress rehearsal on the night before opening has been
wisely devoted to the precise rehearsing of musical numbers and
costume changes only.  The dialogue was never even hastily spoken.
The entire effort was directed to making the entrances and exits
of the chorus and principals on time.  "For," the producer cannily
reasons, "if they slip up on the dialogue they can fake it--but
the slightest wait on a musical number will seem like a mortal

If you recall any of Jesse L. Lasky's famous musical acts, "A Night
at the Country Club," "At the Waldorf," "The Love Waltz," "The
Song Shop" (these come readily to mind, but for the life of me I
cannot recall even one incident of any of their plots), you will
realize how important is the correct timing of musical numbers.
You will also understand how unimportant to a successful vaudeville
musical comedy is its plot.

4. Story Told by Situations, Not by Dialogue

As there is no time for studied character analysis and plot
exposition, and little time for dialogue, the story of a musical
comedy must be told by broad strokes.  When you read "A Persian
Garden," selected for full reproduction in the Appendix because
it is one of the best examples of a well-balanced musical comedy
plot ever seen in vaudeville, you will understand why so careful
a constructionist as Edgar Allan Woolf begins his act with the
following broad stroke:

The opening chorus has been sung, and instantly an old man's voice
is heard off stage.  Then all the chorus girls run up and say,
"Oh, here comes the old Sheik now."

Again, when Paul wishes to be alone with Rose, Mr. Woolf makes
Paul turn to Phil and say, "What did I tell you to do?"  Then Phil
seizes Mrs. Schuyler and runs her off the stage into the house.

Mr. Woolf's skill built this very broad stroke up into a comedy
exit good for a laugh, but you and I have seen other exits where
the comedy was lacking and the mechanics stood out even more boldly.

So we see that the same time-restriction which makes a musical
comedy plot a skeleton, also makes the exits and entrances and the
dialogue and every happening structurally a skeleton so loosely
jointed that it would rattle horribly--were it not for the beautiful
covering of the larger effects of costumes, scenery and music.
Therefore the overshadowing necessity for speed makes admissible
in the musical comedy broad strokes that would not be tolerated
anywhere else.

It is by willingly granting this necessary license that the audience
is permitted to enjoy many single musical numbers and delightful
ensembles within the time-limits vaudeville can afford for anyone
act.  So we see why it is--to return to the bald expository statement
with which this division begins--that the writer must consider his
story and his comedy scenes only as time-fillers to make the waits
between musical numbers pleasantly interesting and laughter-worthwhile.

5. The Comedy Element

Plainly recognizing the quickness with which one character must
be brought on the stage and taken off again, and thoroughly
appreciating that whatever is done between the musical numbers
must be speedily dismissed, let us now see what forms of comedy
are possible.

Obviously the comedy cannot depend upon delicate shades.  It must
be the sort of comedy that is physical rather than mental.
Slap-stick comedy would seem to be the surest to succeed.

But while this is true, there is no need to depend entirely on the
slap-stick brand of humor.  For instance, while we find in "A
Persian Garden" one whole comedy scene built on the killing of
mosquitoes on Phil's face--certainly the slap-stick brand, even
though a hand delivers the slap--we also have the comedy of character
in Mrs. Schuyler's speeches.

Comedy rising directly out of and dependent upon plot, however,
is not the sort of comedy that usually gives the best results,
because plot is nearly always subservient to the musical and picture
making elements.  But the comedy element of plot may be made to
run throughout and can be used with good effect, if it is the kind
that is easily dismissed and brought back.  This is why so many
musical comedies have made use of plots hinged on mistaken identity,
Kings and Princesses in masquerade, and wives and husbands anxiously
avoiding each other and forever meeting unexpectedly.

Still, plot-comedy may be depended upon for at least one big scene,
if the idea is big enough.  For instance, the internationally
successful "The Naked Truth" possessed a plot that was big enough
to carry the musical comedy on plot-interest alone, if that were
necessary.  Indeed, it might have been used as a good farce without
music.  The whole act hung on a magic statue in whose presence
nothing but the truth could be told, on pain of parting from one's
clothes.  And the comedy scenes that developed out of it carried
a series of twists and turns of real plot-interest that made the
musical numbers all the more delightful and the whole act a notable
success.  The musical element of this delightful vaudeville form
makes certain other humorous acts fit into the musical comedy
structure.  For instance, if the comedy character is left alone
on the stage, he can with perfect propriety deliver a short
monologue.  Or he may do anything else that will win laughter and

And the two-act, even more perfectly than the monologue, fits into
the musical comedy.  No matter what the two-act is, if it is short
and humorous, it may be used for one of the ornamental time-gap
stoppers.  A quarrel scene may be just what is needed to fill out
and advance the plot.  But more often, the flirtation two-act is
the form that best suits, for the nature of the musical comedy
seems best expressed by love and its romantic moments.  Indeed,
the flirtation two-act is often a little musical comedy in itself,
minus a background of girls.  As an example, take Louis Weslyn's
very successful two-act, "After the Shower." [1] You can easily
imagine all the other girls in the camping party appearing, to act
as the chorus.  Then suppply a talkative chaperon, and you have
only to add her comical husband to produce a fine musical comedy

[1] See the Appendix.

So we see once more that the one-act musical comedy is the result
of assembling, rather than of writing.  There is no need of adding
even one instruction paragraph here.

Before we take up the one or two hints on writing that would seem
to present themselves in helpful guise, you should read Edgar Allan
Woolf's "A Persian Garden."  Turn to the Appendix and this act
will show you clearly how the writer welds these different vaudeville
forms into one perfect whole.



Unless you have a definite order to write a one-act musical comedy,
it would seem, from the comparatively small part the writer has
in the final effect, that the novice had better not write the
musical comedy at all.  Although this would appear to be clear
from the discussion of the elements in the preceding chapter, I
want to make it even more emphatic by saying that more than once
I have written a musical comedy act for the "small time" in a few
hours--and have then spent weeks dovetailing it to fit the musical
numbers introduced and whipping the whole act into the aspect of
a "production."

But there is one time when even the amateur may write a musical
comedy--when he has a great idea.  But I do not mean the average
musical comedy idea--I mean such an idea as that which made "The
Naked Truth" so successful.  And in the hope that you may possess
such an idea, I offer a few hints that may prove helpful in casting
your idea into smooth musical comedy form.

As I have already discussed plot in the chapters devoted to the
playlet, and have taken up the structure of the monologue and the
two-act in the chapters on those forms, there is now no need for
considering "writing" at all save for a single hint.  Yet even
this one suggestion deals less with the formal "writing" element
than with the "feel" of the material.  It is stated rather humorously
by Thomas J. Gray, who has written many successful one-act musical
comedies, varying in style from "Gus Edwards' School Boys and
Girls" to "The Vaudeville Revue of 1915"--a musical travesty on
prevailing ideas--and the books of a few long musical successes,
from comedy scenes in "Watch your Step" to "Ned Wayburn's Town
Topics," that "Musical comedy, from a vaudeville standpoint, and
a 'Broadway' or two-dollar standpoint, are two different things.
A writer has to treat them in entirely different ways, as a doctor
would two different patients suffering from the same ailment.  In
vaudeville an author has to remember that nearly everyone in the
audience has some one particular favorite on the bill--you have
to write something funny enough to:  please the admirers of the
acrobat, the magician, the dancer, the dramatic artist, the rag-time
singer and the moving pictures.  But in 'Broadway' musical comedy
it is easier to please the audiences because they usually know
what the show is about before they buy their tickets, and they
know what to expect.  That's why you can tell 'vaudeville stuff'
in a 'Broadway' show--it's the lines the audience laugh at.

"To put it in a different way, let me say that while in two-dollar
musical comedy you can get by with 'smart lines' and snickers, in
vaudeville musical comedy you have to go deeper than the lip-laughter.
You must waken the laughter that lies deep down and rises in
appreciative roars.  It is in ability to create situations that
will produce this type of laughter that the one-act musical comedy
writer's success lies."

1. An Average One-Act Musical Comedy Recipe

While it is not absolutely necessary to open a musical comedy with
an ensemble number, many fine acts do so open.  And the ensemble
finish seems to be the rule.  Therefore let us assume that you
wish to form your musical comedy on this usual style.  As your act
should run anywhere from thirty to fifty minutes, and as your
opening number will consume scarcely two minutes, and your closing
ensemble perhaps three, you have--on a thirty-five minute basis--
thirty minutes in which to bring in your third ensemble, your other
musical numbers and your dialogue.

The third ensemble--probably a chorus number, with the tenor or
the ingenue, or both, working in front of the chorus--will consume
anywhere from five to seven minutes.  Then your solo will take
about three minutes.  And if you have a duet or a trio, count four
minutes more.  So you have about eighteen minutes for your plot
and comedy--including specialties.

While these time hints are obviously not exact, they are suggestive
of the fact that you should time everything which enters into your
act.  And having timed your musical elements by some such rough
standard as this--or, better still, by slowly reading your lyrics
as though you were singing--you should set down for your own
guidance a schedule that will look something like this:

    Opening ensemble............. 2 minutes

       Introducing Plot,
       First Comedy Scenes....... 4   "

    Solo......................... 3   "

       Comedy and Specialties.... 5   "

    Ensemble number.............. 5   "

       Specialties, Comedy.
       Plot climax--perhaps
       a "big" love scene,
       leading into.............. 7   "

    Duet......................... 4   "

       Plot Solution--the
       final arrangement
       of characters............. 2   "

    Closing ensemble............. 3   "
                                 35   "

Of course this imaginary schedule is not the only schedule that
can be used; also bear firmly in mind that you may make any
arrangement of your elements that you desire, within the musical
comedy form.  Let me repeat what I am never tired of saying, that
a rigid adherence to any existing form of vaudeville act is as
likely to be disastrous as a too wild desire to be original.  Be
as unconventional as you can be within the necessary conventional
limits.  This is the way to success.

You have your big idea, and you have the safe, conventional ensemble
opening, or a semi-ensemble novelty opening.  Also you have a solo
number for the tenor or the ingenue, with the chorus working behind
them.  Finally you have your ensemble ending.  Now, within these
boundaries, arrange your solo and duet--or dispense with them, as
you feel best fits your plot and your comedy.  Develop your story
by comedy situations--don't depend upon lines.  Place your big
scene in the last big dialogue space--the seven minutes of the
foregoing schedule--and then bring your act to an end with a great
big musical finish.

2. Timing the Costume Changes

Although the schedule given allows plenty of time for costume
changes, you must not consider your schedule as a ready-made
formula.  Read it and learn the lesson it points out--then cast
it aside.  Test every minute of your act by the test of time.  Be
especially careful to give your chorus and your principal characters
time to make costume changes.

In gauging the minutes these changes will take, time yourself in
making actual changes of clothing.  Remember that you must allow
one minute to get to the dressing room and return to the stage.
But do not make the mistake of supposing that the first test you
make in changing your own clothes will be the actual time it will
take experienced dressers to change.  You yourself can cut down
your time record by practice--and your clothes are not equipped
with time-saving fasteners.  Furthermore, it often happens that
the most complicated dress is worn in the first scene and a very
quick change is prepared for by under-dressing--that is, wearing
some of the garments of the next change under the pretentious
over-garments of the preceding scene.  These are merely stripped
off and the person is ready dressed to go back on the stage in
half a minute.

But precise exactness in costume changes need not worry you very
much.  If you have been reasonably exact, the producer--upon whom
the costume changes and the costumes themselves depend--will add
a minute of dialogue here or take away a minute there, to make the
act run as it should.

3. The Production Song

Certain songs lend themselves more readily to effective staging,
and these are called "production songs."  For instance:  "Alexander's
Ragtime Band" could be--and often was--put on with a real band.
The principal character could sing the first verse and the chorus
alone.  Then the chorus girls could come out in regimentals, each
one "playing" some instrument--the music faked by the orchestra
or produced by "zobos"--and when they were all on the stage, the
chorus could be played again with rousing effect.  During the
second verse, sung as a solo, the girls could act out the lines.
Then with the repetitioin of the chorus, they could produce funny
characteristic effects on the instruments.  And then they could
all exit--waiting for the audience to bring them back for the
novelties the audience would expect to be introduced in an encore.

This is often the way a "popular song" is "plugged" in cabarets,
musical comedies, burlesque, and in vaudeville.  It is made so
attractive that it is repeated again and again--and so drummed
into the ears of the audience that they go out whistling it.  Ned
Wayburn demonstrated this in his vaudeville act "Staging an Act."
He took a commonplace melody and built it up into a production--then
the audience liked it.  George Cohan did precisely the same thing
in his "Hello, Broadway"; taking a silly lyric and a melody, he
told the audience he was going to make 'em like it; and he did--by
"producing it."

But not every "popular song" lends itself to production treatment.
For instance, how would you go about producing "When it Strikes
Home"?  How would you stage "When I Lost You"?  Or--to show you
that serious songs are not the only ones that may not be producible--
how would you put on "Oh, How that German Could Love"?  Of course you
could bring the chorus on in couples and have them sing such a
sentimental song to each other--but that would not, in the fullest
sense, be producing it.

Just as not every "popular song" can be produced, so not every
production song can be made popular.  You have never whistled that
song produced in "Staging an Act," nor have you ever whistled
Cohan's song from "Hello, Broadway."  If they ever had any names
I have forgotten them, but the audience liked them immensely at
the time.

As many production songs are good only for stage purposes, and
therefore are not a source of much financial profit to their
writers, there is no need for me to describe their special differences
and the way to go about writing them.  Furthermore, their elements
are precisely the same as those of any other song--with the exception
that each chorus is fitted with different catch lines in the place
of the regular punch lines, and there may be any number of different
verses. [1] Now having your "big" idea, and having built it up
with your musical elements carefully spaced to allow for costume
changes, perhaps having made your comedy rise out of the monologue
and the two-act to good plot advantage, and having developed your
story to its climax in the last part of your act, you assemble all
your people, join the loose plot ends and bring your musical comedy
to a close with a rousing ensemble finish.

[1] See Chapter XXII.


The word "tab" is vaudeville's way of saying "tabloid," or condensed
version.  While vaudeville is in itself a series of tabloid
entertainments, "tab" is used to identify the form of a musical
comedy act which may run longer than the average one-act musical
comedy.  Although a tabloid is almost invariably in one act, it
is hardly ever in only one scene.  There are usually several
different sets used, and the uninterrupted forty-five minutes, or
even more than an hour, are designed to give a greater effect of
bigness to the production.

But the greatest difference between the one-act musical comedy and
the burlesque tab does not lie in playing-time, nor bigness of
effect.  While a one-act musical comedy is usually intended to be
made up of carefully joined and new humorous situations, the
burlesque tab--you will recall the definition of burlesque--depends
upon older and more crude humor.

James Madison, whose "My Old Kentucky Home" [1] has been chosen
as showing clearly the elements peculiar to the burlesque tab,
describes the difference in this way:

"Burlesque does not depend for success upon smoothly joined plot,
musical numbers or pictorial effects.  Neither does it depend upon
lines.  Making its appeal particularly to those who like their
humor of the elemental kind, the burlesque tab often uses slap-stick
comedy methods.  Frankly acknowledging this, vaudeville burlesque
nevertheless makes a clean appeal.  It does not countenance either
word or gesture that could offend.  Since its purpose is to raise
uproarious laughter, it does not take time to smooth the changes
from one comedy bit to the next, but one bit follows another
swiftly, with the frankly avowed purpose to amuse, and to amuse
for the moment only.  Finally, the burlesque tab comes to an end
swiftly:  it has made use of a plot merely for the purpose of
stringing on comedy bits, and having come toward the close, it
boldly states that fact, as it were, by a swift rearrangement of
characters--and then ends."

[1] See the Appendix

While the burlesque tab nearly always opens with an ensemble number,
and almost invariably ends with an ensemble, there may be more
solos, duets, trios, quartets and ensembles than are used by the
musical comedy--if the act is designed to run for a longer time.
But as its appeal is made by humor rather than by musical or
pictorial effect, the burlesque tab places the emphasis on the
humor.  It does this by giving more time to comedy and by making
its comedy more elemental, more uproarious.

In a burlesque tab, the comedy bits are never barred by age--providing
they are sure-fire--and therefore they are sometimes reminiscent.
[2] The effort to give them freshness and newness is to relate the
happenings to different characters, and to introduce the bits in
novel ways.

[2] Mr. Madison informed me that the "statuary bit" in "My Old
Kentucky Home" is one of the oldest "bits" in the show business.
It is even older than Weber and Field's first use of it a generation

Therefore, it would seem obvious that the writing of the burlesque
tab is not "writing" at all.  It is stage managing.  And as the
comedy bits are in many cases parts of the history of the
stage--written down in the memories of actor and producer--the
novice had better not devote his thoughts to writing burlesque.
However, if he can produce bits of new business that will be
sure-fire, he may find the burlesque tab for him the most profitable
of all opportunities the vaudeville stage has to offer.  That,
however, is a rare condition for the beginner.



The easiest thing in the world is to write a song; the most
difficult, to write a song that will be popular.  I do not mean a
"popular" song, but a song everybody will whistle--for few songs
written for the populace really become songs of the people.  The
difference between poverty and opulence in the business of
song-writing is--whistling.

What is the difference, then, between the man who can "write songs"
and the one who can write songs everybody will whistle?  Wherein
lies the magic?  Here is the difference, unexplained it is true,
but at least clearly stated:

There are hundreds of men and women all over the land who can rhyme
with facility.  Anyone of them can take almost any idea you suggest
off hand, and on the instant sing you a song that plays up that
idea.  These persons are the modern incarnations of the old time
minstrels who wandered over the land and sang extemporaneous ditties
in praise of their host for their dinners.  But, remarkable as the
gift is, many of these modern minstrels cannot for the life of
them put into their songs that something which makes their hearers
whistle it long after they leave.  The whistle maker is the one
who can rhyme with perhaps no more ease than these others, but
into his song he is able to instil the magic--sometimes.

But what is this magic that makes of song-writing a mystery that
even the genius cannot unerringly solve each time he tries?  Not
for one moment would I have you believe that I can solve the mystery
for you.  If I could, I should not be writing this chapter--I
should be writing a song that could not fail of the greatest sale
in history.  Still, with the kind assistance of the gentlemen in
the profession--as the prestidigitator used to say in the old town
hall when he began his entertainment--I may be able to lift the
outer veils of the unknown, and you may be able I to face the
problem with clearer-seeing eyes.

I called for help first from Irving Berlin, without doubt the most
successful popular song writer this country has ever known; then
the assistance of phenomenally successful writers of such diverse
genius as Charles K. Harris, L. Wolfe Gilbert, Ballard MacDonald,
Joe McCarthy, Stanley Murphy, and Anatol Friedland, was asked and
freely given.  It is from their observations, as well as from my
own, that the following elements of the art of whistle-making have
been gathered.

Although we are interested only in the lyrics of the popular song,
we must first consider the music, for the lyric writer is very
often required to write words to music that has already been
written.  Therefore he must know the musical elements of his

I. Music and Words are Inseparable

Think of any popular song-hit, and while you are recollecting just
"how it goes," stand back from yourself  and watch your mental
processes.  The words of the title first pop into your mind, do
they not?  Then do not you find yourself whistling that part of
the music fitted to those words?  Conversely, if the music comes
into your mind first, the words seem to sing themselves.  Now see
if the bars of music you remember and whistle first are not the
notes fitted to the title.

If these observations are correct, we have not only proof of the
inseparable quality of the words and the music of a popular song,
but also evidence to which you can personally testify regarding
the foundations of lyric-writing.

But first let us hear what Berlin has to say about the inseparable
quality of words and music:  "The song writer who writes both words
and music, has the advantage over the lyric writer who must fit
his words to somebody else's music and the composer who must make
his music fit someone else's words.  Latitude--the mother of
novelty--is denied them, and in consequence both lyrics and melody
suffer.  Since I write both words and music, I can compose them
together and make them fit.  I sacrifice one for the other.  If I
have a melody I want to use, I plug away at the lyrics until I
make them fit the best parts of my music, and vice versa.  "For
instance:  'In My Harem' first came to me from the humorous possibility
that the Greeks, who at that time were fighting with the Turks,
might be the cause of a lot of harems running loose in Turkey.  I
tried to fit that phrase to a melody, but I couldn't.  At last I
got a melody; something that sounded catchy; a simple 'dum-te-de-dum.'
I had it,

                      In my harem,
                      In my harem.

"With 'Ragtime Violin' I had the phrase and no music.  I got a few
bars to fit, then the melody made a six-syllable and then a
five-syllable passage necessary.  I had it:

                 Fiddle up!  Fiddle up!
                     On your violin.

"The lyric of a song must sing the music and the music sing the

Charles K. Harris, who wrote the great popular success, "After the
Ball," so far back in the early days of the popular song that some
consider this song the foundation of the present business, has
followed it up with innumerable successes.  Mr. Harris has this
to, say on the same point:

"I believe it is impossible to collaborate with anyone in writing
a popular song.  I don't believe one man can write the words and
another the music.  A man can't put his heart in another's lyrics
or music.  To set a musical note for each word of a song is not
all--the note must fit the word."  But, while Mr. Harris's words
should be considered as the expression of an authority, there is
also considerable evidence that points the other way.  Just to
mention a few of the many partnerships which have resulted in
numerous successes, there are Williams and Van Alstyne, who followed
"Under the Shade of the Old Apple Tree" with a series of hits;
Ballard MacDonald and Harry Carroll, who made "On the Trail of the
Lonesome Pine" merely the first of a remarkably successful
brotherhood; Harry Von Tilzer with his ever varying collaborators,
and L. Wolfe Gilbert, who wrote "Robert E. Lee," "Hitchy Koo,"
and other hits, with Louis Muir, and then collaborated with Anatol
Friedland and others in producing still other successes.  These
few examples out of many which might be quoted, show that two
persons can collaborate in writing song-hits, but, in the main,
as Mr. Berlin and Mr. Harris say, there are decided advantages
when words and music can be done together by one writer.

What is absolutely essential to the writing of songs which will
make the nation whistle, may be stated in this principle:

_The words and music of a song must fit each other so perfectly
that the thought of one is inseparable from the other_.

And now before we turn to the essential elements of the words, to
which I shall devote the next chapter, permit me to name a few of
the elements of popular music that may be helpful to many modern
minstrels to know.  In fact, these are all the suggestions on the
writing of popular music that I have been able to glean from many
years of curious inquiry.  I believe they represent practically,
if not quite, all the hints that can be given on this subject. [1]

[1] Because of the obvious impossibility of adequately discussing
syncopation and kindred purely technical elements, ragtime has not
been particularly pointed out.  The elements here given are those
that apply to ragtime as well as to nearly every other sort of
popular song.

2. One Octave is the Popular Song Range

The popular song is introduced to the public by vaudeville performers,
cabaret singers, and demonstrators, whose voices have not a wide
range.  Even some of the most successful vaudeville stars have not
extraordinary voices.  Usually the vaudeville performer cannot
compass a range of much more than an octave.  The cabaret singer
who has command of more than seven notes is rare, and the demonstrator
in the department store and the five-and ten-cent store usually
has a voice little better than the person who purchases.  Therefore
the composer of a song is restricted to the range of one octave.
Sometimes, it is true, a song is written in "one-one," or even
"one-two" (one or two notes more than an octave), but even such
"rangey" songs make use of these notes only in the verses and
confine the chorus to a single octave.  But in the end, the necessity
for the composer's writing his song within one octave to make an
effective offering for his introducing singers, works out to his
advantage.  The average voice of an octave range is that possessed
by those who buy popular songs to sing at home.

Now here is a helpful hint and another bit of evidence from the
music angle, to emphasize the necessity for the perfect fitting
of words and music.  Let me state it as Berlin did, in an article
written for the Green Book Magazine:

3. Melodies Should Go Up on Open Vowels

"Melodies should go up on open vowels in the lyrics--A, I or O. E
is half open and U is closed.  Going up on a closed vowel makes
enunciation difficult."

Experience is the only thing warranted to convince beyond doubt,
so test this rule on your own piano.  Then take down the most
popular songs you have in your collection and measure them by it.

4. Put "Punch" in Music Wherever Possible

As we shall see later, another definition of the popular song-hit
might be, "A song with a punch in the lyrics and a punch in the
music."  Berlin expressed the application to the problem of melody
by the following:

"In the 'International Rag,' for example, I got my punch by means
of my melody.  I used the triplet, the freak, from out of my bag
of tricks:

                   Raggedy melody,
                   Full of originality.

5. Punch is Sometimes Secured by Trick of Repetition

Anatol Friedland, who composed the music of "My Persian Rose," and
L. Wolfe Gilbert's "My Little Dream Girl," in discussing this
question, said:

"Ten notes may be the secret of a popular song success.  If I can
make my listeners remember ten notes of a song that's all I ask.
Whenever they hear these ten notes played they'll say, 'That's. . .,'
and straightway they'll begin to whistle it.  This is the
music punch, and it depends on merit alone.  Now here's one angle
of the musical punch trick:

"To make a punch more punchy still, we repeat it at least once,
and sometimes oftener, in a song.  You may start your chorus with
it, repeat it in the middle, or repeat it at the end.  Rarely is
it repeated in the verse.  High-brow composers call it the theme.
For the popular song composer, it's the punch.  Clever repetition
that makes the strain return with delightful satisfaction, is one
of the tricks of the trade--as well as of the art of popular music."

6. A Musical Theme Might be Practically the Entire Song

If what Friedland says is so, and you may turn to your well-thumbed
pile of music for confirmation, the theme or the punch of popular
music may prove the entire song.  I mean, that in its final sales
analysis, the magic bars are what count.  To carry this logical
examination still further, it is possible for a popular song to
be little more than theme.  As a musical theme is the underlying
melody out of which the variations are formed, it is possible to
repeat the theme so often that the entire song is little more than
clever repetitions.

One of the most common methods is to underlay a melody with what
E. M. Wickes, [1] one of the keenest popular song critics of today,
calls the "internal vamp."  This is the keeping of a melody so
closely within its possible octave that the variations play around
a very few notes.  Try on your piano this combination--D, E flat,
and E natural, or F natural, with varying tempos, and you will
recognize many beginnings of different famous songs they represent.
Either the verse of these songs starts off with this combination,
or the chorus takes these notes for its beginning.  "Sweet Adeline"
and "On the Banks of the Wabash" are but two of the many famous
songs built on this foundation.  Of course, there are other
combinations.  These few combinations taken together might be
considered as the popular idea of "easy music."

[1] Mr. Wickes has been contributing to The Writer's Monthly a
series of valuable papers under the general caption, "Helps for
Song Writers."

And now it is through the consideration of the importance of the
variations of the theme that we may come to an understanding of
what, for the want of a better phrase, I shall call unexpected

7. Punches not Suggested by the Theme

The impossibility of adequately pointing out by words the specific
examples of what I mean in certain songs makes it necessary for
me to direct you back to your own piano.  Run over a group of your
favorites and see how many musical punches you can find that are
not due directly to the theme.  Pick out the catchy variations in
a dozen songs--you may chance on one or two where the biggest punch
is not in the theme.  Of course you may trace it all back to the
theme, but nevertheless it still stands out a distinct punch in
the variation.  If you can add this punch to your theme-punch,
your song success is assured.

8. Use of Themes or Punches of Other Songs

When Sol P. Levy, the composer of "Memories," the "Dolly Dip
Dances," and a score of better-class melodies, shared my office,
one of our sources of amusement was seeking the original themes
from which the popular songs were made.  As Mr. Levy was arranging
songs for nearly all the big publishers, we had plenty of material
with which to play our favorite indoor sport.  It was a rare song,
indeed, whose musical parent we could not ferret out.  Nearly all
the successful popular songs frankly owned themes that were favorites
of other days--some were favorites long "before the war."

Berlin's use of "Way down upon the Swanee River"--"played in
ragtime"--for a musical punch in "Alexander's Ragtime Band," was
not the first free use of a theme of an old favorite for a punch,
but it was one of the first honestly frank uses.  The way he took
Mendelssohn's "Spring Song" and worked it into as daring a "rag"
as he could achieve, is perhaps the most delightfully impudent,
"here-see-what-I-can-do," spontaneously and honestly successful
"lift" ever perpetrated.  Berlin has "ragged" some of the most
perfect themes of grand opera with wonderful success, but not
always so openly.  And other composers have done the same thing.

The usual method is to take some theme that is filled with memories
and make it over into a theme that is just enough like the familiar
theme to be haunting.  This is the one secret or trick of the
popular song trade that has been productive of more money than
perhaps any other.

This lifting of themes is not plagiarism in the strict sense in
which a solemn court of art-independence would judge it.  Of course
it is well within that federal law which makes the copyrightable
part of any piece of music as wide open as a barn door, for you
know you can with "legal honesty" steal the heart of any song, if
you are "clever" enough, and want it.  The average popular song
writer who makes free use of another composer's melody, doubtless
would defend his act with the argument that he is not writing
"serious music," only melodies for the passing hour and therefore
that he ought to be permitted the artistic license of weaving into
his songs themes that are a part of the melodic life of the day.
[1] But, although some song writers contend for the right of free
use, they are usually the first to cry "stop thief" when another
composer does the same thing to them.  However, dismissing the
ethics of this matter, right here there lies a warning, not of art
or of law, but for your own success.

[1] An interesting article discussing the harm such tactics have
done the popular song business is to be found over the signature
of Will Rossiter in the New York Star for March 1, 1913.

Never lift a theme of another popular song.  Never use a lifted
theme of any song--unless you can improve on it.  And even then
never try to hide a theme in your melody as your own--follow Mr.
Berlin's method, if you can, and weave it frankly into your music.

Now, to sum up all that has been said on the music of the popular
song:  While it is an advantage for one man to write both the words
and music of a song, it is not absolutely essential; what is
essential is that the words and music fit each other so perfectly
that the thought of one is inseparable from the other.  One octave
is the range in which popular music should be written.  Melodies
should go up on open vowels in the lyrics.  A "punch" should be
put in the music wherever possible.  Punch is sometimes secured
by the trick of repetition in the chorus, as well as at the beginning
and end.  The theme may be and usually is the punch, but in the
variations there may be punches not suggested by the theme.  Themes,
semi-classical, or even operatic, or punches of old favorites may
be used--but not those of other popular songs--and then it is best
to use them frankly.

To state all this in one concise sentence permit me to hazard the

The music-magic of the popular song lies in a catchy theme stated
at, or close to, the very beginning, led into clever variations
that round back at least once and maybe twice into the original
theme, and finishing with the theme--which was a punch of intrinsic
merit, made stronger by a repetition that makes it positively



One question about song-writing is often asked but will never be
settled:  Which is more important, the music or the words?  Among
the publishers with whom I have discussed this question is Louis
Bernstein, of Shapiro, Bernstein & Co.  He summed up what all the
other publishers and song-writers I have known have said:

"A great melody may carry a poor lyric to success, and a great
lyric may carry a poor melody; but for a song to become widely
popular you must have both a great melody and a great lyric."

This is but another way of stating the fact noted in the preceding
chapter, that the words and music of a popular song-hit are
indivisible.  And yet Mr. Bernstein gives an authoritative reply
to the question with which this chapter opens.

Charles K. Harris put it in another way.  Referring particularly
to the ballad--and to the particular style of ballad that has made
him famous--he said:

"The way to the whistling lips is always through the heart.  Reach
the heart through your lyrics, and the lips will whistle the emotion
via the melody.  When the heart has not been touched by the lyric,
the lips will prove rebellious.  They may, indeed, whistle the
melody once, even twice, but it takes more than that to make a
song truly popular.  A catchy tune is not sufficient in itself.
It goes far, it is true, but it will not go the entire distance
of popularity, or even two-thirds of the distance, unless it is
accompanied by a catchy lyric."

You may read into this a leaning toward the lyric, if you like.
And it might be better if you did, for you would then realize that
your part of a popular song must be as "great" as you can make it.
But whatever may be your opinion, it does not alter the fact that
both Mr. Harris and Mr. Bernstein have pointed out--catchy words
are needed as much as catchy melody.  And permit me to say very
humbly that personally I have no leaning toward the musical one
of the twins:  my reason for discussing first the musical elements,
is that a lyric writer often is called on to fit words to music,
and because an understanding of the musical elements forms a fine
foundation for an easy, and therefore a quick, dissection of the
popular song--that is all.


In its original meaning, a lyric is verse designed to be sung to
the accompaniment of music.  Nowadays lyrical poetry is verse in
which the poet's personal emotions are strongly shown.  Popular
song-lyrics especially are not only designed to be sung, but are
verses that show a great deal of emotion--any kind of emotion.
But remember this point:  Whatever and how great soever may be the
emotion striving for expression, the words designed to convey it
do not become lyrics until the emotion is _shown_, and shown in a
sort of verse which we shall presently examine.  If you _convey_
emotion, your words may be worth thousands of dollars.  If you
fail to convey it, they will be only a sad joke.

As illustrations of this vital point, and to serve as examples for
the examination of the elements of the popular lyric, read the
words of the following famous songs; and while you are reading
them you will see vividly how music completes the lyric.  Stripped
of its music, a popular song-lyric is often about as attractive
as an ancient actress after she has taken off all the make-up that
in the setting of the stage made her look like a girl.  Words with
music become magically one, the moving expression of the emotion
of their day.


All the popular song lyrics quoted in this volume are copyright
property and are used by special permission of the publishers, in
each instance personally granted to the author of this book.  Many
of the lyrics have never before been printed without their music.
Warning:--Republication in any form by anyone whosoever will meet
with civil and criminal prosecution by the publishers under the
copyright law.


Words and Music by IRVING BERLIN

Oh, ma honey, oh, ma honey,
Better hurry and let's meander,
Ain't you goin', ain't you goin,'
To the leader man, ragged meter man,
Oh, ma honey, oh, ma honey,
Let me take you to Alexander's grand stand, brass
Ain't you comin' along?


Come on and hear, come on and hear
Alexander's ragtime band,
Come on and hear, come on and hear,
It's the best band in the land,
They can play a bugle call like you never heard
So natural that you want to go to war;
That's just the bestest band what am, honey lamb,
Come on along, come on along,
Let me take you by the hand,
Up to the man, up to the man, who's the leader of
  the band,
And if you care to hear the Swanee River played in
Come on and hear, come on and hear Alexander's
ragtime Band.

Oh, ma honey, oh, ma honey,
There's a fiddle with notes that screeches,
Like a chicken, like a chicken,
And the clarinet is a colored pet,
Come and listen, come and listen,
To a classical band what's peaches, come now,
Better hurry along.


    Words by                 Music by

On a mountain in Virginia stands a lonesome pine,
Just below is the cabin home, of a little girl of mine,
Her name is June,
And very very soon,
She'll belong to me,
For I know she's waiting there for me,
'Neath that old pine tree.


In the Blue Ridge mountains of Virginia,
On the trail of the lonesome pine,
In the pale moonshine our hearts entwine,
Where she carved her name and I carved mine,
Oh, June, like the mountains I'm blue,
Like the pine, I am lonesome for you,
In the Blue Ridge mountains of Virginia,
On the trail of the lonesome pine.
I can hear the tinkling water-fall far among the hills,
Bluebirds sing each so merrily, to his mate rapture
They seem to say, Your June is lonesome too.
Longing fills her eyes,
She is waiting for you patiently,
Where the pine tree sighs.

               RINGS DING DONG

   Lyric by                   Music by

Just a glance in your eyes, my bonnie Kate,
  Then over the sea go I,
While the sea-gulls circle around the ship,
  And the billowy waves roll high.
And over the sea and away, my Kate,
  Afar to the distant West;
But ever and ever a thought I'll have,
  For the lassie who loves me best.


When the bell in the lighthouse rings ding, dong,
When it clangs with its warning loud and long,
  Then a sailor will think of his sweetheart so true,
  And long for the day he'll come back to you;
And his love will be told in the bell's brave song
When the bell in the lighthouse rings ding, dong,
  Ding!  Dong!  Ding!  Dong!
When the bell in the lighthouse rings
  Ding!  Dong!  Ding!  Dong!

For a day is to come, my bonnie Kate,
  When joy in our hearts shall reign
And we'll laugh to think of the dangers past,
  When you rest in my arms again.
For back to your heart I will sail, my Kate,
  With love that is staunch and true;
In storm or in calm there's a star of hope,
  That's always to shine for you.


  Words by                   Music by

Everyone talk-a how they make-a da love
Call-a da sweet name like-a da dove,
It makes me sick when they start in to speak-a
Bout the moon way up above.
What's-a da use to have-a big-a da moon?
What's the use to call-a da dove
If he no like-a she, and she no like-a he,
The moon can't make them love.  But,


Sweet Italian love,
Nice Italian love,

You don't need the moon-a-light your love to tell her,
In da house or on da roof or in da cellar,
Dat's Italian love,
Sweet Italian love;
When you kiss-a your pet,
And it's-a like-a spagette,
Dat's Italian love.

Ev'ryone say they like da moon-a da light,
There's one-a man up in da moon all-a right,
But he no tell-a that some other nice feller
Was-a kiss your gal last night.
Maybe you give your gal da wedding-a ring,
Maybe you marry, like-a me
Maybe you love your wife, maybe for all your life,
But dat's only maybe.  But,


Sweet Italian love,
Nice Italian love,
When you squeeze your gal and she no say, "Please
When you got dat twenty kids what call you "Papa!"
Dat's Italian love,
Sweet Italian love;
When you kiss one-a time,
And it's-a feel like-a mine,
Dat's Italian love!


  Words by                   Music by

Once I got stuck on a sweet little German,
  And oh what a German was she,
The best what was walking, well, what's the use talking,
  Was just made to order for me.
So lovely and witty; more yet, she was pretty,
  You don't know until you have tried.
She had such a figure, it couldn't be bigger,
  And there was some one yet beside.


Oh how that German could love,
  With a feeling that came from the heart,
She called me her honey, her angel, her money,
  She pushed every word out so smart.
She spoke like a speaker, and oh what a speech,
  Like no other speaker could speak;
Ach my, what a German when she kissed her Herman,
  It stayed on my cheek for a week.

This girl I could squeeze, and it never would hurt,
  For that lady knew how to squeeze;
Her loving was killing, more yet, she was willing,
  You never would have to say please.
I just couldn't stop her, for dinner and supper,
  Some dishes and hugs was the food;
When she wasn't nice it was more better twice;
  When she's bad she was better than good.

Sometimes we'd love for a week at a time,
  And it only would seem like a day;
How well I remember, one night in December,
  I felt like the middle of May.
I'll bet all I'm worth, that when she came on earth,
  All the angels went out on parade;
No other one turned up, I think that they burned up
  The pattern from which she was made.


Words and Music by CHARLES K. HARRIS

You sit at home and calmly read your paper,
  Which tells of thousands fighting day by day,
Of homeless babes and girls who've lost their sweet-hearts,
  But to your mind it all seems far away.


When it strikes home, gone is the laughter,
  When it strikes home your heart's forlorn,
When it strikes home the tears fall faster,
  For those dear ones who've passed and gone.
And when you hear of brave boys dying,
  You may not care, they're not your own;
But just suppose you lost your loved ones,
  That is the time when it strikes home.
Out on the street, a newsboy crying "Extra,"
  Another ship has gone down, they say;
'Tis then you kiss your wife and little daughter,
  Give heartfelt thanks that they are safe today.

              MY LITTLE DREAM GIRL

    Words by                     Music by

The night time, the night time is calling me,
  It's dream-time, sweet dream-time, for you and me.
I'm longing, I'm longing to close my eyes,
  For there a sweet vision lies.


My little dream girl,
You pretty dream girl,
Sometimes I seem, girl, to own your heart.
Each night you haunt me,
By day you taunt me,
I want you, I want you, I need you so.
Don't let me waken,
Learn I'm mistaken,
Find my faith shaken, in you, sweetheart.
I'd sigh for,
I'd cry for, sweet dreams forever,
My little dream girl, good-night.

While shadows are creeping through darkest night,
  In dream-land, sweet dream-land, there's your love-light.
It's beaming, it's gleaming, and all for me,
  Your vision I long to see.


 Lyric by                       Music by
BRETT PAGE                    SOL. P. LEVY

Oh, those happy days, when first we met, before you
  said good-bye,
You soon forgot, I can't forget, no matter how I try,
Those happy hours like incense burn,
  They're all that's left for me,
You took my heart and in return
  You gave a memory.

Oh, memories, dear memories, of days I can't forget,
Dear memories, sweet memories, my eyes with tears grow wet,
  For like a rose that loves the sun,
  And left to die when day is done,
  I gave my all, the heart you won,
Sweetheart, I can't forget.

In all my dreams I dream of you, your arms enfold
  me, dear.
Your tender voice makes dreams seem true, your
  lips to mine are near.
But when I turn your kiss to take,
  You turn away from me,
In bitter sadness I awake,
  Awake to memory.

Oh, memories, dear memories, a face I can't forget,
Oh, memories, sweet memories, a voice that haunts me yet,
  For like a rose that loves the sun,
  And left to die when day is done,
  I gave my all, the heart you won,
Sweetheart, I can't forget.


  Words by                     Music by

On the old farm-house veranda
There sat Silas and Miranda,
  Thinking of the days gone by.
Said he "Dearie, don't be weary,
You were always bright and cheery,
  But a tear, dear, dims your eye."
Said she, "They're tears of gladness,
Silas, they're not tears of sadness,
  It is fifty years today since we were wed."
Then the old man's dim eyes brightened,
And his stern old heart it lightened,
  As he turned to her and said:


"Put on your old grey bonnet with the blue ribbons
on it,
While I hitch old Dobbin to the shay,
And through the fields of clover, we'll drive up to Dover,
  On our Golden Wedding Day."

It was in the same old bonnet,
With the same blue ribbon on it,
  In the old shay by his side,
That he drove her up to Dover,
Thro' the same old fields of clover,
  To become his happy bride.
The birds were sweetly singing
And the same old bells were ringing,
  As they passed the quaint old church where they were wed.
And that night when stars were gleaming,
The old couple lay a-dreaming,
  Dreaming of the words he said:

                 STILL BURNING

  Words by                  Music by

There was a fire burning in my heart,
  Burning for years and for years,
Your love and kisses gave that flame a start,
  I put it out with my tears;
You don't remember, I can't forget,
That old affection lives with me yet,
I keep on longing, to my regret,
I know I can't forget.


There's a little spark of love still burning,
  And yearning down in my heart for you,
There's a longing there for your returning,
  I want you, I do!
So come, come, to my heart again,
Come, come, set that love aflame,
For there's a little spark of love still burning,
And yearning for you.

I left you laughing when I said good-bye,
  Laughing, but nobody knew
How much relief I found when I could cry,
  I cried my heart out for you;
I've loved you more than you ever know,
Though years have passed I've wanted you so,
Bring back the old love, let new love grow,
Come back and whisper low:

               WHEN I LOST YOU
              By IRVING BERLIN

The roses each one, met with the sun,
  Sweetheart, when I met you.
The sunshine had fled, the roses were dead,
  Sweetheart, when I lost you.


  I lost the sunshine and roses,
I lost the heavens of blue,

  I lost the beautiful rainbow,
I lost the morning dew;
  I lost the angel who gave me
Summer the whole winter through,
  I lost the gladness that turned into sadness,
When I lost you.

The birds ceased their song, right turned to wrong,
  Sweetheart, when I lost you.
A day turned to years, the world seem'd in tears,
  Sweetheart, when I lost you.


Having read these eleven lyrics of varying emotions, note the
rather obvious fact that

1. Most Popular Songs Have Two Verses and One Chorus

I am not now speaking of the "production song," which may have a
dozen verses, and as many different catch-lines in the chorus to
stamp the one chorus as many different choruses, but only of the
popular song.  And furthermore, while two different choruses are
sometimes used in popular songs, the common practice is to use but
one chorus.

Now let us see the reason for a peculiarity that must have struck
you in reading these lyrics.

2. A Regular Metre is Rare

Metre is the arrangement of emphatic and unemphatic syllables in
verse on a measured plan, and is attained by the use of short
syllables of speech varied in different rotations by long syllables.
The metrical character of English poetry depends upon _the recurrence
of similarly accented syllables at short and more or less regular
intervals_.  Let us take this as the definition of what I mean by
metre in the few sentences in which I shall use the word.

Among recognized poets there has always been a rather strict
adherence to regularity of form.  Indeed, at times in the history
of literature, poetry, to be considered poetry, had to confine
itself to an absolutely rigid form.  In such periods it has been
as though the poet were presented with a box, whose depth and
breadth and height could not be altered, and were then ordered to
fill it full of beautiful thoughts expressed in beautiful words,
and to fill it exactly, or be punished by having his work considered

In ages past this rigidity of rule used to apply to the song-poet
also, although the minstrel has always been permitted more latitude
than other poets.  To-day, however, the poet of the popular song
may write in any measure his fancy dictates, and he may make his
metre as regular or as irregular as he wishes.  He may do anything
he wants, in a song.  Certainly, his language need not be either
exact or "literary."  Practically all that is demanded is that his
lyrics convey emotion.  The song-poet's license permits a world
of metrical and literary sinning.  I am not either apologizing for
or praising this condition--I am simply stating a proved fact.

3. Irregularity of Metre May Even Be a Virtue

Even without "scanning" the lyrics of the eleven songs you have
just read their irregularity of metre is plain.  It is so plain
that some of the irregularities rise up and smite your ears.  This
is why some popular songs seem so "impossible" without their music.
And the reason why they seem so pleasing with their music is that
the music takes the place of regularity with delightful satisfaction.
The very irregularity is what often gives the composer his opportunity
to contribute melodious punches, for the words of a popular song
are a series of catchy phrases.  In some cases irregularity in a
song may be the crowning virtue that spells success.

4. Regularity and Precision of Rhymes Are Not Necessary

There is no need to point to specific examples of the lack of
regularity in the recurrence of rhymes in most of the lyric specimens
here printed, or in other famous songs.  Nor is there any necessity
to instance the obvious lack of precise rhyming.  Neither of these
poetic qualities has ever been a virtue of the average popular

So far as the vital necessities of the popular song go, rhymes may
occur regularly or irregularly, with fine effect in either instance,
and the rhymes may be precise or not.  To rhyme _moon_ with _June_
is not unforgivable.  The success of a popular song depends on
entirely different bases.  Nevertheless, a finely turned bit of
rhyming harmony may strike the ear and stand out from its fellows
like a lovely symphony of fancy.  If you have given any attention
to this point of rhyming you can recall many instances of just
what I mean.

5. Strive for Regular and Precise Rhyming--If Fitting

If you can be regular and if you can be precise in the use of
rhymes in your song-poem, be regular and be precise.  Don't be
irregular and slovenly just because others have been and succeeded.
You will not succeed if you build your lyrics on the faults and
not on the virtues of others.  The song-poem that gleams like a
flawless gem will have a wider and more lasting success--all other
things being equal.

On the other hand, it is absolutely fatal to strive for regularity
and precision, and thereby lose expression.  If you have to choose,
choose irregularity and faulty rhymes.  This is an important bit
of advice, for a song-poem is not criticized for its regularity
and precision--it is either taken to heart and loved in spite of
its defects, or is forgotten as valueless.  As Winifred Black wrote
of her child, "I love her not for her virtues, but oh, for the
endearing little faults that make her what she is."

6. Hints On Lyric Measures

Reference to the lyrics already instanced will show you that they
are written in various measures.  And while it is foreign to my
purpose to discuss such purely technical points of poetry, [1]
permit me to direct your attention to a few points of song measure.

[1] The Art of Versification, by J. Berg Esenwein and Mary Eleanor
Roberts--one of the volumes in "The Writer's Library"--covers this
subject with a thoroughness it would be useless for me to attempt.
Therefore if you wish to take this subject up more in detail, I
refer you to this excellent book.

An individual poetic measure is attained by the use of metre in a
certain distinct way.  Because the normal combinations of the
emphatic and the unemphatic syllables of the English language are
but five, there are only five different poetic measures.  Let us
now see how an investigation of the bafflingly unexact measures
of our examples will yield--even though their irregular natures
will not permit of precise poetic instances--the few helpful hints
we require.

(a) _The first measure_--called by students of poetry the trochaic
measure--is founded on the use of a long or emphatic syllable
followed by a short or unemphatic syllable, It has a light, tripping
movement, therefore it is peculiarly fitted for the expression of
lively subjects.  One of our examples shows this rather clearly:

      '           '         '         '            '
    There's a  | little | spark of | love still | burning

Yet this is not a measure that is commonly found in the popular
song.  Other combinations seem to fit popular song needs quite as
well, if not better.

(b) _The second measure_--called the iambic measure--is the reverse
of the first.  That is, the short or unemphatic syllable precedes
the long or emphatic syllable.  "Alexander's Ragtime Band " uses
this measure at the beginning of the chorus.

             '         '          '         '
        Come on | and hear | come on | and hear

The first verse of Mr. Harris's song shows this measure even more

        '        '          '         '           '
   You sit | at home | and calm | ly read | your pa | per

This second measure, being less sustained in syllabic force, is
more easily kept up than the first measure.  It is therefore in
common use.

(c) _The third measure_--called the dactylic measure--is formed
of a combination of three syllables.  Its characteristic is an
emphatic syllable followed by two unemphatic syllables, as:

                   '             '
             The | old oak en | buck et

                   '             '
             The | iron bound | buck et

(d) _The fourth measure_--called by the frighteningly long name
of amphibrachic measure--is formed by a short or unemphatic syllable
followed by a long or emphatic syllable, which is followed again
by another short or unemphatic syllable.

            '                '              '
         I won der  | who's kiss ing | her now

(e) _The fifth measure_--called anapestic measure--is made up of
two short or unemphatic followed by a long or emphatic syllable.

            '             '                   '
  When the bell | in the light | house rings ding | dong

All these three-syllabic measures have a quicker movement than the
two-syllabic, owing to the greater number of unaccented, unemphatic
syllables.  They lend themselves to a rushing impetuosity of
expression which is the notable characteristic of the popular song.
But they are not always regular, even in high-grade poetry.
Therefore in the popular song we may look for, and certainly be
sure to find, all sorts of variations from the regular forms here
given.  Indeed, regularity, as has been clearly pointed out, is
the exception and not the rule; for few single lines, and, in a
still more marked degree, almost no songs, adhere to one measure
throughout.  Precisely as "apt alliteration's artful aid" may be
used or not used as may suit his purpose best, so the song-writer
makes regularity of measure subservient to the effect he desires.

However, I give these examples not with a view to the encouragement
of either regularity or irregularity.  My purpose is to show you
what combinations are possible, and to say, as the jockey whispers
in the eager ear of the racehorse he has held back so long, "Go
to it!"  Break every rule you want to--only break a record.  As Mr.
Berlin said, "I've broken every rule of versification and of music,
and the result has often been an original twist.  In popular songs
a comparative ignorance of music is an advantage.  Further, since
my vocabulary is somewhat limited through lack of education, it
follows that my lyrics are simple."

This is only Berlin's modest way of saying that not one in ten
successful song-writers know anything about the art of music, and
that very few are well enough educated to err on the side of
involved language and write other than simple lyrics.  He drew the
application as to himself alone, although his native genius makes
it less true of him than of many another less gifted.  The big
point of this observation lies in his emphasis on the fact that

7. Simple Lyrics and Simple Music Are Necessary

Perhaps in Mr. Berlin's statement rests the explanation of the
curious fact that nearly all the successful popular song-writers
are men who had few educational advantages in youth.  Most of them
are self-made men who owe their knowledge of English and the art
of writing to their own efforts.  Conversely, it may also explain
why many well-educated persons strive for success in song-writing
in vain.  They seem to find it difficult to acquire the chief lyric

Not only must the words of a popular song be "easy," but the _idea_
of the lyric must be simple.  You cannot express a complex idea
in the popular song-form, which is made up of phrases that sometimes
seem short and abrupt.  And, even if you could overcome this
technical difficulty, you would not find an audience that could
grasp your complex idea.  Remember that a majority of the purchasers
of popular songs buy them at the five- and ten-cent store.  To
sell songs to this audience, you must make your music easy to sing,
your words easy to say and your idea simple and plain.

8. Rhythm the Secret of Successful Songs

Being barred from other than the simplest of ways, by his own
limitations, his introducers and his market, the song-writer has
to depend upon a purely inherent quality in his song for appeal.
This appeal is complex in its way, being composed of the lure of
music, rhyme and emotion, but when analyzed all the parts are found
to have one element in common.  This element to which all parts
contribute is _rhythm_.

Now by rhythm I do not mean rhyme, nor metre, nor regularity.  It
has nothing necessarily to do with poetic measures nor with precision
of rhymes.  Let me attempt to convey what I mean by saying that
the rhythm of a song is, as Irving Berlin said, _the swing_.  To
the swing of a song everything in it contributes.  Perhaps it will
be clearer when I say that rhythm is compounded of the exactness
with which the words clothe the idea and with which the music
clothes the words, and the fineness with which both words and music
fit the emotion.  Rhythm is singleness of effect.  Yet rhythm is
more--it is singleness of effect plus a sort of hypnotic fascination.

And here we must rest as nearly content as we can, for the final
effect of any work of art does not admit of dissection.  I have
shown you some of the elements which contribute to making a popular
song popular, and in the next chapter we shall see still others
which are best discussed in the direct application of the writing,
but even the most careful exposition must halt at the heart of the
mystery of art.  The soul of a song defies analysis.

9. Where the "Punch" in the Lyric is Placed

Just as it is necessary for a popular song to have a punch somewhere
in its music, so it must come somewhere in its lyric.  Just what
a lyrical punch is may be seen in the chorus of "The Trail of the
Lonesome Pine."

       In the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia,
         On the trail of the lonesome pine,
       In the pale moonshine our hearts entwine,
         Where she carved her name and I carved mine,
       _Oh, June, like the mountains I'm blue,
         Like the pine, I am lonesome for you!_
       In the Blue Ridge mountains of Virginia,
         On the trail of the lonesome pine.

The underlined words are plainly the punch lines of this famous
song--the most attractive lines of the whole lyric.  Note where
they are placed--in the chorus, and next to the last lines.  Read
the chorus of "My Little Dream Girl" and you will find a similar
example of punch lines:

       _I'd sigh for,
       I'd cry for, sweet dreams forever,_
       My little dream girl, good night.

These, also, are placed next to the last lines of the chorus.

The punch lines of "When it Strikes Home," are found in

       And when you hear of brave boys dying,
         You may not care, they're not your own,
       _But just suppose you lost your loved one
         That is the time when it strikes home._

Here the punch is placed at the very end of the chorus.

Now test every song on your piano by this laboratory method.  You
will find that while there may be punch lines at the end of the
verses there are nearly always punch lines at the end of the chorus.
There must be a reason for this similarity in all these popular
songs.  And the reason is this:  The emphatic parts of a sentence
are the beginning and end.  The emphatic part of a paragraph is
the end.  If you have a number of paragraphs, the last must be the
most emphatic.  This is a common rule of composition founded on
the law of attention--we remember best what is said last.  The
same thing is true of songs.  And song-writers are compelled by
vaudeville performers to put a punch near the end of their choruses
because the performer must reap applause.  Thus commerce keeps the
song-writer true to the laws of good art.  Therefore remember:

_The most attractive lines of a popular song must be the last
lines, or next to the last lines, of the chorus._

This holds true whether the song is a "sob" ballad or a humorous
number.  And--strictly adhering to this rule--put a punch, if you
can, at the end of each verse.  But whether you put a punch at the
end of a verse or not, always put a punch close to the end of your

10.  Contrast an Element of the "Punch"

One of the easiest ways of securing the vitally necessary punch
lies in contrast.  Particularly is this true in humorous songs--it
is the quick twist that wins the laughter.  But in all songs
contrast may form a large part of the punch element.

The ways of securing a contrast are too many to permit of discussion
here, but I name a few:

You may get contrast by switching the application as Harris did in:

     You may not care, they're not your own,
     But just suppose you lost your loved one.

Or you may get contrast by changing your metre and using a contrasting
measure.  While you may do this in the middle of the chorus, it
is nearly always done _throughout_ the chorus.  I mean that the
measure of the chorus is usually different from the measure used
in the verse.

And of course when you change the measure of your lyric, the
movement of the music changes too.  It is in the resulting contrasting
melody that lies much of the charm of the popular song.

But, whatever means you use, be sure you have a contrast somewhere
in your lyric--a contrast either of subject matter, poetic measure
or musical sounds.

11.  Love the Greatest Single Element

If you will review all the great song successes of this year and
of all the years that are past, you will come to the conclusion
that without love there could be no popular song.  Of course there
have been songs that have not had the element of love concealed
anywhere in their lyrics, but they are the exceptions.

If your song is not founded on love, it is well to add this element,
for when you remember that the song's reason for being is emotion,
and that the most moving emotion in the world is love, it would
seem to be a grave mistake to write any song that did not offer
this easy bid for favor.  If you have not love in your lyrics make
haste to remedy the defect.

_The ballad_ is perhaps the one form by which the greatest number
of successful song-writers have climbed to fame.  It is also one
of the easiest types to write.  It should seem worth while, then,
for the newcomer to make a ballad one of his earliest bids for

12.  The Title

The title of a song is the advertising line, and therefore it must
be the most attractive in your song.  It is the whole song summed
up in one line.  It may be a single word or a half-dozen words.
It is not the punch line always.  It is often the very first line
of the chorus, but it is usually the last line.

There is little need for constructive thought in choosing a title.
All that is necessary is to select the best advertising line already
written.  You have only to take the most prominent line and write
it at the top of your lyrics.  Study the titles of the songs in
this chapter and you will see how easy it is to select your title
after you have written your song.

To sum up:  a great lyric is as necessary to the success of a popular
song as a great melody, but not more necessary.  A lyric is a verse
that conveys a great deal of emotion.  Most popular songs have two
verses and one chorus.  A regular metre is rare; irregularity may
even be a virtue.  The regular occurrence of rhymes and precise
rhymes are not necessary--but it is better to strive after regularity
and precision.  There are five lyrical measures common to all
poetry, but you may break every rule if you only break a record.
Rhythm--the swing--is the secret of successful songs.  Every lyric
must have one or more punch lines--which may occur at the end of
each verse, but must be found in the last lines of the chorus.
Contrast--either of idea, poetic measure or music--is one sure way
of securing the punch.  Love is the greatest single element that
makes for success in a song idea.  The one-word standard of
popular-song writing is _simplicity_--music easy to sing, words
easy to say, the idea simple and plain.



In the preceding chapters we saw how the elements of a popular
song are nearly identical in music and in lyrics, no matter how
the styles of songs may differ.  In this chapter we shall see how
these elements may be combined--irrespective of styles--into a
song that the boy on the street will whistle, and the hand organs
grind out until you nearly go mad with the repetition of its rhythm.

Not only because it will be interesting, but because such an insight
will help to a clear understanding of methods I shall ask you to
glance into a popular song publisher's professional department.


A very large room--an entire floor, usually--is divided into a
reception room, where vaudeville and cabaret performers are waiting
their turns to rehearse, and half-a-dozen little rooms, each
containing a piano.  As the walls of these rooms are never very
thick, and often are mere partitions running only two-thirds of
the way to the ceiling, the discord of conflicting songs is sometimes
appalling.  Every once in a while some performer comes to the
manager of the department and insists on being rehearsed by the
writers of the latest song-hit themselves.  And as often as not
the performer is informed that the writers are out.  In reality,
perhaps, they are working on a new song in a back room.  Being
especially privileged, let us go into that back room and watch
them at work.

All there is in the room is a piano and a few chairs.  One of the
chairs has a broad arm, or there may be a tiny table or a desk.
With this slender equipment two persons are working as though the
salvation of the world depended on their efforts.  One of them is
at the piano and the other is frowning over a piece of paper covered
with pencil marks.

Perhaps the composer had the original idea--a theme for a melody.
Perhaps the lyric writer had one line--an idea for a song.  It
does not matter at all which had the idea originally, both are
obsessed by it now.

"Play the chorus over, will you?" growls the writer.  Obediently
the composer pounds away, with the soft pedal on, and the writer
sings his words so that the composer can hear them.  There comes
a line that doesn't fit.  "No good!" they say together.

"Can't you change that bar?" inquires the writer.

"I'll try," says the composer.  "Gimme the sheet."

They prop it up on the piano and sing it together.

"Shut up!" says the composer.  And the writer keeps still until
the other has pounded the offending bar to fit.

Or perhaps the writer gets a new line that fits the music.  "How's
this?" he cries with the intonation Columbus must have used when
he discovered the new world.

"Punk!" comments the composer.  "You can't rhyme 'man' with 'grand'
and get away with it these days."

"Oh, all right," grumbles the harassed song-poet, and changes both
lines to a better rhyme.  "I don't like that part," he gets back
at the composer, "it sounds like 'Waiting at the Church.'"

"How's this, then?" inquires the composer, changing two notes.

"Fine," says the lyric writer, for the new variation has a hauntingly
familiar sound, too elusive to label--is amazingly catchy.

For hours, perhaps, they go on in this way--changing a note here,
a whole bar there, revising the lyric every few lines, substituting
a better rhyme for a bad one, and building the whole song into a
close-knit unity.

At last the song is in pretty good shape.  As yet there is no
second verse, but the "Boss" is called in and the boys sing him
the new song.  "Change 'dream' to 'vision'--it sounds better," he
says; or he may have a dozen suggestions--perhaps he gives the
song a new punch line.  He does his part in building it up, and
then the arranger is called in.

With a pad of manuscript music paper, and a flying pencil, he jots
down the melody nearly as fast as the composer can pound it out
on tne piano.  "Get a 'lead-sheet' ready as quick as you can,
commands the Boss.  "We'll try it out tonight."

"Right!" grunts the arranger, and rushes away to give the melody
a touch here and there.  As often as not, he comes back to tell
the composer how little that worthy knows about music and to demand
that a note be changed or a whole bar recast to make it easier to
play, but at last he appears with a "lead-sheet"--a mere suggestion
of the song to be played, with all the discretion the pianist
commands--and the composer, the lyric writer and the "Boss" go
across the street to some cabaret and try out the new song.

Here, before an audience, they can tell how much of a song they
really have.  They may have something that is a "winner," and they
may see that their first judgment was wrong--they may have only
the first idea of a hit.

But let us suppose that the song is a "knock 'em off their seats"
kind, that we may get down to the moral of this little narrative
of actual happenings.  The "pluggers" are called in and bidden to
memorize the song.  They spend the afternoon singing it over and
over again--and then they go out at night and sing it in a dozen
different places all over the city.  On their reports and on what
the "Boss" sees himself as he visits place after place, the decision
is made to publish immediately or to work the song over again.
It is the final test before an audience that determines the fate
of any song.  The new song may never be sung again, or tomorrow
the whole city may be whistling it.

And now permit me to indicate a point that lies in the past of the
song we have seen in process of manufacture:  From somewhere the
composer gets an idea for a melody--from somewhere the lyric writer
gets an idea for a lyric.

But we must put the music of a song to one side and devote our
attention to the lyric.


1. Sources of Ideas for Song Lyrics

As a popular song becomes popular because it fits into the life
of the day and is the individual expression of the spirit of the
moment, Charles K. Harris was doubtless right when he said:

"The biggest secret of success, according to my own system, is the
following out in songs of ideas current in the national brain at
the moment.  My biggest song successes have always reflected the
favorite emotion--if I may use the word--of the people of the day.
How do I gauge this?  Through the drama!  The drama moves in irregular
cycles, and changes in character according to the specific tastes
of the public.  The yearly mood of the nation is reflected by the
drama and the theatrical entertainment of the year.  At least, I
figure it out this way, and compose my songs accordingly.

"Here are just two instances of my old successes built on this
plan:  When 'The Old Homestead' and 'In Old Kentucky' were playing
to crowded houses, I wrote ''Midst the Green Fields of Virginia'
and 'In the Hills of Old Carolina,' and won.  Then when Gillette's
war plays, 'Held by the Enemy' and 'Secret Service' caught the
national eye, I caught the national ear with 'Just Break the News
to Mother.'  But these are examples enough to show you how the
system works."

Irving Berlin said, "You can get a song idea from anywhere.  I
have studied the times and produced such songs as 'In My Harem'
when the Greeks were fleeing from the Turks and the harem was a
humorous topic in the daily newspapers.  And I have got ideas from
chance remarks of my friends.  For instance:

"I wrote 'My Wife's Gone to the Country' from the remark made to
me by a friend when I asked him what time he was going home. 'I
don't have to go home,' he said, 'my wife's gone to the country.'
It struck me as a great idea for a title for a song, but I needed
a note of jubilation, so I added 'Hooray, Hooray!'  The song almost
wrote itself.  I had the chorus done in a few minutes, then I dug
into the verse, and it was finished in a few hours."

L. Wolfe Gilbert wrote "Robert E. Lee" from the "picture lines"
in one of his older songs, "Mammy's Shuffiing Dance" and a good
old-fashioned argument that he and I had about the famous old
Mississippi steamboat.  That night when I came back to the office
we shared, Gilbert read me his lyric.  From the first the original
novelty of the song was apparent, and in a few days the country
was whistling the levee dance of 'Daddy' and 'Mammy,' and 'Ephram'
and 'Sammy,' as they waited for the Robert E. Lee.  Had Gilbert
ever seen a levee?  No--but out of his genius grew a song that
sold into the millions.

"Most of our songs come from imagination," said Joe McCarthy.  "A
song-writer's mind is ever alert for something new.  What might
pass as a casual remark to an outsider, might be a great idea to
a writer.  For instance, a very dear young lady friend might have
said, 'You made me love you--I didn't want to do it.' Of course
no young lady friend said that to me--I just imagined it.  And
then I went right on and imagined what that young lady would have
said if she had followed that line of thought to a climax."

"It's the chance remark that counts a lot to the lyric writer,"
said Ballard MacDonald.  "You might say something that you would
forget the next minute--while I might seize that phrase and work
over it until I had made it a lyric."

But, however the original idea comes--whether it creeps up in a
chance remark of a friend, or the national mood of the moment is
carefully appraised and expressed, or seized "out of the air," let
us suppose you have an idea, and are ready to write your song.
The very first thing you do, nine chances out of ten, is to follow
the usual method of song-writers:

2. Write Your Chorus First

The popular song is only as good as its chorus.  For whistling
purposes there might just as well be no verses at all.  But of
course you must have a first verse to set your scene and lead up
to your chorus, and a second verse to finish your effect and give
you the opportunity to pound your chorus home.  Therefore you begin
to write your chorus around your big idea.

This idea is expressed in one line--your title, your catchy line,
your "idea line," if you like--and if you will turn to the verses
of the songs reproduced in these chapters you will be able to
determine about what percentage of times the idea line is used to
introduce the chorus.  But do not rest content with this examination;
carry your investigation to all the songs on your piano.  Establish
for yourself, by this laboratory method, how often the idea line
is used as a chorus introduction.

Whether your idea line is used to introduce your chorus or not,
it is usually wise to end your chorus with it.  Most choruses--but
not all, as "Put on your Old Grey Bonnet," would suggest--end with
the idea line, on the theory that the emphatic spots in any form
of writing are at the beginning and the end--and of these the more
emphatic is the end.  Therefore, you must now concentrate your
chorus to bring in that idea line as the very last line.

3. Make the Chorus Convey Emotion

As we saw in the previous chapter, a lyric is a set of verses that
conveys emotion.  The purpose of the first verse is to lead up to
the emotion--which the chorus expresses.  While, as I shall
demonstrate later, a story may be proper to the verses, a story
is rarely told in the chorus.  I mean, of course, a story conveyed
by pure narrative, for emotion may convey a story by sheer lyrical
effect.  Narrative is what you must strive to forget in a chorus--in
your chorus you _must_ convey emotion _swiftly_--that is, with a

While it is impossible for anyone to tell you how to convey emotion,
one can point out one of the inherent qualities of emotional speech.

4. Convey Emotion by Broad Strokes

When a man rushes through the corridors of a doomed liner he does
not stop to say, "The ship has struck an iceberg--or has been
torpedoed--and is sinking, you'd better get dressed quickly and
get on deck and jump into the boats."  He hasn't time.  He cries,
"The ship's sinking!  To the boats!"

This is precisely the way the song-writer conveys his effect.  He
not only cuts out the "thes" and the "ands" and the "ofs" and "its"
and "perhapses"--he shaves his very thoughts down--as the lyrics
printed in these chapters so plainly show--until even logic of
construction seems engulfed by the flood of emotion.  Pare down
your sentences until you convey the dramatic meaning of your deep
emotion, not by a logical sequence of sentences, but by revealing

5. Put Your Punch in Clear Words Near the End

And now you must centre all your thoughts on your punch lines.
Punch lines, as we saw, are sometimes the entire point of a
song--they are what makes a "popular" lyric get over the footlights
when a performer sings the song and they are the big factor--together
with the music punches--that make a song popular.  However lyrical
you have been in the beginning of your chorus, you must now summon
all your lyrical ability to your aid to write these, the fate-deciding

But note that emotion, however condensed the words may be that
express it, must not be so condensed that it is incoherent.  You
must make your punch lines as clear in words as though you were
drawing a diagram to explain a problem in geometry.  The effect
you must secure is that of revealing clearness.

Be very careful not to anticipate your punch lines.  For instance,
if Mr. Gilbert had used "All day I sigh, all night I cry," before
"I'd sigh for, I'd cry for, sweet dreams forever" in his "My Little
Dream Girl," the whole effect would have been lost.  As your punch
lines must be the most attractive lines, keep them new and fresh,
by excluding from the rest of your song anything like them.

If you can put your punch in the very last lines, fine.  If you
wish to put your punch lines just before the last two lines--in
the third and fourth lines from the last--well and good.  But it
is never wise to put your punch so far from the end that your
audience will forget it before you finish and expect something
more.  It is a good rule to write your punch lines and then end
your song.

Having constructed your chorus from a beginning that uses or does
not use your idea line, and having by broad strokes that convey
emotion developed it into your punch lines, you end your chorus,
usually, but not invariably, with your idea line--your title line.

Now you are ready to write your first verse.

6. Make the First Verse the Introduction of the Chorus

If you have characters in your song, introduce them instantly.
If you are drawing a picture of a scene, locate it in your first
line.  If your song is written in the first person--the "you and I"
kind--you must still establish your location and your "you and I"
characters at once.  If you keep in mind all the time you are
writing that your first verse is merely an introduction, you will
not be likely to drag it out.

(a) _Write in impersonal mood_--that is, make your song such that
it does not matter whether a man or a woman sings it.  Thus you will
not restrict the wide use of your song.  Anyone and everyone can
sing it on the stage.  Furthermore, it will be apt to sell more

(b) _"Tell a complete story"_ is a rule that is sometimes laid
down for popular song-writers.  But it depends entirely upon what
kind of song you are writing whether it is necessary to tell a
story or not.  "A story is not necessary," Berlin says, and an
examination of the lyrics in the preceding chapter, and all the
lyrics on your piano, will bear him out in this assertion.

All you need remember is that your song must express emotion in a
catchy way.  If you can do this best by telling a story, compress
your narrative into your verses, making your chorus entirely

(c) _"Make your verses short"_ seems to be the law of the popular
song today.  In other years it was the custom to write long verses
and short choruses.  Today the reverse seems to be the fashion.
But whether you decide on a short verse or a long verse--and
reference to the latest songs will show you what is best for you
to write--you must use as few words as possible to begin your story
and--with all the information necessary to carry over the points
of your chorus--to lead it up to the joining lines.

7. Make Your Second Verse Round Out the Story

You have introduced your chorus in your first verse, and the chorus
has conveyed the emotion to which the first verse gave the setting.
Now in your second verse round out the story so that the repetition
of the chorus may complete the total effect of your song.

More than upon either the first verse or the chorus, unity of
effect depends upon the second verse.  In it you must keep to the
key of emotion expressed in the chorus and to the general trend
of feeling of the first verse.  If your first verse tells a
love-story of two characters, it is sometimes well to change the
relations of the characters in the second verse and make the
repetition of the chorus come as an answer.  But, whatever you
make of your second verse, you must not give it a different story.
Don't attempt to do more than round out your first-verse story to
a satisfying conclusion, of which the chorus is the completing end.

And now we have come to

8. The Punch Lines in the Verses

Toward the end of each verse it is customary to place punch lines
which are strong enough pictorially to sum up the contents of the
verse and round it out into the chorus.  In humorous songs, these
punch lines are often used as the very last lines, and the first
line of the chorus is depended on to develop the snicker into a
laugh, which is made to grow into a roar with the punch lines of
the chorus.  In other words, there are in every song three places
where punch lines must be used.  The most important is toward the
end of the chorus, and the other places are toward the end of the

9. Don'ts for Verse Last-Lines

Don't end your lines with words that are hard to enunciate--there
are dozens of them, of which are "met," and most of the dental
sounds.  Experience alone can teach you what to avoid.  But it may
be said that precisely the same reason that dictates the use of
open vowels on rising notes, dictates that open sounds are safest
with which to end lines, because the last notes of a song are often
rising notes.  This applies with emphatic force, also, to your
chorus.  Never use such unrhetorical and laugh-provoking lines as
the grotesquely familiar "and then to him I did say."

Don't always feel that it is necessary to tell the audience "here
is the chorus."  Imagination is common to all, and the chorus is
predicted by the turn of thought and the "coming to it" feeling
of the melody.


Having gone over your verses and made sure that you have punch
lines that rise out of the narrative effect into revealing flashes,
and are completed and punched home by the punch lines of the chorus,
and having made sure that your lyrics as a whole are the best you
can write, you must give thought to the music.

1. The "One Finger Composer's" Aid

If you are the sort of modern minstrel who has tunes buzzing in
his head, it is likely that you will have composed a melody to fit
your lyrics.  The chances are that you know only enough about music
to play the piano rather indifferently.  Or, you may be an
accomplished pianist without possessing a knowledge of harmony
sufficient to admit of your setting down your melody in the form
of a good piano score.  But even if you are only able to play the
piano with one finger, you need not despair.  There are dozens of
well-known popular song composers who are little better off.  You
may do precisely what they do--you can call to your aid an arranger.
This is the first moral I shall draw from the true story with which
this chapter begins.

As the composer played over his melody for the arranger to take
down in musical notes, you may sing, whistle or play your melody
on the piano with one finger, for the arranger to take down your
song.  All you need give him is the bare outline of your melody.
At best it will be but a forecasting shadow of what he will make
out of it.  From it he will make you a "lead-sheet," the first
record of your melody.  Then, if you desire, he will arrange your
melody into a piano part, precisely identical in form with any
copy of a song you have seen.  With this piano version--into which
the words have been carefully written in their proper places--you
may seek your publisher.

For taking down the melody and making an "ink lead-sheet," the
arranger will charge you from one to two dollars.  For a piano
copy he will charge you anywhere from three to ten dollars--the
average price is about five dollars.

2. Be Sure Your Words and Music Fit Exactly

Here we may draw the second moral from the little scene we witnessed
in the song publisher's room--this is the big lesson of that scene.
In a word, successful song-writers consider a song not as a lyric
and a melody, but as a composite of both.  A successful song is a
perfect fusing of both.  The melody writer is not averse to having
his melody changed, if by changing it a better song can be made.
And the successful lyric writer is only too glad to change his
words, if a hit can be produced.  With the one end in view, they
go over their song time after time and change lyrics and melody
with ruthless hands until a whistle-making unity rises clear and

This is what you must now do with your song.  You must bend all
your energies to making it a perfect blend of words and music--a
unity so compressed and so compactly lyrical that to take one
little note or one little word away would ruin the total effect.

This is why

3. Purchasing Music for a Song is Seldom Advisable

If you are invited to purchase music for a new song, it is the
part of wisdom to refuse--because only in very rare instances has
a successful song been the result of such a method.  The reason
is perfectly plain, when you consider that the composer who offers
you a melody for a cash price is interested only in the small lump
sum he receives.  You are his market.  He does not care anything
about the market the music must make for itself, first with a
publisher and then with the public.

Therefore, no matter how willing a composer may appear to change
his melody to fit your song, scan his proposition with a cynical
eye.  On the surface he will make the music fit, but he would be
wasting his time if he worked over your lyric and his music to the
extent that a composer who is paid by the ultimate success of a
song would have to labor.

It is very much better to take your chances with even an inferior
melody maker who is as much interested as you are in a final
success.  And when you have found a composer, do not quibble about
changing your words to fit his music.  And don't fear to ask him
to change his melody, wherever constant work on the song proves
that a change is necessary.  It is only by ceaselessly working
over both words and melody that a song is turned into a national


[1] The matter under this section would seem to be an integral
part of the following Chapter, "Manuscripts and Markets," but it
is included in this chapter because some of the points require a
discussion too expansive for the general treatment employed in
describing the handling of other stage material.

You have written your lyrics, and you have fashioned your melody,
or you have found a composer who is anxious to make his melody fit
your lyrics so perfectly that they have been fused into a unity
so complete that it seems all you have to do to start everybody
whistling it is to find a publisher.  And so you set about the

1. Private Publication Seldom Profitable

While it is perfectly true that there have been many songs that
have paid handsome profits from private publication, it is more
nearly exact to believe that private publication never pays.
Printers and song publishers who make a business of this private
trade will often lure the novice by citing the many famous songs
"published by their writers."  Whenever you see such an advertisement,
or whenever such an argument is used in a sales talk, dig right
down to the facts of the case.  Nine chances out of ten, you will
find that the writers are successful popular song publishers--it
is their business to write for their own market.  Furthermore--and
this is the crux of the matter--they have a carefully maintained
sales force and an intricate outlet for all their product, which
would take years for a "private publisher" to build up.  Really,
you cannot expect to make any money by private publication, even
at the low cost of song-printing these days--unless you are willing
to devote all your energies to pushing your song.  And even then,
the song must be exceptional to win against the better organized

2. Avoid the "Song Poem" Advertiser

It is never my desire to condemn a class even though a majority
of that class may be worthy of reproach.  Therefore, instead of
inveighing against the "song-poem" fakir with sounding periods of
denunciation, permit me to state the facts in this way:

The advertisers for song-poems may be divided into two classes.
In the first class are publishers who publish songs privately for
individuals who have enough money to indulge a desire to see their
songs in print.  The writer may not intend his song for public
sale.  He wishes to have it printed so that he may give copies to
his friends and thus satisfy his pride by their plaudits.  It is
to these song-writers that the honest "private publisher" offers
a convenient and often cheap opportunity.  His dealings are perfectly
honest and fair, because he simply acts as a printer, and not as
a publisher, for he does not offer to do more than he can perform.

The second class of song-poem advertisers lure writers by all sorts
of glowing promises.  They tell you how such and such a song made
thousands of dollars for its writer.  They offer to furnish music
to fit your lyrics.  They will supply lyrics to fit your music.
They will print your song and push it to success.  They will do
anything at all--for a fee!  And I have heard the most pitiful tales
imaginable of high hopes at the beginning and bitter disappointment
at the end, from poor people who could ill afford the money lost.

These "publishers" are not fair--they are not honest.  They make
their living from broken promises, and pocket the change with a
grin over their own cleverness.  Why these men cannot perform what
they promise is perfectly plain in the light of all that has been
said about the popular song.  It does not need repetition here.
If you wish to publish your song privately for distribution among
your friends, seek the best and cheapest song printer you can find.
But if you hope to make your fortune through publication for which
you must pay--in which the publisher has nothing to lose and
everything to win--take care!  At least consider the proposition
as a long shot with the odds against you--then choose the fairest
publisher you can find.

3. How to Seek a Market for Your Song

But let us hope that you are the sort of song-writer who is anxious
to test his ability against the best.  You do not care to have
your song published unless it wins publication on its merits--and
unless you can be reasonably sure of making some money out of it.
You aspire to have your song bear the imprint of one of the
publishers whose song-hits are well known.  To find the names and
addresses of such publishers you have only to turn over the music
on your piano.  There is no need to print individual names here.

But a few words of direction as to the way you should approach
your market may be helpful.  I quote here the composite opinion
of all the well-known song publishers with whom I have talked:

"To find a great song in the manuscripts that come through the
mail--is a dream.  It is rare that the mail brings one worthy of
publication.  If I were a song-writer I should not submit my song
through the mails.  Of course, if I were far from the big markets
I should be compelled to.  But if I were anywhere near the market
I should go right to the publisher and demonstrate the song to him.

"You see, I must be convinced that a song is a winner before I'll
gamble my money on its publication.  And the only way I can be
easily convinced is to be compelled to listen to the song.
Naturally, being a song publisher, I think I know a hit when I
hear it--I may 'kid' myself into believing I can pick winners, but
I can be made to see the possibilities by actual demonstration,
where I might 'pass a song up' in manuscript."

Therefore, it would seem wise to offer a song through the mails
only when a personal visit and demonstration are impossible.  You
need not copyright your song, if you send it to a reputable
publisher.  All you need do is to submit it with a short letter,
offering it on the usual royalty basis, and _enclose stamps for
return_, if it is not available.  From two to four weeks is the
usual time required for consideration.

If you are near a song publisher, the very best thing you can do
is to fortify yourself with unassailable faith in your song and
then make the publisher listen to you.  If you have a song that
shows any promise at all, the chances are that you will come out
of the door an hour later with a contract.



It is in the hope of directing you to your market that this chapter
is designed.  But there is no form of writing for which it is more
difficult to point out a sure market than for vaudeville material.
Even the legitimate stage--with its notorious shifting of plans
to meet every veering wind--is not more fickle than the vaudeville
stage.  The reason for this is, of course, to be found in the fact
that the stage must mirror the mind of the nation, and the national
mind is ever changing.  But once let the public learn to love what
you have given them, and they will not jilt your offering in a
day.  The great advantage the writer of vaudeville material today
has over every one of his predecessors, lies in the fact that the
modern methods of handling the vaudeville business lend him security
in the profits of his success.

1. Preparing the Manuscript

(a) _The acceptable manuscript forms into which all vaudeville
material may be cast_ may be learned by consulting the examples
of the different vaudeville acts given in the appendix to this
volume.  A moment's examination of them will show you that there
is no difference between the manuscript _ways_ of presenting the
different acts.  All are made up of the names of characters,
business and dialogue.  Therefore they may all be discussed at the
same time.

(b) _Have your manuscript typewritten._ This suggestion has the
force of law.  While it would seem self-evident that a manuscript
written out in long hand has a mussy appearance, however neat the
writing may be, the many hand-written manuscripts I have tried to
read suggest the necessity for pointing out this fact.  You surely
handicap your manuscript by offering it in long hand to a busy

(c) _The two recognized methods for the typing of stage manuscripts._
First, the entire manuscript is typed in black, blue or purple.
Then, after the manuscript is complete, the name of the character
above each speech is underlined in red ink, and every bit of
business throughout the manuscript is also underlined in red.
This method is illustrated below.

[Here, text originally underlined in red appear in all CAPS.]



  GRAVES.  Yes.  (TURNS TO DICTIONARY) That's all.

  GRAVES.  Burton!


  BURTON.  Yes, sir.

  GRAVES.  Where's Sam?

  BURTON.  He went out, sir---

  GRAVES.  Went out?

  BURTON.  Y-yes, sir.  About a quarter of an hour ago.

  GRAVES.  Where to?

  BURTON.  He didn't say, sir.


  MEAD.    Anything wrong?

  GRAVES (LAMELY) No, no.  Don't mind me.  Marlin's
proposition's all right---

                   SIGHT OF GRAVES'S EMOTION)



  MEAD.    Christopher!

Second, a typewriter using two colors is employed.  The name of
the character above each speech is typed in red, and red is used
to type the bits of business.  The speeches alone are typed in
black, blue or purple as the case may be.  The following example
illustrates this method.




Heavens!  It reads like a fairy tale, doesn't it?


I don't know; does it?


Yes; and many thanks.  I'll do my best not to let you
regret it.---Only, in the old fairy tale, you know, it always
ended with the---the young man's marrying the---the rich
old geezer's daughter!


And I'm the rich old geezer, eh?  Well, I mightn't 'a' been
half as rich this minute if it wasn't for you!---Heigho!

Now, I suppose my cantankerous daughter wouldn't have you,
Piercy; not if I said anything to her about it.  But if she
would---and you was willin'---


---why, you're just about the feller I'd want her to have.



Say, Boss, put her there again!

Do you know, you and I are getting to be better friends

Either of these methods serves the same purpose equally well.  The
aim is to separate the names and business from the dialogue, so
that the difference may be plain at a glance.  The use of either
of these ways of typing a manuscript is desirable, but not absolutely

(d) _Use a "record ribbon"_ in typewriting manuscript, because a
"copying ribbon " smudges easily and will soil the hands of the
reader.  Observation of this mechanical point is a big help in
keeping a manuscript clean--and respecting the temper of your

(e) _Neatness_ is a prime requisite in any manuscript offered for
sale.  Be sure that the finished copy is free from erasures and
penciled after-thoughts.  "Do all your after-thinking beforehand,"
or have a clean, new copy made.

(f) _Re-copy a soiled manuscript_ as soon as it shows evidence of
handling.  Keep your "silent salesman" fresh in appearance.

(g) _Bind your manuscript in a flexible cover_ to give it a neat
appearance and make it handy to read.

(h) _Type your name and address in full_ on the outside of the
cover, and on the first white page.  Thus you stamp the manuscript
as _your_ act, and it always bears your address in case of loss.

(i) _Have your act copyrighted_ is a bit of advice that would seem
needless, but many performers and producers refuse to read an act
unless it is copyrighted.  The copyright--while it is not as good
proof in court as a public performance--is nevertheless a record
that on such and such a date the author deposited in the Library
of Congress a certain manuscript.  This record can be produced as
incontrovertible evidence of fact.  The view of the performer and
the producer is that he wishes to protect the author as much as
possible--but himself more.  He desires to place beyond all
possibility any charge of plagiarism.  Therefore, copyright the
final version of your act and typewrite on the cover the date of
copyright and the serial number.

(j) _How to copyright the manuscript of a vaudeville act._ Write
to the Register of Copyrights, Library of Congress, Washington,
D.C., asking him to send you the blank form prescribed by law to
copyright an unpublished dramatic composition.  Do not send stamps,
as it is unnecessary.  In addition to the blank you will receive
printed instructions for filling it out, and full information
covering the copyright process.  The fee is one dollar, which
includes a certificate of copyright entry.  This covers copyright
in the United States only; if you desire to copyright in a foreign
country, consult a lawyer.

(k) _The preparation of a scene plot_ should not be a difficult
task if you will remember that you need merely draw a straight-line
diagram--such as are shown in the chapter on "The Vaudeville Stage
and its Dimensions"--so as to make your word-description perfectly
clear.  On this diagram it is customary to mark the position of
chairs, tables, telephones and other properties incidental to the
action of the story.  But a diagram is not absolutely necessary.
Written descriptions will be adequate, if they are carefully and
concisely worded.

(l) _The preparation of property plots and light plots_ has been
mentioned in the chapter on "The Vaudeville Stage and Its Dimensions,"
therefore they require a word here.  They are merely a list of the
properties required and directions for any changes of lighting
that may occur in the act.  For a first presentation of a manuscript,
it is quite unnecessary for you to bother about the technical plots
(arrangement plans) of the stage.  If your manuscript is acceptable,
you may be quite sure that the producer will supply these plots

(m) _Do not offer "parts" with your manuscript._ A "part" consists
of the speeches and business indicated for one character, written
out in full, with the cues given by the other characters--the whole
bound so as to form a handy copy for the actor to study.  For
instance, there would be four "parts" in a four-people playlet
manuscript--therefore you would be offering a producer five
manuscripts in all, and the bulk of your material might deter a
busy man from reading it carefully.  If your manuscript progresses
in its sale to the point where parts are desired, the producer
will take care of this detail for you.  And until you have made a
sale, it is a waste of money to have parts made.

2. The Stage Door the Vaudeville Market-Place

Unlike nearly every other specialized business, there is a market
in each city of the country for vaudeville material.  This market
is the stage door of the vaudeville theatre.  While it would be
unlikely that a dramatist would find a market for a long play at
the "legitimate" stage door--although this has happened--there are
peculiar reasons why the stage door may be your market-place.  A
large percentage of vaudeville performers are the owners of their
own acts.  They buy the material, produce it themselves, and play
in it themselves.  And they are ever on the lookout for new material.

Not only is there a market at the stage door, but that market
changes continually.  Without fear of exaggeration it may be said
that with the weekly and sometimes semi-weekly changes of the bill
in each house, there will in time flow past the stage door nearly
all the acts which later appear in vaudeville.

Offering a manuscript at the stage door, however, should not be
done without preparation.  As you would not rush up to a business
man on the street or spring at him when he emerges from his office
door, you certainly would not care to give a vaudeville performer
the impression that you were lying in wait for him.

(a) _The personal introduction_ is a distinct advantage in any
business, therefore it would be an advantage for you to secure,
if possible, a personal introduction to the performer.  However,
you must be as discriminating in choosing the person to make that
introduction as you would were you selecting an endorser at a bank.
A stage-hand or an usher is likely to do you more harm than good.
The "mash notes" they may have carried "back stage" would discount
their value for you.  The manager of the theatre, however, might
arrange an introduction that would be of value.  At least he can
find out for you if the performer is in the market at the time.

(b) _The preliminary letter is never amiss_, therefore it would
seem advisable to write to the performer for whom you feel sure
you have an act that will fit.  Make the letter short.  Simply ask
him if he is in the market for material, state that you have an
act that you would like him to read, and close by requesting an
appointment at his convenience.

Do not take up his time by telling him what a fine act you have.
He does not know you, and if you praise it too highly he may be
inclined to believe that you do not have anything worth while.
But do not under-rate your material, either, in the hope of engaging
his attention by modesty.  Leave it for him to find out if you
have an act, first, that is worth while, and second, that fits him.

If you do not hear from the performer, you may be sure that he is
not interested in your act.  He may be out for the first few weeks
in a brand new act, and not in the market at all.  So if you do
not hear from him, wait until another act comes along and you see
someone for whom your act is "just made."

(c) _Should you receive a favorable reply_ to your request for an
appointment, you may be reasonably sure that your prospective
purchaser at least needs a new act.  In meeting your appointment,
be on time, and have someone with you.  A woman, of course, would
have a chaperon, precisely as she would if she were meeting any
other stranger.  And a man might care to have someone to engage
the attention of the performer's companion and leave him an
uninterrupted opportunity to talk business.

(d) _Ask for an immediate reading_ of your manuscript, or at least
request it read the next day, when you can be present while he is
reading it.  Do not leave a manuscript to be returned to you by
mail.  Vaudeville performers are as honest as any other class of
men, but they are busy people and the thing that is put off is
forgotten.  They are in one town today and miles away tomorrow,
and they may leave the manuscript on the bureau of their hotel
room intending to mail it at the last minute--and rush away and
forget it.  Therefore you should ask for an immediate reading.
It will take a performer only a few minutes to decide if he cares
to consider your act.  He knows of what he is in need--and usually
is prepared to tell you.

(e) _Do not ask for specific criticism_, for of all people in the
world vaudeville performers are the most good-hearted.  They would
rather please you than hurt you.  They will evade the point nine
times out of ten; so save them and yourself needless embarrassment.
And thus you may also avoid a false valuation of your manuscript.

(f) _If the performer cannot use the act himself_, and if the act
possesses merit, the chances are that he will suggest some other
performer who might want it.  If he does not suggest someone
himself, ask him.  Vaudeville performers know what other performers
want, because they are continually discussing plans for "next
season."  You may thus pick up some valuable information, even if
you do not dispose of the particular manuscript you have for sale.

3. Producing Your Act Yourself

While you are likely at many turns of the sales road to have offered
you an opportunity to produce your own act, this method of finding
a market is rarely advisable.  You would not start a little magazine
to get your short-story into print; your story could not possess
that much value even if it were a marvel--how much less so if you
were unable to find someone willing to buy it!

But there is a still more important reason why you should not rush
into producing your act yourself.  Producing is a specialized
business, requiring wide experience and exact knowledge.  Besides,
it is one of the most expensive pastimes in the world.  Without a
most comprehensive experience and peculiar abilities, failure is
sure.  Do not attempt private production even if you are offered
the services of a performer or a producer in whom you have absolute
faith.  Remember, if they thought your act was really worth while
they would be anxious to reap the profits for themselves.

4. Selling an Act to a Producer

While any performer who owns his act is a producer in the sense
that he "produces" his act, there are men who make a business of
buying manuscripts, engaging people, and producing many acts in
which they do not themselves play.  Producers who may own a dozen
acts of all different kinds would seem to offer to the writer for
vaudeville an ideal market.  How, then, is the writer to get in
touch with them?

(a) _Selling through a Play broker_ is a method that is precisely
the same as though you consigned a bill of goods to a commission
agent, and paid him for disposing of it.  The play broker reads
your manuscript and engages to try to dispose of it for you, or
returns it as not likely to fit in with the particular line of
business of which he makes a specialty.  If your act is really
good and yet the broker is able to make some suggestions that will
improve it, he is likely to offer such suggestions, purely in the
hope of earning a commission, and in this way he may prove of
distinct value as a critic.  In any event, if he accepts a manuscript
to sell for you, he will offer it in the quarters he thinks most
likely to produce it and will attend to all the business incidental
to the making of the contract.

For this service the broker charges a ten per cent commission.
This commission is paid either on the price of outright sale, or
on the royalty account.  If the act is sold on royalty, he will
collect the customary advance and also the weekly payments.  After
deducting his commission, he will remit the balance to you.

On the last page of this chapter you will find a partial list of
well-known play brokers.  Although I do not know of any who deal
exclusively in vaudeville material, any one of the agents who handles
long plays is glad to handle an exceptionally fine playlet.

(b) _Seeking a personal interview with a producer_ is usually
productive of one result:  The office-boy says, "Leave your manuscript,
and he'll read it and let you know."  Anxious as he is to secure
good material, a man who is busily engaged in producing vaudeville
acts has little time to spend on granting personal interviews.
And there is another reason--he fears you will try to read your
act to him.  A personal reading by the author is either a most
distressing affair, because the average writer cannot read stage
material as it should be read, or else it is very dangerous to the
listener's judgment.  Many a producer has been tricked into producing
an act whose merits a masterly reader has brought out so finely
that its fatal faults were forgotten.  And so the producer prefers
to read a manuscript himself.  Alone in his office he can concentrate
on the act in hand, and give to it the benefit of his best judgment.

(c) _Offering a manuscript by mail_ is perfectly safe.  There has
never come to my knowledge one clearly proved instance of where a
producer has "stolen an idea."

(d) _Send your manuscript by registered mail and demand a return
receipt_.  Thus you will save losses in the mail and hold a check
against the loss of your manuscript in the producer's office.  And
when you send your manuscript by mail, invariably enclose stamps
to pay the return to you by registered delivery.  Better still,
enclose a self-addressed envelope with enough postage affixed to
insure both return and registry.

(e) _Three weeks for consideration_ is about the usual time the
average producer requires to read a manuscript at his leisure.
In times when a producer is actively engaged in putting on an act,
he may not have an hour in the week he can call his own.  Therefore
have patience, and if you do not receive a reply from him in three
weeks, write again and courteously remind him that you would like
to have his decision at his earliest convenience.  Impatient letters
can only harm your chance.

5. Hints on Prices for Various Acts

What money can be made by writing vaudeville material?  This is
certainly the most interesting question the writer for vaudeville
can ask.  Like the prices of diamonds, the prices of vaudeville
acts depend on quality.  Every individual act, and each kind of
act, commands its own special price.  There are two big questions
involved in the pricing of every vaudeville manuscript.  First,
of what value is the act itself?  Second, what can the performer
or the producer afford to payor be made to pay for the act?

The first question cannot be answered for even a class of acts.
The value of each individual act determines its own price.  And
even here there enters the element inherent in all stage material--
a doubt of value until performance before an audience proves the
worth of the act.  For this reason, it is customary for the purchaser
of a vaudeville act to require that it first make good, before he
pays for it.  "Try and then buy," is the average vaudevillian's
motto.  If you are a good business man you will secure an advance
against royalty of just as much as you can make the producer "give
up."  Precisely as in every other business, the price of service
depends upon the individual's ability to "make a deal."

The answer to the second question likewise depends upon the
vaudeville writer's individual ability as a business man.  No hints
can be given you other than those that you may glean from a
consideration of average and record prices in the following

(a) _The monologue_ is usually sold outright.  The performer nearly
always will tell you--with no small degree of truth--that the
monologist makes the monologue, not the monologue the monologist.
Many a monologue has sold for five dollars, and the purchaser been
"stung" at that price.  But very rarely is a monologue bought
outright in manuscript--that is, before a try-out.  A monologue
must prove itself "there," before a monologist will pay any more
than a small advance for the exclusive privilege of trying it out.

If the monologue proves itself, an outright offer will be made by
the performer.  While there are no "regular rates," from two hundred
and fifty dollars to seven hundred dollars may be considered as
suggestive of the market value of the average successful monologue.

In addition to this, the monologist usually retains the author to
write new points and gags for him each week that he works.  This,
of course, increases the return from a monologue, and insures the
writer a small weekly income.

In very rare cases monologues are so good and, therefore, so
valuable that authors can retain the ownership and rent them out
for a weekly royalty.  In such a case, of course, the author engages
himself to keep the material up to the minute without extra
compensation.  But such monologues are so rare they can be counted
on the fingers of one hand.  There is little doubt that "The German
Senator" is one of the most valuable monologue properties--if it
does not stand in a class by itself--that has ever been written.
For many years it has returned to Aaron Hoffman a royalty of $100
a week, thirty and forty weeks in the year.  This may be considered
the record price for a monologue.

(b) _The vaudeville two-act_ varies in price as greatly as the
monologue.  Like the monologue, it is usually sold outright.  The
performers use precisely the same argument about the two-act that
is used about the monologue.  It is maintained that the material
itself is not to be compared with the importance of its presentation.
When a two-act has been tried out and found "there," the performers
or the producer will offer a price for it.

The same rule, that vaudeville material is worth only as much as
it will bring, applies to the two-act.  From two hundred and fifty
dollars to whatever you can get, may be considered suggestive of
two-act prices.  Although more two-acts have sold outright for
less than three hundred dollars than have sold above five hundred
dollars, a successful two-act may be made to yield a far greater
return if a royalty arrangement is secured.

Whether it is a two-act, or any other vaudeville act, the royalty
asking price is ten per cent of the weekly salary.  This rate is
difficult to enforce, and while five per cent is nearer the average,
the producer would rather pay a definite fixed figure each week,
than a percentage that must be reckoned on what may be a varying
salary.  Usually a compromise of a flat amount per playing week
is made when a royalty is agreed on.

(c) _The playlet_ varies in returns amazingly.  While one small-time
producer pays no advance royalty and a flat weekly royalty of from
ten dollars to fifteen dollars a week--making his stand on the
fact that he gives a longer playing season than his average
competitor--many a big-time producer pays a good round advance and
as high as $100 a week royalty.

Edgar Allan Woolf has said:  "The desire for the one-act comedy is
so great that even an unknown writer can secure an advance royalty
as great as is paid to the author of a three-act play, if he has
written a playlet which seems to possess novelty of story and
cleverness of dialogue."

George V. Hobart is reported to have had a variously-quoted number
of playlets playing at the same time, each one of which returned
him a weekly royalty of $100 a week.  And half a dozen other one-act
playwrights might be named who have had nearly equal success.

On the other hand, Porter Emerson Brown is quoted as saying:  "The
work of writing a playlet is nearly as great as writing a three-act
play, and the returns cannot be compared."

One of the collaborators on a famous big-time success received
forty dollars a week for three seasons as his share.  Another
playlet writer was paid one hundred dollars a week for one act,
and only twenty dollars a week for another.  And a third was content
with a ten-dollars-a-week royalty on one act, at the same time
that another act of his was bringing him in fifty dollars a week.

These examples I have cited to demonstrate that the return from
the playlet is a most variable quantity.  The small-time pays less
than the big-time, and each individual act on both small- and
big-time pays a different royalty.

When a playlet--either comedy or straight dramatic--is accepted
for production, it is customary, although not an invariable rule,
that an advance royalty be paid "down."  When the act proves
successful, one or more of three propositions may be offered the
writer:  outright sale at a price previously agreed upon; outright
sale to be paid in weekly royalties until an agreed upon figure
is reached, when ownership passes from the author to the producer;
the more customary weekly royalty.  As I have said before, what
price you receive for your act finally depends upon your keenness
in driving a bargain.

In nearly every case, outright sale has its advantage in the fact
that the author need not then worry about collecting his royalty.
Of course, when a recognized producer puts out the act there need
be no concern about the royalty, so in such instances a royalty
is preferable.  But in some cases, as when the performer is making
long jumps and has a hard time making railroad connections, a
weekly royalty has its disadvantages in causing worry to the author.

(d) _The one-act musical comedy_ is usually bought outright--after
the act "gets over."  While many a "book" is contracted for in
advance at a small figure, to be doubled or trebled on success,
it is also true that royalties are paid.  In this case, the custom
is to divide the royalty equally between the writer of the book
and lyrics, and the composer of the music.  When a third person
writes the verses of the songs and ensemble numbers, the royalty
is usually split three ways.  It would be misleading to quote any
figures on the musical comedy, for the reason that circumstances
vary so greatly with each that there are no standards.

(e) _The burlesque tab_ pays about the same rates as the one-act
musical comedy, its kindred form.

(f) _The popular song_, unlike the other material treated in this
volume, has a well established royalty price:  one cent a copy is
the standard.  Of this, half a cent goes to the writer of the
lyric, and half a cent to the composer of the music.

As a popular song, to be considered successful, must sell anywhere
from half a million to a million copies, it is easy to estimate
the song-writer's return.  If the same man writes both the words
and the music he will receive from five to ten thousand dollars--or
twenty-five hundred to five thousand dollars if he divides with
another--for being able to make the nation whistle.  Of course,
many song-writers have two successful songs selling in a year--
therefore you may double the figures above to estimate some successful
song-writers' incomes.  But it may safely be said that the song-writer
who has an income of twelve thousand dollars a year is doing very
well indeed!  There are many more professional song-writers who
work year after year for the salary of the average business man
in every other line of endeavor.  Don't count your royalty-chickens
too soon.

6. Important Lists of Addresses


AMERICAN PLAY COMPANY, 33 W. 42d St., New York
MARY ASQUITH, 145 W. 45th St, New York
ALICE KAUSER, 1402 Broadway, New York
DARCY AND WOLFORD, 114 W. 39th St., New York
KIRKPATRICK, LTD., 101 Park Ave., New York
MODERN PLAY CO., Columbus Circle, New York
LAURA D. WILK, 1476 Broadway, New York
GEORGE W. WINNIETT, 1402 Broadway, New York
PAUL SCOTT, 1402 Broadway, New York
SANGER AND JORDAN, 1430 Broadway, New York
MRS. M. A. LEMBECK, 220 W. 42nd St., New York


The producers given here offer a market which varies so widely in
each instance that no attempt has been made to list their needs.
Some are interested in other lines of the amusement business as
well; and their activities elsewhere must be taken into consideration
as determining factors in their special market needs.  No division
of these producers into big-time and small-time producers is made,
because such a distinction would be likely to be misleading rather
than helpful.

ARTHUR HOPKINS, 1493 Broadway, New York
JOSEPH HART, 1520 Broadway, New York
JESSE L. LASKY, 120 W. 41St St., New York
B. A. ROLFE, 1493 Broadway, New York
JOE MAXWELL, INC., 360 W. 125th St., New York
HARRY RAPF, 1564 Broadway, New York
PAT CASEY, 1499 Broadway, New York
BILLIE BURKE, 1495 Broadway, New York
JOE PAIGE SMITH, 1493 Broadway, New York
ALF. T. WILTON, 1564 Broadway, New York
JOHN C. PEEBLES, 1564 Broadway, New York
JAMES PLUNKETT, 1564 Broadway, New York
C. M. BLANCHARD, 1579 Broadway, New York
LEWIS AND GORDON, Columbia Theatre Building, 7th
  Ave. at 47th St., New York
MAX HART, 1564 Broadway, New York
JAMES J. ARMSTRONG, Columbia Theatre Building, 7th
  Ave. at 47th St., New York
WILLIAM A. BRADY, The Playhouse, 137 W. 48th St., New York
BART McHUGH, Land Title Building, Philadelphia
MENLO E. MOORE, 22 W. Monroe St., Chicago
MINNIE PALMER, 35 Dearborn St., Chicago


The following vaudeville circuits, while they may not maintain
regular producing departments, produce acts every now and then.

  Broadway, New York.  This organization books
  the B. F. Keith Theatres and allied small- and
  big-time houses
ORPHEUM CIRUIT COMPANY, 1564 Broadway, New York
POLI'S CIRCUIT, 1493 Broadway, New York
  Majestic Theatre Building, Chicago
GUS SUN CIRCUIT, New Sun Theatre Building,
  Springfield, Ohio
BERT LEVEY CIRCUIT, Alcazar Theatre Building, San Francisco

To these markets nearly every booking agent and manager in the
vaudeville business might be added.  Each one has a list of acts
he handles that need new material from time to time.  And often
the agent or manager will add to his list of clients by producing
an exceptionally fine act himself.

The reason such a list is not given here is that it would require
a small volume merely for the names and addresses.  Consultation
of "The Clipper Red Book"--a handy directory of theatrical agents,
sold at ten cents--will supply this information.  A knowledge of
the special kinds of acts handled by each agent or manager, and
the producers previously given as well, may be gathered by a careful
reading of the various theatrical specialized journals.  This
knowledge can only be acquired a bit here and a little there through
persistent attention to the notices of new acts and announcements
of plans.


SAMUEL FRENCH, 28 W. 38th St., New York
T. S. DENNISON, Chicago


VARIETY, 1536 Broadway, New York
THE DRAMATIC MIRROR, 1493 Broadway, New York
  8th Ave., New York
THE NEW YORK STAR, 1499 Broadway, New York
THE CLIPPER, 47 W. 28th St., New York
THE BILLBOARD, 1465 Broadway, New York
THE DRAMATIC NEWS, 17 W. 42d St., New York
THE NEW YORK REVIEW, 121 W. 39th St., New York
THE THEATRE MAGAZINE, 8 W. 38th St., New York
THE GREEN BOOK MAGAZINE, North American Building,



While an understanding of how a vaudeville act is transformed from
a manuscript into a commercial success may not be necessary to the
writing of a good act, such a knowledge is absolutely necessary
to the writer who hopes to make money by his work.  For this reason
I shall devote this final chapter to a brief discussion of the

Permit me, therefore, to take the manuscript of an act, assuming
for my purpose that it represents a monologue or a two-act, a
playlet or a musical comedy, and trace its commercial career from
the author's hands, into a producer's, through a booking office,
to success.  Anyone of the famous examples printed in this volume
could be so taken and its history told, but no one would combine
in its experience all the points that should be given.  So I shall
ask you to imagine that the act whose commercial story I am about
to tell represents in itself every kind of act to be seen in
vaudeville.  I shall call this act by the name of "Success."

When Mr. Author, the writer of "Success," received a letter from
Mr. Producer accepting the act and requesting him to call at his
office to discuss terms, Mr. Author was delighted and hurried there
as fast as he could go.

The office boy ushered him into Mr. Producer's private office, and
before the caller could get his breath Mr. Producer had made him
an offer.  He accepted the offer without haggling over the terms,
which seemed to Mr. Author very satisfactory.  To tell the truth,
he would have accepted almost anything, so eager was he to get his
first act on the stage, so it was lucky for him that the terms
were really fair.

He had hardly folded up the contract and stowed it, with the advance
royalty check, in his bosom pocket, before Mr. Producer plunged
into business.  He pressed a button for the office boy and told
him to tell Mr. Scenic Artist to come in.  Now Mr. Scenic Artist
was the representative of a great scenic studio, and he sketched
a design for a special set in a jiffy; then he thought of another,
and then of a third.  And Mr. Producer and he were so interested
in combining all their good ideas into one admirable set that Mr.
Author was startled when they shoved a sketch under his nose and
asked for suggestions.  He made two that were pertinent to the
atmosphere he had imagined for his room, and when they were
incorporated in the sketch, Mr. Producer O. K'd it and Mr. Scenic
Artist bowed himself out, promising to have a model ready the next

Mr. Producer then rang for Miss Secretary, and told her to have
Mr. Star, Miss Leading Lady and other performers in the office
next morning at eleven o'clock, gave her a list of the characters
he wished to cast, and handed her the manuscript with an order to
get out parts, and to have them out that night.  He turned to Mr.
Author with a request for the incidental music for the act.  Mr.
Author told him he had none.  Then Mr. Producer reached for the
telephone, with the remark that the music could wait, and called
up the United Booking Offices of America.

After a few minutes wait, Mr. Producer got the special Mr. Booking
Manager for whom he had inquired, told him he had an act for which
he wanted a break-in week, and as he hesitated and named a date
three weeks later, Mr. Author was sure the act had been booked.
Mr. Author marveled that the act should be contracted to appear
when it was not even yet out of manuscript form, but when he
mentioned this with a smile, Mr. Producer wanted to know how he
ever would get "time" for an act if he didn't engage it ahead.
He explained that he had a regular arrangement with Mr. House
Manager to play new acts in his house at a small "break-in" salary.
It was an arrangement convenient to him and gave Mr. House Manager
fine acts at small cost.

After this, Mr. Producer rose from his desk and Mr. Author went
out, promising to be on hand that evening at eight to go over the
manuscript and make some changes that Mr. Producer promised to
prove were necessary to the success of the act.  And as he passed
through the outer office, Mr. Author heard Miss Secretary explain
over the telephone that Mr. Producer wished a hall at eleven o'clock
two days later to rehearse a new act.

Promptly at eight o'clock that night Mr. Author presented himself
at the office again, and found Mr. Producer busily engaged in
reading the manuscript.  A tiny paper model of the mimic room in
which the act was to be played stood upon the desk.  When he stooped
he saw that the walls were roughly colored after the sketch they
had discussed and that the whole scene bore an amazing likeness
to the place of his imagination.  Mr. Producer explained that he
had had the model rushed through to make it possible for them to
"get down to brass tacks" at once.  The act needed so many little
changes that they would have to get busy to have it ready for the

When Mr. Producer began discussing various points about the act,
Mr. Author could not for the life of him imagine what all these
changes could be.  But when Mr. Producer pointed out the first,
Mr. Author wondered how he ever had imagined that the heroine could
do the little thing he had made her do--it was physically impossible.
Point after point Mr. Producer questioned, and point after point
they changed, but there was only the one glaring error.  A motive
was added here, a bit of business was changed there, and as they
worked they both grew so excited that they forget the time, forgot
everything but that act.  And when the manuscript at last dropped
from their exhausted hands, it looked as if an army had invaded it.

Mr. Author glanced at the pile of nicely bound parts and sighed.
All that work would have to be done over!  "Only another one of my
mistakes," smiled Mr. Producer as he scribbled an order to Miss
Secretary, attached it to the manuscript, together with these now
useless parts, and laid them on her desk, as he and Mr. Author
went out into the cool night air.  "See you tomorrow at eleven,"
said Mr. Producer as they parted.  And Mr. Author looking at his
watch wondered why he should take the trouble to go home at all.

At eleven Mr. Author found the little outer office crowded with
actors and actresses.  Miss Secretary was busily directing the
typing of the new manuscript and parts.  Mr. Producer was late.
After Mr. Author had waited an hour in the private office, Miss
Secretary came in and said he should wait no longer, because Mr.
Producer had been called out of town to straighten out some trouble
which had developed in one of his acts and had just telephoned
that he would not be in until late that afternoon.  Rehearsal would
be as scheduled next morning, Miss Secretary explained.  The
performers would be on hand, and she hoped to goodness they would
have some idea of their parts by then.  Mr. Author wanted to know
how the cast could be engaged when Mr. Producer was away, and Miss
Secretary told him that Mr. Producer knew the capabilities of
everyone who had called and had even directed her to engage the
ones he named.

The following morning Mr. Author saw his characters for the
first time in the flesh--and was disappointed.  Also, the rehearsal
was a sad awakening; it wasn't anything like he had imagined it
would be.  They all sat around on chairs and Mr. Producer told
them what the act was all about.  Then he suggested that they go
through it once, at any rate.  Chairs were placed to mark the
footlights, chairs were used to indicate the doors and window, and
chairs were made to do duty as a table, a piano and everything

Finally they got started and limped through the lines, reading
their parts.  Then Mr. Producer began to show them how he wanted
it done, and before he had finished he had played every part in
the act.  They went through the act once more with a myriad of
interruptions from Mr. Producer, who insisted on getting things
right the very first time, and then he knocked off, calling it a
day's work.

The next morning Mr. Author was on hand early with some suggestions:
one Mr. Producer adopted, the others he explained into forgetfulness--and
rehearsing began in earnest.  They worked all morning on the first
quarter of the act and went back at it late that afternoon.  Miss
Leading Lady unconsciously added one line and it was so good that
it was kept in the act.  Then Mr. Star did something that made
them all laugh, and they put that in.  Of course some pretty lines
in the dialogue had to come out to make room, but they came out,
and Mr. Author never regretted their loss.  And the next day it
was the same, and the day after that, and the seventh day, and the
eighth day.

Then came a day when Mr. Author saw the act taking shape and form,
and when he spoke to Mr. Producer about it, Mr. Producer said he
thought that after all the act might whip around into something
pretty good.

A few days later when Mr. Author arrived at the rehearsal hall,
there were three strange men facing the company, who were going
through the act for the first time without interruptions from Mr.
Producer.  Mr. Author wondered who they were, and watched their
faces with interest to see how they liked his act.  After a while
he came to consider as great compliments the ghosts of smiles
flickering across their jury-like faces.  And when it was all over
the performers gathered in one corner, and Mr. Producer came over
to him, and the three men whispered among themselves.  Mr. Producer
explained that they were booking managers, and then Mr. Author
sensed the psychological reason for the unconscious drawing together
of the different clans.

His heart beat rather violently when the three men came across the
room, and he felt a great wave of gladness sweep over him when the
tallest of the three pulled out a little black book and said, "Mr.
Producer, I'll pencil it in one of my houses for next week at this
figure," and he showed Mr. Producer what he had written.

"And I'll take you for the second break-in, as we agreed when you
'phoned," said the shortest man.  "And I'll take the third at

Then it was that Mr. Author felt a great admiration for Mr. Producer,
because Mr. Producer dared assert his personality.  Mr. Producer
objected to the figure, talking of the "name" of Mr. Star.

"That's every penny he's worth," came the adamant answer.

Then Mr. Producer mentioned transportation costs, and the cost of
hauling scenery, as additional arguments.

"Why didn't you say special set at first?" said the smallest man;
"I'll give you this advance."  Then all four looked, and they all

Then Mr. Author was introduced, quite casually.  "Guess your act'll
get by," conceded one of the jury generously, as they all left.

"So you're going to open a week earlier?" gasped Mr. Author to Mr.
Producer, when they were alone in the interval between the exit
of the three and the entrance upon the scene of the performers,
who came swiftly across the room to learn their fate.  "And you've
booked three weeks more!"

"Well," said Mr. Producer, "you know the boys only pencilled those
weeks in--pencil marks can be rubbed out."

The next day as they were on their way to the train to go up to
the town where the act was to open, Mr. Producer suddenly remembered
that he had forgotten to send Miss Secretary up to the Booking
Offices for his contract.  He wanted that contract particularly,
for he had a feud of long standing with the manager of that
particular house.  So up he rushed to get that contract, with Mr.
Author tagging at his heels.

It was the first time Mr. Author had seen even the waiting room
of a booking office--it amazed him by its busy air.  A score or
more performers crowded its every inch of space.  They were thickest
around a little grilled window, behind which stood a boy who seemed
to know them all.  Some he dismissed with a "Come in tomorrow."
Others he talked with at length, and took their cards.  When he
had a handful he disappeared from the window.

But Mr. Producer was calling Mr. Author.  Mr. Producer stood holding
open the inner door.  So in Mr. Author went--to another surprise.
Here there was no crush of people--here there was no rush, and
little noise.  Stenographers stood about, seemingly idle, and at
a dozen little desks sat a dozen men quietly bending over rather
odd-looking books, or talking with the few men who came in.

One of these men Mr. Author recognized as Mr. Booking Manager, for
whom they were to play the second week.  He was about to speak to
him, when up came a bustling little man who said, "Do you want
Miss Headliner for the week of the thirtieth?  I can give her to

"Nope, all filled.  Give you the week of the twenty-third."

"All right."

Mr. Booking Agent made a note in his little book, and Mr. Booking
Manager bent over his desk and wrote Miss Headliner's name in his
big book--and a business transaction was consummated.

Then Mr. Booking Agent hustled over to another desk and repeated
his offer of the week of the thirtieth.

"Sorry, give you the week of the twenty-third," said this man.

"Just filled it," said Mr. Booking Agent.  "Can't you give me the
thirtieth?  Who's got the thirtieth open?"

The man at the next desk heard him.  "Who for?  Miss Headliner?
All right, I'll take her."

Just then Mr. Producer came out of a little room and Mr. Author
followed him in a wild dash to catch the train.  In the smoker he
asked Mr. Producer to explain what he had seen in the Booking
Offices.  And Mr. Producer said:  "Each one of those men you saw
up there is in charge of the shows of one, or maybe three or four
vaudeville theatres in different cities.  It is their duty to make
up the shows that appear in each of their houses.  For instance,
Mr. Booking Manager, whose house we are playing this week, books
the shows in four other houses.

"The man you heard ask him if he would take Miss Headliner for the
thirtieth, is Miss Headliner's business representative.  His name
is Mr. Booking Agent.  Besides Miss Headliner, he is the representative
for maybe fifty other acts.  For this service he receives a
commission of five per cent of Miss Headliner's salary and five
per cent on the salaries of all the acts for whom he gets work.
It is his business to keep Miss Headliner booked, and he is paid
by her and his other clients for keeping them working.

"Mr. Booking Manager, on the other hand, is not paid a commission.
He receives a flat salary for the work that he does for his houses.
You remember you met him yesterday, when he pencilled 'Success'
in for the house we are on our way to play.  Well, that is also a
part of his business.  For some of his houses that like to make a
big showing at little expense, he must dig up new big acts like
ours, which are breaking-in.

"Now, the price I get for this act for the breaking-in weeks, is
mighty low.  But this is customary.  That is the reason why the
performers have to be content with half salaries, and you with
half-royalty.  But this price does not affect the future price I
will receive.  It is marked on the books as the 'show price.' That
means that it is recorded in the book-keeping department by the
cashier as the price for which I am showing this act to the managers.
When the act has made good, a price is set on the act, and that
is the standard price for the other houses that book through these
offices.  The book-keeper watches the prices like a hawk, and if
I tried to 'sneak a raise over,' he would catch it, and both yours
truly and Mr. Booking Manager would be called up on the carpet by
the head of the Offices.  The only increase that is permitted is
when a new season rolls around, or two or three booking managers
agree to an increase and consult the office head about boosting
the salary on the books."

That night Mr. Author rather expected to see a dress rehearsal of
the act; he was disappointed.  But the next morning there was a
full dress rehearsal, played in the brand new special set which
had come up with them and that now shone like a pretty picture in
the dingy theatre.

It rather amazed Mr. Author to note that the emphasis of this
rehearsal was not put on the speeches, but upon the entrances and
exits, and the precise use and disposal of the various properties
employed.  A glimmering of the reason came to him when Mr. Star
promised to murder anyone who moved a book that he used in his
"big" scene.  "Unless it is here--right here--I'll never be able
to reach it and get back for the next bit without running."

And so the rehearsal went on, with no effort to improve the lines,
but only to blend the physical movements of everyone of the
performers to make a perfect whole and to heighten the natural
effect of even the most natural action.  Then the dress rehearsal
came to an end, and the entire party went out to see the town.

That night, after the performance, they worked again on the act,
because Mr. Producer had been seized by an idea.  And when they
had gone through the act time and again to incorporate that idea,
they all went wearily to bed, praying for success next day.

At ten o'clock in the morning Mr. Author was at the theatre.  He
found that other acts had preceded him.  The stage was littered
with trunks and scenery, trapeze bars, animal cages and the what-not
of a vaudeville show.  Each performer as he came in was greeted
by the doorman with the gift of a brass check, on which there was
stamped a number.  This number told the performer in what order
he was entitled to rehearse.  Vaudeville is a democracy--first
come, first rehearsed.

The stage hands were busy rolling in trunks which express-men had
dumped on the sidewalk, the electrician was busy mentally rehearsing
light effects according to the formula on a printed light plot
which was being explained to him by a performer.  "Props" was busy
trying to satisfy everyone with what he had on hand, or good-naturedly
sending out for what had not been clearly specified on the property
plot.  The spot-light man in the gallery out front was busy getting
his lamp ready for the matinee, and consulting his light plot.
And the stage-manager was quite the busiest one of them all, shoving
his scenery here and there to make room for the newly arrived sets,
directing the flying of the hanging stuff, and settling questions
with the directness of a czar.

Suddenly through the caverny house sounded the noise of the orchestra
tuning up.  The leader appeared and greeted the performers he knew
like long lost brothers and sisters, and then Brass Check Number
One dropped into his hand, and the Monday morning rehearsal began.
Then it was that Mr. Author learned that it is not the acts, which
are rehearsed on Monday morning, it is the vaudeville orchestra,
and the light men and "Props."

This was borne in forcibly when Mr. Producer arrived with the
performers and "Success" went into rehearsal.  Although the entire
staff of the theatre had been rehearsed the night before at the
final dress rehearsal, Mr. Producer wished to change some lights,
to instruct "Props" more clearly, and to jack up the orchestra
into perfection.  Therefore they all went through the act once
more.  Then the scrub-women appeared and demanded the centre of
the stage with great swishes of watery cloths.  The curtain came
down to hide the stage from the front of the house, and the first
early comers of the audience filtered in.

Mr. Author has never been able to recall just how "Success" played
that first performance.  He has dim memories of a throbbing heart,
fears that lines would be forgotten or the whole "big" scene fall
to pieces; and finally of a vast relief when the curtain came down,
amid--applause.  The curtain went up and came down a number of
times, but Mr. Author was too busy pinching himself to make sure
that he wasn't dreaming, to count how many curtains the act took.

It seemed to him like a tremendous hit, but Mr. Producer was in a
rage.  There were scores of points that had not "got over," half
a dozen of his finest effects had been ruined, and he was bound
those points should "get over," and those effects shine out clear
and big.

Looking back on that week, Mr. Author recalls it as a nightmare
of changes.  They cut out speeches, and changed speeches, and took
out bits of business, and added new bits--they changed everything
in the act, and some of the changes they changed back again, until
by Saturday the act was hardly to be recognized.  And then they
played two more performances to crowded houses that applauded like
madmen; and Mr. Producer smiled for the first time.

Then they moved to the next theatre, and the first performance
showed even Mr. Author that all the work had been wise.  Now he
was even more anxious than Mr. Producer to make the many changes
by which this week was marked.  And by the end of the week "Success"
looked like--success.

They were preparing for a week of great things in the next town,
when Wednesday night a cancellation notice came for that precious
week.  Something had gone wrong, and the pencilled date had to be
rubbed out.  Of course, by all the laws of the legislatures that
week should never have been rubbed out, because there was a contract
fully binding on both the theatre and Mr. Producer.  But the week
was rubbed out of sight, nevertheless, and Mr. Producer--knowing
vaudeville necessities and also knowing that only the most dire
necessity made Mr. Booking Manager "do this thing to him"--forgave
it all with a smile and was quite ready to get back to town when
Monday morning rolled around.

But Monday morning there occurred a "disappointment" at another
theatre in a town only a few miles away.  The act that was to have
played that date was wrecked, or had overslept itself.  Anyway.
the resident house manager telephoned to the Booking Offices that
he was shy one act.  Now it happened that the act that "disappointed,"
was of the same general character as "Success."  The Booking Manager
knew this, and remembered that "Success" was within a few miles
and with an open week that ought to have been filled.  Therefore,
just as Mr. Producer and Mr. Author were leaving the hotel to join
the other members of "Success" at the railroad station.  Mr.
Producer was called to the telephone--long distance.

In less time than it takes to recount it, the resident manager who
was suffering from a disappointment, and Mr. Producer, suffering
from the lack of a playing week, were both cured of their maladies
at the same time.  And so, instead of going back to town, "Success"
rushed to the next city and played its week.

Now, in this last week of breaking-in, Mr. Author realized one
fact that stands out rather prominently in his memory; it is a
simple little fact, yet it sums up the entire problem of the show
business.  Perhaps the rush of events had made it impossible before
for the truth to strike home as keenly as it did when there suddenly
came to him a tiny little bit of business which made a very long
speech unnecessary.  He explained it to Mr. Producer, and Mr.
Producer seized on it instantly and put it into the act.  That
night the act went better than it had ever gone before.  This
little bit of condensation, this illuminating flash which was
responsible for it, "punched up" the big scene into a life it had
never had before.  Then it was that there also flashed upon Mr.
Author's mind this truth:

A dramatic entertainment is not written on paper.  It is written
with characters of flesh and blood.  Strive as hard as man may,
he can never fully foretell how an ink-written act will play.
There is an inexplicable something which playing before an audience
develops.  Both the audience and the actors on the stage are
affected.  A play--the monologue and every musical form as well--is
one thing in manuscript, another thing in rehearsal, and quite a
different thing before an audience.  Playing before an audience
alone shows what a play truly is.  Therefore, a play can only be
made--after it is produced.  Even in the fourth week of playing--the
first week of metropolitan playing--Mr. Author and Mr. Producer
made many changes in "Success" that were responsible for the long
popularity it enjoyed.  Mr. Author had learned his lesson well.
He approached his next work with clearer eyes.



"THE GERMAN SENATOR," A Monologue, by Aaron Hoffman.

"THE ART OF FLIRTATION," A Two-Act, by Aaron Hoffman.

"AFTER THE SHOWER," A Flirtation Two-Act, by Louis Weslyn.

"THE VILLAIN STILL PURSUED HER," A Travesty Playlet, by Arthur

"THE LOLLARD," A Comedy Playlet, by Edgar Allan Woolf.

"BLACKMAIL," A Tragic Playlet, by Richard Harding Davis.

"THE SYSTEM," A Melodramatic Playlet, by Taylor Granville.

"A PERSIAN GARDEN," A One-Act Musical Comedy, by Edgar Allan Woolf.

"My OLD KENTUCKY HOME," A One-Act Burlesque, by James Madison.


The nine acts which are given, complete, in the following pages
are representative of the very best in vaudeville.  Naturally,
they do not show every possible vaudeville variation--a series of
volumes would be required for that--but, taken together, they
represent all the forms of the talking vaudeville act that are
commonly seen.


The German Senator

This monologue by Aaron Hoffman has been chosen as perhaps the
best example of the pure monologue ever written.  Originally used
by Cliff Gordon--continually being changed to keep it up-to-the-minute--it
has, since his death, been presented by numerous successors of the
first "German Senator."  It is doubtful if any other dramatic
work--or any other writing--of equal length, and certainly no
monologue, has returned to its author so much money as "The German
Senator" has earned.


The Art of Flirtation

For more years than perhaps any other vaudeville two-act, this
exceptionally fine example of two-act form has been used by various
famous German comedians.  It may be considered to stand in much
the same relation to the two-act that "The German Senator" does
to the monologue.  Its author, also Mr. Aaron Hoffman, holds a
unique position among vaudeville and musical comedy writers.

After the Shower

This delightful little example of lover's nonsense was played for
more than four years by Lola Merrill and Frank Otto.  It has been
instanced as one of the daintiest and finest flirtation-couple-acts
that the two-a-day has seen.  Mr. Louis Weslyn has written perhaps
more successful acts of this particular style than any other author.


The Villain Still Pursued Her

This travesty, one of the most successful on record, was used for
years to star Mrs. Frank Sheridan.  Written by Mr. Arthur Denvir,
whose specialty is travesties, it undoubtedly became the inspiration
for the many similar acts that created the travesty-vogue of

The Lollard

Edgar Allan Woolf, who wrote this delightful satirical comedy, is
perhaps the most successful writer of playlets in this country.
For many years he has turned out success after success for famous
legitimate stars, while still other performers have become vaudeville
stars in his acts.  Mr. Woolf himself chose "The Lollard" as
representative of his best comedies.  The star role, Angela Maxwell,
was created in this country by Miss Regina Cornelli, and in England
by Miss Hilda Trevelyan.


Richard Harding Davis needs no introduction.  This remarkable
little tragedy was produced for the Orpheum Circuit by Mr. Charles
Feleky, who declares it to be "the best tragic playlet I have
produced."  From so eminent a vaudeville producer, this is, indeed,
high praise.  The character of Richard Fallon was created by Mr.
Walter Hampden.

The System

Without doubt, this act is the best of the many big productions
with which Mr. Taylor Granville has supplied The United Booking
Offices of America, during his many years as a producing star.
Mr. Junie McCree, who collaborated with Mr. Granville, was once
president of "The White Rats," the vaudeville actors' union, and
is now a successful vaudeville writer.  Mr. Edward Clark, the third
collaborator, has written many successful vaudeville acts.

"The System" is said to have been characterized by Mr. George M.
Cohan as the best one-act melodrama he ever saw.  Its extraordinary
popularity in this country and in England is but added proof of
the tenseness of its scenes and its great ending.


A Persian Garden

Played by Louis Simons season after season, this real comedy set
to music is without question Mr. Edgar Allan Woolf's best effort
in this field.  Unlike the usual musical comedy, this act possesses
dialogue interest as well as pleasing brilliancy.  It has won its
many years of success not because of scenery, costumes and the
chorus, but by the sterling worth apparent in the manuscript
divorced from them.


My Old Kentucky Home

Perhaps the most characteristic of the burlesque acts in vaudeville,
this "Tab" has been played in various guises in the two-a-day and
in burlesque for many seasons.  It is the work of a writer who
justly prides himself on his intimate knowledge of the burlesque
form, and who possesses the most complete library of burlesque
manuscripts in America.  To the thousands of readers of "Madison's
Budget," James Madison requires no introduction.

Permission to publish these acts has, in each instance, been
personally granted to the author of this volume.  This kind
permission covers publication in this book only.  Republication
of these acts in whole or in part, in any form whatsoever, is
expressly prohibited.

Stage presentation of any of the acts is likewise forbidden.  A
_Special Warning_ has been inserted in the introductory page of
every act, at the request of each author.  The reason for such
repetition is to be found in the commercial value of successful
vaudeville material, and in the fact that the general public has
never precisely understood the reservations permitted to the author
of a dramatic work under the copyright law.  Infringements of any
sort are subject to severe penalties under United States law and
will be rigidly prosecuted.

To the writers of these acts the author of this volume wishes to
express his deep appreciation for the permissions that enable him
to print as illustrations of his text some of the finest acts that
vaudeville has ever seen.

The German Senator
A Monologue

By Aaron Hoffman
Author of "The Politicians," "The Belle of Avenue A,"
"The Newly-weds and their Baby", "Let George Do It,"
"School Days," Etc., Etc.


My dear friends and falling citizens:

My heart fills up with vaccination to be disabled to come out here
before such an intelligence massage of people and have the chance
to undress such a large conglomerated aggravation.

I do not come before you like other political speakers, with false
pride in one hand and the Star Strangled Banana in the other.

I come before you as a true, sterilized citizen, a man who is for
the public and against the people, and I want to tell you, my
'steemed friends, when I look back on the early hysterics of our
country, and think how our forefathers strangled to make this
country voss iss is it; when you think of the lives that was loosed
and the blood that was shredded, we got to feel a feeling of
patriotic symptoms--we got to feel a patriotic symp--symps--you
got to feel the patri--you can't help it, you got to feel it.

I tell you, our hearts must fill up with indigestion when we look
out to see the Statue of Liberty, the way she stands, all alone,
dressed up in nothing, with a light in her hand, showing her

And what a fine place they picked out for Liberty to stand.

With Coney Island on one side and Blackwell's Island on the other.

And when she stands there now, looking on the country the way it
is and what she has to stand for, I tell you tears and tears must
drop from her eyes.  Well, to prove it--look at the ocean she
filled up.

And no wonder she's crying.  Read the nuisance papers.  See what
is going on.

Look what the country owes.

According to the last report of the Secretary of the Pleasury, the
United States owes five billion dollars.

Nobody knows what we owe it for;

And nobody ever sees what we have got for it; [1]

[1] Here begins the "Panama Canal point," referred to in Chapter
V. It continues until the "End of Panama Canal Point" footnote

First read the monologue including this point, then read it skipping
the point--thus you will see, first, what a complete "point" is;
second, what "blending" means; and third, how a monologist may
shorten or lengthen his routine by leaving out or including a
point. [end footnote]

And if you go to Washington, the Capsule of the United States, and
ask them, THEY don't even know THEMSELVES.

Then they say, what keeps the country broke is the Pay-no-more

It cost the Government nine thousand dollars an hour to dig the
canal.  THINK OF THAT!

Nine thousand dollars an hour for digging, and the worst of it is,
they ain't digging.

Up to date, it has cost a hundred and seventy million dollars to
dig a hole--they've been at it for over nine years--and the only
hole they've dug is in the United States Treasury.

Every six months, the Chief Engineer, he comes up with a report;

He says:  "Mr. Congress, the canal is getting better every day, a
million dollars MORE please."

He gets the money, goes out, buys a couple of shovels, then sends
back a telegram:  HOORAY--The digging is very good, the two oceans
will soon be one.

Can you beat that?

Before they started the canal it didn't cost us nothing, and we
had two oceans.

And by the time they get through, it'll cost us three hundred
million and we'll only have one.

And now that the canal is nearly finished, it looks like it was
going to get us into trouble.

Japan is against it on one side and England don't like it on the

And that's why we've got to have a navy. [1]

[1] End of "Panama Canal point."  See footnote above, also Chapter

Of course, we've got a navy.

But everybody is kicking about it.

Why should they kick?

All we appropriated for the navy last year was four million dollars.

And there's eighty million people in this country.

And that figures a nickel apiece.

And what the hell kind of a navy do you expect for a nickel?

Still they are crying that the country is in destitution circumstances.
That is inconsis--inconsis--you can't deny it.

Our country has got a superabum, a superabum--a superabum--we've
got a lot of money.

There's money lying in the treasury that never was touched.  And
the first fellow that will touch it will get six months.

The whole trouble is the trusts.

Look what the cold storage trust have done with the eggs.  Sixty
cents a dozen--for the good ones.  And the good ones are rotten.

Then they say the reason prices are going up is because wages are
getting higher.

But why should they raise the price of eggs?

The chickens ain't getting any more wages.

And if meat goes up any higher, it will be worth more than money.

Then there won't be any money.

Instead of carrying money in your pocket, you'll carry meat around.

A sirloin steak will be worth a thousand dollar bill.

When you go down to the bank to make a deposit, instead of giving
the cashier a thousand dollar bill, you'll slip him a sirloin

If you ask him for change, he'll give you a hunk of bologny.

If they keep on, we won't be able to live at all.

Statistics prove that the average wages of the workingman is one
dollar a day.

Out of that, he's got to spend fifty cents a day for food; fifty-five
cents for rent; ten cents for car fare.

And at the end of a hard day's work--he owes himself fifteen cents.

Yet the rich people say that the poor people are getting prosperous.

They say, look at our streets.  You see nothing but automobiles.
You don't see half the poor people now that you used to.

Certainly you don't.

Half of them have already been run over and the other half is
afraid to come out.

Why, between the automobiles and the trusts the poor man hasn't
got a chance to live.

And if only the gas trust gets a little stronger, the price of gas
will go up so high a poor man won't even be able to commit suicide.

They'll have him both ways.  He can't live and he can't die.

And that's why I am with the socialists.

They say, "Down with the trusts!  Do away with money.  Make everything

Imagine a fellow going into a jewelry store and saying:

"Give me a diamond ring, here's a lemon."

But the socialists have got some good ideas for the working people.
And my heart and soul is with the labor class of people.  I am for
labor unions.

But what help are the labor unions to the working man?

Look at it in the right light.

A man pays twenty-five dollars to join a union.  He gets a job in
a shop for two dollars a day, works two weeks, the union gets out
on a strike and he owes himself a dollar.

The unions are crying the days are too long.

They want the days shorter.  They want the days should be eight
hours long.

But think of the fellows out in the North Pole where the days are
six months long.  That's the place for the poor man to live.

When the landlord comes around and says, "Rent," all you have to
do is to tell him to come around the day after tomorrow.

Then Andrew Carnigger, he comes out and tells us you should save
money and put it in the bank.

What's the use of putting your money in the bank?

It's easy enough to put it in, but it aint so easy to get it out.
When you want to take your money out, you got to give the cashier
sixty days notice.

And did you ever figure out how far a cashier can go in sixty days?

Then they say, as the world goes on, we are improving.

It's ridiculum.

We were better off years ago than we are now.

Look at Adam in the Garden of Eat-ing.

Life to him was a pleasure;

There was a fellow that had nothing to worry about.

Anything he wanted he could get.

But the darn fool had to get lonesome.

And that's the guy that started all our troubles.

We would be all right today, if it wasn't for Adam and Evil.

Then they say that Adam fell for an apple.

It just shows how men have improved.

No man would fall for an apple today.

It would have to be a peach.

And I tell you, it's no wonder that women feel stuck up.  They say
they can do more than men can do.

That's very true, when you go back to the first woman, Eve.

She was only one little woman, all by herself, and she put the
whole human race on the bum.

Could a man do that?

And yet she was only a rib out of Adam's side.

It just goes to show you what a cheap proposition woman was.

Nowadays, when you want to marry a woman, you got to buy a diamond
ring, take her to the theatres, buy her taxicheaters, and what's
left of your wages you got to spend on candy and tango trots and
turkey teas.  There's where Adam had it on all of us.

All Eve cost him was one bone.

It all goes to show you how much better off man was in those days
than today, and while John D. Rottenfeller, the great Philosopede,
he comes out and says, nobody has a right to be poor; he says,
anybody can live on eighteen dollars a week.

He don't have to tell us that.

Let him tell us how to get the eighteen.

And still that great statesment, William Chinning Bryan, he comes
out and says, we are living in a great country.  He says we are
living in a country of excitement intelligence and education.

That's very true.

Look at our public school system.

A child can go to school for nothing, and when he grows up to be
a man and he is thoroughly educated, he can go into the public
school and be a teacher and get fifty dollars a month.

And the janitor gets ninety-five.

That shows you how education is coming to the front.  Wouldn't it
better, instead of sending a child to school, to learn him to clean
out a cellar?

And what's the cause of all the trouble?

The House of Representatives.

We send them to Washington to look out for the people and the only
time they look out for the people is when they look out the window
and see them coming.

Then they get $7,500 a year.  They spend $10,000 a year, and at
the end of the year they have $100,000 saved.

No wonder they are careless with our money.

That's all they got to do.  Sit around Washington and touch the

Every couple of days a fellow comes into Congress and says:

"Good morning, Congress, let me have $4,000,000."

That's all they do, is make touches for millions.

You never heard of those suckers making a touch for a quarter, or
a half a dollar.

To show you what they do with our money, look at our Weather Bureau

We pay a fellow $10,000 a year.  For what?

To tell us when it's going to rain.

And he don't know himself.

But he don't want to know.

He knows that if he ever guesses it right, he is going to lose his
job.  But believe me, it's a soft job.

Nothing to do.

He gets up in the morning, eats a nice breakfast, smokes a good
fat cigar; then he looks out of the window and says, "Fine weather

Then he takes his umbrella and goes out for a walk.  I tell you,
my dear friends, the way the country stands now, the country stands
on the brink of a preci--the country stands on the brink of a
precip--and if somebody shoves it, it is going over.

And the cause of all the trouble in the country is the crooked

And that's why the women suffering gents have gotten together and
are fighting for their rights.

And you can't blame them.

Now I see where one married woman has hit on a great idea.

She says there's only one protection for the wives.

And that's a wives' union.

Imagine a union for wives.

A couple gets married.

And as soon as they get settled, along comes the walking delegate
and orders a strike.

Then imagine thousands and thousands of wives walking up and down
the streets on strike, and scabs taking their places.

The Art of Flirtation
A Two-Act for Two Men
by Aaron Hoffman

Author of "Toblitz, or The End of the World,"
"The New Leader," "The Son of Solomon,"
"The Speaker of the House," Etc., Etc.


STRAIGHT:  Say, whenever we go out together, you always got a kick
coming.  What's the matter with you?

COMEDIAN:  Nothing is the matter with me.

STRAIGHT:  With you always everything is the matter.

COMEDIAN:  What's the trouble?

STRAIGHT:  The trouble is you don't know nothing.

COMEDIAN:  Yes, I do.

STRAIGHT:  You know!  If I only knew one-half of what you don't know,
I would know twice as much as the smartest man in the world.

COMEDIAN:  What you got against me?

STRAIGHT:  You ain't a gentlemen.

COMEDIAN:  What is a gentlemen?

STRAIGHT:  A gentlemen is a man who knows how to act senseless vit
people no matter vat happens.

COMEDIAN:  I am a gentlemen, I always act senseless.

STRAIGHT:  You are a gentlemen!  Look at you.  How can a man be a
gentlemen with such a face like that.  There are two kinds of
men--gentlemen and rummies.  I am a gentlemen, you are a rummy.

COMEDIAN:  I am a rummy?  I know how to act vit people.  Ven you
met your friends down the street, vat did you say to them?

STRAIGHT:  I said come on and have a drink.  I spoke like a gentlemen.

COMEDIAN:  And ve all vent to have a drink.

STRAIGHT:  Ve did.

COMEDIAN:  Didn't I pay for it?

STRAIGHT:  Sure--that shows you are a rummy.

COMEDIAN:  No, that shows I was a gentlemen.

STRAIGHT:  Dat's right.  In a saloon you are a gentlemen.

COMEDIAN:  Sure I am.  I act just a bartender.

STRAIGHT:  But the trouble with you is you don't know how to mingle.

COMEDIAN:  Oh, I can mingle.

STRAIGHT:  You don't know the first thing about mingling.  As a
mingler you are a flivver.  Among men you are all right, but as
soon as I take you out to some parties and dinners and you see
some women around, your brains get loose.

COMEDIAN:  Why--what do I do?

STRAIGHT:  It makes no resemblance what you do or what you say.
No matter how you do it--no matter how you say it, the women get
insulted.  You ain't got the least consumtion how to be disagreeable
to the ladies.

COMEDIAN:  Oh, I know how to be disagreeable to a lady.  You ought
to hear me talk to my wife.

STRAIGHT:  To your wife?  Any man can be disagreeable to his wife.
But tink of other women--the trouble with you is, you have no, as
the French people say, you have no _savoir faire_.

COMEDIAN:  No what?

STRAIGHT:  I say that you ain't got no, what the French people call,
_savoir faire_.

COMEDIAN:  What's dot?

STRAIGHT:  _Savoir faire_.

COMEDIAN:  Oh, I can salve for fair.

STRAIGHT:  You can salve for fair; yes, but you ain't got no
_savoir faire_.  You are not a mingler.  You have no vit, no humor.
You ain't got no _esprit_.

COMEDIAN:  Vere do you get all dose words?

STRAIGHT:  I get them because I am a gentlemen.

COMEDIAN:  Then I'm glad I am a rummy.

STRAIGHT:  Sure you're a rummy.  If you wasn't a rummy, you'd have

COMEDIAN:  Oh, I had a spree lots of times.

STRAIGHT:  Not a spree.  I mean _esprit_.  I mean you ain't got no
refinement--like me.  I got polish.

COMEDIAN:  You're a shine.

STRAIGHT:  No, I ain't a shine.  I am a lady killer.

COMEDIAN:  One look at you is enough to kill any lady.

STRAIGHT:  I am a Beau Brummel.  Ven I am with the ladies, I talk
to dem vit soft words; I whisper sweet nothings, but you, you rummy
you, you don't know how to make the ladies feel unhappy.

COMEDIAN:  How do you make them unhappy?

STRAIGHT:  You got to be disagreeable to them.

COMEDIAN:  And vat do you do to be disagreeable to ladies?

STRAIGHT:  The only vay to be disagreeable to a lady, you got to
flirt vit her.

COMEDIAN:  Flirt.  Vat does that mean flirt?

STRAIGHT:  Flirting is a thing that begins in nothing.  You say
something, you talk like everything and you mean nothing, and it
liable to end up in anything.  A flirtation is a clan-destination
meeting with a lady.

COMEDIAN:  Vat kind of a meeting is dot?

STRAIGHT:  Don't you know? Ven you flirt, you meet a pretty woman
in a shady spot.

COMEDIAN:  Oh, you meet a shady woman in a pretty spot.

STRAIGHT:  Not a shady woman.  A pretty woman in a shady spot.

COMEDIAN:  How do you know so much about flirting?

STRAIGHT:  Now you come to it.  I got here a book on the art of
flirtation.  Here it is. (biz. shows book.)

COMEDIAN:  What is the name of that book?

STRAIGHT:  The art of flirtation.  How to make a lady fall in love
with you for ten cents.

COMEDIAN:  A lady fell in love with me once and it cost me Five
Hundred Dollars.

STRAIGHT:  That's because you didn't have this book.  This book
tells you how to make love.  This book is full of the finest kind
of love.

COMEDIAN:  For ten cents.

STRAIGHT:  Yes, for ten cents.

COMEDIAN:  Oh, it's ten cents love.

STRAIGHT:  No, it ain't ten-cent love.  It's fine love (opens book).
See--here is the destructions.  Right on the first page you learn
something.  See--how to flirt with a handkerchief.

COMEDIAN:  Who wants to flirt with a handkerchief?  I want to flirt
with a woman.

STRAIGHT:  Listen to what the book says.  To a flirter all things
have got a language.  According to this book, flirters can speak
with the eye, with the fan, with the cane, with the umbrella, with
the handkerchief, with anything.  This book tells you how to do it.

COMEDIAN:  For ten cents.

STRAIGHT:  Shut up.  Now when you see a pretty woman coming along
who wants to flirt with you, what is the first thing a man should

COMEDIAN:  Run the other way.

STRAIGHT:  No, no.  This is the handkerchief flirtation.  As soon
as a pretty woman makes eyes at you, you put your hands in your

COMEDIAN:  And hold on to your money.

STRAIGHT:  No, you take out your handkerchief. (biz.)

COMEDIAN:  Suppose you ain't got a handkerchief?

STRAIGHT:  Every flirter must have a handkerchief.  It says it in
the book.  Now you shake the handkerchief three times like this
(biz.). Do you know what that means?

COMEDIAN:  (Biz. of shaking head.)

STRAIGHT:  That means you want her to give you--

COMEDIAN:  Ten cents.

STRAIGHT:  No.  Dat means you want her to give you a smile.  So you
shake the handkerchief three times like this (biz.), then you draw
it across you mouth like this (biz.). What does that mean?

COMEDIAN:  That means you just had a glass of beer.

STRAIGHT:  No, dat means "I would like to speak with you."

COMEDIAN:  And does she answer?

STRAIGHT:  She got to, it says it in the book.

COMEDIAN:  Does she answer you with a handkerchief?

STRAIGHT:  Yes, or she might umbrella.

COMEDIAN:  Over the head.

STRAIGHT:  Sure.  If she answers you with de umbrella over the head,
that means something.  Ven she holds the umbrella over her head,
she means that she is a married woman.

COMEDIAN:  Den you quit flirting.

STRAIGHT:  No, den you commence.  If she shakes it dis way (biz.),
dat means--

COMEDIAN:  Her husband is coming.

STRAIGHT:  No.  Dat means "You look good to me."  Den you hold your
handkerchief by the corner like dis (biz.).

COMEDIAN:  Vat does that mean?

STRAIGHT:  Meet me on the corner.

COMEDIAN:  Och, dat's fine (takes handkerchief). Den if you hold
it dis way, dat means (biz.) "Are you on the square?"

STRAIGHT:  You are learning already.  You will soon be a flirter.
Now I vill show you how you flirt according to the book.  You are
a man flirter, and I am a beautiful female.

COMEDIAN:  You are what?

STRAIGHT:  A female.  A female.

COMEDIAN:  Vat's dat, a female?

STRAIGHT:  A female.  Don't you know what fee means?  Fee, that
means money.  Male, that means man.  Female.  That means "Get money
from a man."  That's a female.  I am a beautiful woman and just
to teach you how to flirt, I am going to take a walk thro' the

COMEDIAN:  I thought you were a gentlemen.

STRAIGHT:  No.  No.  Just for an instance I am a lady.  I will walk
past in a reckless way, and I will make eyes at you.

COMEDIAN:  If you do, I will smash my nose in your face.

STRAIGHT:  No.  No.  When I make eyes at you, you must wave your
handkerchief at me three times.  Den you reproach me vit all the
disrespect in the world and den you take off your hat and you say
something.  Vat do you say?

COMEDIAN:  Ten cents.

STRAIGHT:  No.  No.  You say something pleasant.  You speak of the
weather, for instance.  You say "Good-evening, Madam, nice day."

COMEDIAN:  Suppose it ain't a nice day?

STRAIGHT:  No matter what kind of a day it is, you speak about it.
Now I'm the lady and I am coming.  Get ready.

(STRAIGHT does burlesque walk around COMEDIAN. . . .  STRAIGHT
stops and drops handkerchief.)

COMEDIAN:  Say--you dropped something.

STRAIGHT:  I know it.  I know it.  Flirt.  Flirt.

(COMEDIAN biz. of pulling out red handkerchief.)

COMEDIAN:  I am flirting.  I am flirting.

STRAIGHT:  What are you trying to do, flag a train?  Why don't you
pick up my handkerchief?

COMEDIAN:  I don't need any, I got one.

STRAIGHT:  (Picks up handkerchief and turns.)  Oh, you rummy you.
Why don't you reproach me and say something about the weather?

COMEDIAN:  All right, you do it again.

STRAIGHT:  Now don't be bashful!  Don't be bashful!  Here I come
(biz. of walk).

COMEDIAN:  (pose with hat.)  Good evening.  Are you a flirter?

STRAIGHT:  Oh you fool (gives COMEDIAN a push).

COMEDIAN:  Oh, what a mean lady dat is.

STRAIGHT:  You musn't ask her if she's a flirter.  You must say
something.  De way it says in the book.  You must speak of something.
If you can't speak of anything else, speak of the weather.

COMEDIAN:  All right, I'll do it again this time.

STRAIGHT:  This is the last time I'll be a lady for you.  Here I
come (biz.).

COMEDIAN:  Good evening, Mrs. Lady.  Sloppy weather we're having.

STRAIGHT:  Sloppy weather!  It's no use; I can't teach you how to
be a flirter, you got to learn it from the book.  Listen.  Here
is what it says.  "After you made the acquaintanceship of de lady,
you should call at her house in the evening.  As you open the gate
you look up at the vindow and she will wave a handkerchief like
this (biz.). That means, somebody is vaiting for you."

COMEDIAN:  The bulldog.

STRAIGHT:  No.  The flirtess.  "You valk quickly to the door."

COMEDIAN:  The bulldog after you.

STRAIGHT:  Dere is no bulldog in this.  You don't flirt vith a

COMEDIAN:  But suppose the bulldog flirts with you?

STRAIGHT:  Shut up.  "She meets you at the door.  You have your
handkerchief on your arm" (biz.)

COMEDIAN:  And the dog on my leg.

STRAIGHT:  No, the handkerchief is on your arm.  Dat means "Can I
come in?"

COMEDIAN:  And den what do you do?

STRAIGHT:  If she says "Yes," you go in the parlor, you sit on the
sofa, side by side, you take her hand.

COMEDIAN:  And she takes your vatch.

STRAIGHT:  No.  You take her hand, den you say:  "Whose goo-goo
luvin' baby is oosum?"

COMEDIAN:  Does it say that in the book?


COMEDIAN:  Let me see it.  (COMEDIAN tears out page.)  Den vat do you

STRAIGHT:  You put her vaist around your arms--

COMEDIAN:  And den?

STRAIGHT:  Den you squeeze it--

COMEDIAN:  And den?

STRAIGHT:  She'll press her head upon your manly shoulder--

COMEDIAN:  And den--

STRAIGHT:  She looks up into your eyes--

COMEDIAN:  And den?

STRAIGHT:  You put the other arm around her--

COMEDIAN:  And den?

STRAIGHT:  You hold her tight--

COMEDIAN:  And den?

STRAIGHT:  You turn down the gas--

COMEDIAN:  And den?

STRAIGHT:  She sighs--

COMEDIAN:  And den?

STRAIGHT:  You sigh--

COMEDIAN:  And den?

STRAIGHT:  Dat's the end of the book.

COMEDIAN:  Is dat all?

STRAIGHT:  Sure.  What do you want for ten cents?

COMEDIAN:  But vat do you do after you turn down the gas?

STRAIGHT:  Do you expect the book to tell you everything?



Louis Weslyn

Author of "At the News Stand," "The Girl and
the Pearl," "An Easy Mary," "A Campus
Flirtation," Etc., Etc.



THE FELLOW                     THE GIRL

SCENE:  A pretty country lane in One, (Special drop) supposed to
be near Lake George.  Rustic bench on R. of stage.  When the
orchestra begins the music for the act, the girl enters, dressed
in a fashionable tailor-made gown, and carrying parasol.  She comes
on laughing, from L., and glancing back over her shoulder at THE
FELLOW, who follows after her, a few paces behind.  THE GIRL wears
only one glove, and THE FELLOW is holding out the other one to her
as he makes his entrance.  He is dressed in a natty light summer
suit and wears a neat straw hat.

THE GIRL:  (As she comes on with a little run.)  I don't see why on
earth you insist upon following me.

THE FELLOW:  (Lifting his hat.)  I never knew why I was _on earth_
until I met you.  (Waving glove at her.)  Say, this is your glove--you
_know_ it's your glove.

THE GIRL:  (Laughingly.)  It must belong to somebody else.

THE FELLOW:  No, it doesn't. I saw you drop it.  Besides, you are
wearing only one glove, and this one matches it.

THE GIRL:  (Stopping on right of stage near rustic bench and turning
to face him, holding out her hand.)  You are right.  It _is_ my
glove.  I'll take it, please.

THE FELLOW:  (Stopping to gaze at her admiringly.)  No, on second
thought, I'll _keep_ it.  (He folds it up tenderly, and places it in
the upper left-hand pocket of his coat.)  I'll keep it right here,
too,--near my heart.

THE GIRL:  Oh, what nonsense!  You've never seen me but three times
in your life.

THE FELLOW:  (Coming nearer her.)  Yes--that's true.  And you look
better every time I see you.  Say, you do look awfully nice this
morning.  Nobody would think, from your appearance, that you
belonged to a camping party here on the shore of Lake George.  I
guess that thunder storm last night didn't bother you a little
bit.  Why, you look as if you were out for a stroll on Fifth Avenue.

THE GIRL:  (Aside.)  Little does he know that I got caught in that
shower and am now wearing my chum, Genevieve's, gown.  (To him.)
What a jollier you are!  You look pretty natty yourself this morning,
it seems to me.

THE FELLOW:  (Aside.)  This suit of clothes I got from Tommy Higgins
has made a hit with her.  I guess I'll just let her think they
belong to me, and won't tell her that I got soaked in the rain
last night.  (To her, lifting his hat again.)  I'm tickled nearly
to death to have you say such complimentary things to me.  It makes
me glad I came on this camping trip.

THE GIRL:  You belong to the camping party flying the flag of the
skull and cross-bones, don't you?

THE FELLOW:  Yes--all the boys are young doctors, except me.

THE GIRL:  And what are you?

THE FELLOW:  I'm the patient.

THE GIRL:  Are you sick?

THE FELLOW:  Love-sick.

THE GIRL:  (Turning up her nose.)  How ridiculous!  What brought you
to Lake George?


THE GIRL:  I!  Oh, you are too absurd for anything.  Give me my
glove, please, and let me go.

THE FELLOW:  (Coming still nearer.)  Don't be rash.  There's no place
to go.  All of your camping party have gone on a boating trip
except yourself.  You're surely not going back there and hang
around the camp all alone?

THE GIRL:  (In surprise.)  How did YOU know that the rest of my party
had gone away for the day?

THE FELLOW:  I saw 'em start.  Why didn't you go with 'em?

THE GIRL:  I had nothing to wear but this tailor-made gown, and a
girl can't go boating in a dress like this.  I only intended to
stay two days when I came up here from New York to join the camp,
and was not prepared with enough clothes.  I've sent home for
clothes and am expecting them to arrive at the camp this morning--
_that's_ why I didn't go boating, since you are impertinent enough
to ask.  (She gives him an indignant look.)

THE FELLOW:  I beg your pardon.  Won't you sit down?

THE GIRL:  No, I will not.  (Still looking quite indignant, she sits
down immediately on bench.  He sits down beside her.)

THE FELLOW:  Neither will I.  (He looks at her out of the corners
of his eyes, and she turns her face away, nervously tapping the
stage with one foot.)

THE GIRL:  You seem to know all that has been going on at our camp.
I believe you have been spying on us.

THE FELLOW:  Not at all.  I know one of the girls in your camp.

THE GIRL:  (Sarcastically.)  Oh, you do!  (She tosses her head.)  So
you have been following me up in order to send some message to
another girl.  Who is she?

THE FELLOW:  Genevieve Patterson.

THE GIRL:  (Aside.)  I'll _never_ let him know now that I have on
Genevieve's clothes.

THE FELLOW:  But you're mistaken.  I've already sent the message.
It was about _you_.

THE GIRL:  About _me_?  What about me?

THE FELLOW:  I wanted Genevieve to introduce us.  Say--you haven't
told me your name yet.

THE GIRL:  I don't intend to.  I think you are very forward.

THE FELLOW:  Shall I tell you _my_ name?

THE GIRL:  By no means.

THE FELLOW:  You're not interested?

THE GIRL:  Not a bit.

(There is a pause.  She keeps her head turned away.  He looks
upward and all around, somewhat embarrassed.)

THE FELLOW:  (Finally breaking the silence.)  Are there any bugs in
your camp?

THE GIRL:  (Facing him angrily.)  Sir!

THE FELLOW:  I mean gnats, mosquitoes--things like that.

THE GIRL:  Yes.  I was badly bitten last night by a mosquito.

THE FELLOW:  (Very much interested.)  Where did he get you?

THE GIRL:  (Laughing.)  Well, you are so fresh that I can't be mad
at you.  You're _too_ funny.  Since you want to know so much, he _got
me_ on the knee.  I wasn't far-seeing enough to bring mosquito
netting.  It's a bad bite.

THE FELLOW:  Is it possible?

THE GIRL:  Don't you believe it?

THE FELLOW:  Well, I'm not far-seeing enough to know for sure.  (With
a sly glance at her knees.)

THE GIRL:  How silly of you!  But say--I know a joke on you.  I saw
you fall in the lake yesterday.

THE FELLOW:  (Nodding his head.)  While I was fishing?

THE GIRL:  Yes; it was so amusing.  I don't know when I've enjoyed
such a hearty joke.  How did you come to fall in?

THE FELLOW:  I _didn't_ come to fall in.  I came to fish.

THE GIRL:  I also saw that man with the camera over in your camp.
What was he dojng?

THE FELLOW:  Oh, he was a moving picture man from New York.  He was
taking moving pictures of our cheese.

THE GIRL:  Preposterous!  Have you caught any fish since you came?

THE FELLOW:  Only a dog-fish, with a litter of puppies.

THE GIRL:  (With wide-open eyes.)  How interesting!  What did you do
with them?

THE FELLOW:  We made frankfurter sausages out of the little ones,
and we are using the big one to guard the camp.

THE GIRL:  To guard the camp?

THE FELLOW:  Yes--it's a watch-dog fish.

THE GIRL:  Well, I've heard of sea-dogs, but I never knew before

THE FELLOW:  Oh, yes--quite common.  I suppose, of course, you heard
the cat-fish having a concert last night.

THE GIRL:  No--surely you are joking.

THE FELLOW:  No, indeed--they were all tom-cats.

THE GIRL:  Who ever heard of such a thing?

THE FELLOW:  Well, you've heard of tom-cods, haven't you?

THE GIRL:  Yes, of course, but--

THE FELLOW:  Well, why not tom-cats then?  Say, you must be sure
to come over to our camp and see the collection in our private
aquarium.  We have two compartments, and keep the little daughter
fish on one side, and--

THE GIRL:  The daughter fish!

THE FELLOW:  (Nodding his head.)  Yes, and the son-fish on the
other.  (THE GIRL springs to her feet, angrily.)

THE GIRL:  You are simply guying me.  I shan't listen to you another
moment.  Give me my glove, sir, I demand it.

THE FELLOW:  (Also jumping to his feet and grasping her by the arm.)
Oh, please don't get mad.  We were getting along so nicely, too.

THE GIRL:  (Sneeringly.) "WE" were getting along so nicely.  You
mean YOU were.  I wasn't.

THE FELLOW:  Yes, you were doing FINE. You were listening to me,
and I can get along all right with anybody that will listen to me.
Besides--ah-ah--fraulein--mam'selle--you know, I don't know your
name--besides I--I--I like you.  I--I think you're the sweetest
girl I've ever seen.

THE GIRL:  (Turning her head away, and releasing her arm from his
grasp.)  Oh, pshaw!  You've said that to a hundred girls.

THE FELLOW:  No--believe me, I have not.  YOU'VE made a mighty big
hit with me.  I'm hard hit this time.  I--

THE GIRL:  (Laughing in spite of herself.)  Oh, you foolish boy.
How can you expect me to believe you?  I'll bet anything that your
coat pockets are filled with love letters from other girls this
very minute.

THE FELLOW:  You are wrong.  You are unjust.  Clementina, you are--

THE GIRL:  (Indignant again.)  Clementina!  How _dare_ you address
me by such a ridiculous--

THE FELLOW:  Oh, pardon me.  I thought Clementina was quite poetic.
Besides, I've got to call you something.  You do me a terrible
injustice.  On my word of honor--as a--as a _fisherman_--I haven't
a love letter in my coat pocket--or anywhere else.  I am young,
innocent, virtuous and--

THE GIRL:  (Bursting into laughter again.)  And utterly foolish, I
should judge.  You are afraid to let me search your pockets.

THE FELLOW:  Afraid?  Who's afraid?  Me afraid!  Well, I'd be tickled
to death to have you search my pockets.  I _dare_ you to search
my pockets.  I dare you--understand?  (He faces her and throws up
his hands over his head.)

THE GIRL:  You dare me, do you?  Well, I just _won't_ take a dare.
I'll do it.

THE FELLOW:  Go ahead and do it.  I repeat, I _dare_ you!  If you
doubt my word, prove to your satisfaction that I never lie.  I
_dare_ you!

THE GIRL:  (Leaning her parasol against bench, and stepping up to
him in very business-like manner.)  Very well, then.  I accept your
challenge.  You can't bluff me out.  I believe that ALL men lie
when they talk to women, and I am under the impression that you
are no exception.  Keep your hands up in the air--promise?

THE FELLOW:  I promise.

THE GIRL:  This is the first time I've ever held up anybody, but
here goes.  (She searches his right-hand pocket.)  I don't suppose
you've ever been robbed before?

THE FELLOW:  Oh, yes--I was once surrounded by a band of robbers.

THE GIRL:  (Still searching.)  Indeed!  On a public highway?

THE FELLOW:  (Still holding up his hands.)  No, in a New York hotel
cafe.  They were the waiters.

THE GIRL:  (Taking her hand out of right-hand pocket.)  Well, there's
nothing in that one but a box of matches.  How about this one?
(She thrusts her hand into the lower left-hand pocket, and pulls
out a letter, written on dainty writing paper.)  Ah! this is what
I expected to find.  Perfumed note paper.  (She looks at it
critically.)  Yes, this is the one--no need to search further.

THE FELLOW:  What the devil!--(His hands drop to his sides, and he
opens his eyes in amazement.)

THE GIRL:  (Turning on him angrily.)  Sir--such language!

THE FELLOW:  Oh, I beg your pardon--but--but--(He points to letter.)
I--I--that letter isn't mine.  I can't understand how it got into
my pocket.  I--(Suddenly a look of enlightenment comes into his
face.  Aside, he says.)  By thunder!--I had forgotten all about it.
This suit of clothes belongs to Tommy Higgins.  Oh, what a mess
I've made of it.  She'll never believe me _now_ if I tell her I am
wearing another fellow's suit.  (To her, excitedly.)  Say--listen
to me, honestly that letter was not written to me, Tommy Higgins,
you see--

THE GIRL:  (Waving him aside.)  No excuses.  You probably thought
you didn't have it with you.  Falsehoods are always found out, you
see.  I was right.  You are like all the rest of the men--a born
liar--only with this difference--you are a _bigger_ liar than the
average.  You are really in a class all by yourself.  (With the
letter held out before her, she scans it eagerly.)

Oh, this is immense!--this is delicious!

THE FELLOW:  (Making a grab for the letter.)  Give that to me, please.

THE GIRL:  Not on your life.  It may not be proper to read other
people's letters, but the present circumstances are unusual.  I
shall certainly read it--and read it aloud.  I want to make you
swallow every word and see how they agree with you.  Listen to I
this, you barbaric Ananias.  (She reads aloud.) "My beloved
Affinity--Come back to town next Saturday without fail.  Just slip
away from the other boys at the camp.  Tell them that an important
business matter demands your presence in the city.  I am crazy to
see you.  Life without you is very stupid.  Come to me, my dearest,
without delay.

                  Always your own,


THE FELLOW:  (Collapsing in a heap on the bench.)  CLEMENTINA!!

THE GIRL:  (Folding up the letter and looking at him in utter scorn.)
So _that's_ where you got the name!  So you were thinking of the
writer of this letter when you addressed ME by the name of Clementina
a while ago.  Simply outrageous!  (She stamps her feet.)

THE FELLOW:  (With a groan.)  Oh, Lord!  I just happened to say
"Clementina" because I thought it was a pretty name.  Won't you
believe me?  I don't know who this Clementina is.  I never saw the
writer of that letter in all my life.  That letter was meant for
Tommy Higgins.  This suit of clothes--

THE GIRL:  (Interrupting.)  Don't even attempt to make ridiculous
explanations.  Don't make yourself more of a liar than you have
already proved.  I won't listen to another word from you.  I didn't
want to listen to you in the first place.  Here is your affinity's
letter, sir.  (She hands it to him.  He takes it and stuffs it
angrily into the coat pocket.)  Now, let me have my parasol, please,
and my glove.  (She reaches for the parasol, but he catches it up
and holds it behind his back, as he rises from the bench.)

THE FELLOW:  You shall not go away until you hear what I want to
say.  Tommy Higgins--

THE GIRL:  Oh, bother Tommy Higgins!

THE FELLOW:  Yes.  That's what I say--only stronger.  But listen,

THE GIRL:  Don't discuss the matter further.  My parasol and glove;
sir!  (She is facing him angrily.)

THE FELLOW:  Oh, come now.  Don't be so hard on a fellow.  I tell
you that letter wasn't written to me.  What if I should search
your pockets and find a letter that belonged to somebody else?
How would you feel about it?

THE GIRL:  You would never find anything in MY pockets that I am
ashamed of--that is, if I HAD any pockets.  But I have no pockets.

THE FELLOW:  (Pointing with one hand at the right side of her
jacket.)  I beg your pardon.  It seems that you know how to tell
'em, too.  What's that, if it isn't a pocket?

THE GIRL:  (In embarrassment.)  Oh--yes--so it is.  (Aside.)  I had
forgotten that I was wearing Genevieve's suit.

THE FELLOW:  Well, turn about is fair play, isn't it?  I'm going
to search _your_ pocket now.

THE GIRL:  You mean to insinuate that I have anything in my pocket
of a compromising nature?  How dare you!

THE FELLOW:  You won't believe ME!  Why should _I_ believe you?  For
all I know, you may be a far different kind of girl than I took
you to be.

THE GIRL:  (Very angry.)  You are insulting, sir.  But since I stooped
so low as to search your pockets, I will give you the satisfaction
of searching mine--and then that will be an end of our acquaintance.
You can then go your way--and I'll go my way.

THE FELLOW:  We'll see about that.  Hold up your hands.

THE GIRL:  (Darting furious glances at him and holding her hands
over her head.)  Very well, sir.  Hurry up, please, and have it
over with.  (THE FELLOW very deliberately goes to bench, leans the
parasol up against it, just as THE GIRL had done before, and
imitating the business-like way in which she had gone through his
pockets, he comes up to her and pushes up his coat sleeves, as if
preparing for a serious piece of business.)

THE FELLOW:  (Still mimicing her manner.)  I don't suppose you've
ever been held up before?

THE GIRL:  (Icily.)  No--you are the first burglar I have ever met.

THE FELLOW:  Promise to hold your hands up until I have finished?

THE GIRL:  (Scornfully.)  Of course, I'm a girl of my word.

THE FELLOW:  All right then.  (He deliberately kisses her squarely
on the lips, while her hands are held up over her head.  She gives
a cry and starts to drop her hands and push him away, but he catches
her arms and gently holds them up over her head again.)  No, no,
I'm not through yet.

THE GIRL:  You are a brute.  You are not worthy to associate with
a respectable girl.  (THE FELLOW thrusts his hands into the pocket
of her jacket and puns out a box of cigarettes and a letter.  He
holds them up before her horrified eyes.)

THE FELLOW:  Well.  I'll be--(He starts to say "damned," but stops
just in time.  THE GIRL'S arms drop limply to her sides, and with
eyes staring in complete bewilderment she staggers to the bench
and collapses down upon it.)

THE GIRL:  Good heavens!

THE FELLOW:  (Blinking his eyes at the articles which he holds
before him.)  What innocent playthings!  A box of Pall Malls and a
letter--no doubt, an affinity letter.  (He shakes his head, soberly.)
Well, well!  And you just said I wasn't fit to associate with you.

THE GIRL:  (Her breast heaving in great agitation.)  Oh, this is a
terrible mistake!  What could Genevieve have been doing with those

THE FELLOW:  (Turning on her, quickly.)  Genevieve?

THE GIRL:  Yes, Genevieve.

THE FELLOW:  Genevieve Patterson.

THE GIRL:  Yes, Genevieve Patterson--the girl you know--my best
friend.  Oh, _can't_ you understand?  Those things don't belong to
me.  They are--(She stops abruptly, bites her lips, clasps her
hands.  Then says, aside.)  Oh, what am I doing?  I mustn't allow
Genevieve's reputation to be ruined.  I might as well take the
blame and brave it out myself.  This situation is frightful.  (She
turns to him again.)  I can't explain, but don't--oh, please don't
think that I--that I--(She stops, looking as if she is about to

THE FELLOW:  (Again looking at the articles and shaking his head.)
And you always looked like such a nice girl, too.  Cigarettes--and--
(He opens up the letter.)

THE GIRL:  (Suddenly springing to her feet.) You must not read that
letter.  It does not belong to me.  You have no right to read that

THE FELLOW:  But you read the letter that didn't belong to me.

THE GIRL:  It _did_ belong to you.

THE FELLOW:  It didn't!


THE FELLOW:  Didn't!

THE GIRL:  (Running forward and trying to grab the letter, which
he holds out of her reach.)  I _forbid_ you to read that letter.
I swear to you, it is not mine.

THE FELLOW:  (Still holding it out of her reach and looking it
over.)  By George!  You are right--it is NOT yours.  It is MINE!


THE FELLOW:  Yes, mine.  It's the very message I sent to Genevieve
Patterson yesterday--the letter in which I asked for an introduction
to you.  (He hands it to her.)  Here--read it yourself, if you don't
believe me this time.  (THE GIRL wonderingly takes the letter and
reads it to herself, her lips moving and her eyes wide open in

THE GIRL:  (As she finishes she looks sweetly up at him.)  Then you
are NOT such a liar after all.  You _did_ tell me the truth.

THE FELLOW:  Nothing but the truth.

THE GIRL:  But what about that other letter?

THE FELLOW:  (Taking her by the shoulder and speaking quickly.)
Now, you've _got_ to listen.  That other letter was written to Tommy
Higgins.  I was caught in the shower last night, and had to borrow
this suit of clothes from Tommy.

THE GIRL:  (A glad smile gradually coming over her face.)  O-h-h!

THE FELLOW:  But how did you come to have my letter written to

THE GIRL:  Oh, _don't_ you understand?  (She looks at him beseechingly.)

THE FELLOW:  (The truth suddenly striking him.)  Oh-h-h-!  I see!  You
got caught in the shower, too.  You borrowed that tailor-made suit
from Genevieve.

THE GIRL:  Can you doubt it?

THE FELLOW:  But the cigarettes?

THE GIRL:  I can't account for them.  I only know--

THE FELLOW:  Never mind.  I don't care.  (He stuffs the cigarettes
into his own pocket and grasps both of her hands in his own.)  Tell
me--you don't think I'm the biggest liar in the world, do you?

THE GIRL:  (Archly.)  No--not quite.

THE FELLOW:  (Slipping his arm around her.)  And if you were
married--to--to a fellow like me, you'd make him an awfully good
wife, wouldn't you?

THE GIRL:  (Laughing.). No--I'd try to make HIM a good husband.  (He
bends over and is just about to kiss her when a MAN'S VOICE is
heard off stage to the Right.)

MAN'S VOICE:  (Off stage.)  Hey, there, Miss--your trunk has come.
(THE FELLOW and THE GIRL spring apart, guiltily.)

THE FELLOW:  (Bitterly.)  Just when I had it all cinched.  (THE GIRL
runs to the bench, picks up her parasol, still laughing.)

THE GIRL:  It's the wagon from the railroad station, with my clothes
from town.  Good-bye.  (She starts off, Right.)

THE FELLOW:  But you're coming back again?

THE GIRL:  Well--maybe--perhaps--If you're good.  (She exits laughing.)

THE FELLOW:  She's got me going.  My head's in a muddle, and I feel
like a sailor full of horn-pipes.  And that reminds me of Tommy
Higgins' latest song.  It goes like this:  (Here is introduced comic
song.  At finish THE GIRL comes running on from Right, dressed in
a pretty summer dress, and carrying another pretty silk parasol.
THE FELLOW takes his hat off and holding it high over his head,
exclaims:) Here comes the rainbow after the shower!

THE GIRL:  I must explain to you--I saw Genevieve--the cigarettes
belong to her brother, Jack.

THE FELLOW:  And I've just found out what belongs to me.

THE GIRL:  What?

THE FELLOW:  You!  (He takes her parasol, opens it, and holds it in
front of them for an instant so that their faces are hidden from
audience.  This is music cue for the Conversation Number which
brings the sketch to a finish.)



Arthur Denvir
Author of "Busy Isabel," "How Ignatius Got
Pneumonia," "When Wit Won," "The War
Correspondent," Etc., Etc.



GLADYS DRESSUITCASE . . . . . A Deserted Wife
ALPHONSO DRESSUITCASE . . . . Her Dying Che-ild
MOE REISS DRESSUITCASE. . . . Her Fugitive Husband
BIRDIE BEDSLATZ . . . . . . . Her Doll-faced Rival
ALGERNON O'FLAHERTY . . . . . The Villain Who Pursued Her



Music:  "Mendelssohn's Spring Song," Played in discords.  Spot Light
on L. I.


Enter GLADYS wearing linen duster and dragging a big rope to which
is attached a case of beer with about eight empty bottles in it.
She stops C.

GLADYS:  (Tearfully.)  At last I am almost home.  Eleven miles walk
from the sweat shop here, and that's some hoofing it, believe me.
(Sways.)  Oh, I am faint (Looks over shoulder at beer case.), faint
for the want of my Coca-Cola.  (Enter ALGERNON R. I--wears slouch
hat, heavy moustache, red shirt and high boots.  She is facing L.)
Oh, I have a hunch I'm being shadowed--flagged by a track-walker!
But I mustn't think of that.  (Starts to drag case L.)  I must get
home to my dying child.  He needs me--he needs me.  (Exits L. I.)

ALGERNON:  (Goes L. C. and looks after her.)  It is Gladys--found
at last!  (Enter BIRDIE L. I. She is in bright red with white plumes
and is a beautiful, radiant adventuress. )

BIRDIE:  Did you get a good look at her?

ALGERNON:  Yes--it's Gladys and she's down and out--(Both together:)
Curse her!

ALGERNON:  Now I can begin pursuing her again.

BIRDIE:  Yes, and I can gloat over her misery--and gloating's the
best thing I do.

ALGERNON:  Come (fiercely!) We are wasting time.

BIRDIE:  She'll never know me with this dark hair and no make-up on.

ALGERNON:  (At L. I--still more fiercely.)  Can that junk!  Come!
(Exits L. I.)

BIRDIE:  (Going to L. I.)  He has me in his power.  I must follow
him.  Curse him!  (Exits after ALGERNON.  Enter MOE REISS in bum
evening-clothes and opera hat.  Carries cane.)

MOE REISS:  (Reading from back of envelope.)  Down this street and
turn into the alley full of ash cans!  I'm on the right track at
last.  Once more I shall see my wife and my little boy!  Of course,
she'll be sore because I ran away and deserted her, leaving her
no alimony except the dying che-ild.  But I must produce a real
wife and child from somewhere or I'll lose the $9.75 my uncle left
me.  (Goes L. musingly.)  Why do I love money so?  Ay, that's the
question.  (Looking up at gallery.)  And what's the answer?  (Points
off L. with cane--dramatically.)  We shall see--we shall see.  (Dashes
off L.)

The lights go out, and the Drop in One takes all the time that the
clock strikes sixteen or seventeen to go up, so it is timed very



A Mott Street Garret--everything of the poorest description.  Old
table down stage R., with chair on either side and waste paper
basket in front.  Cot bed down stage L. Old cupboard up stage C.
Small stand at head of cot.

PHONSIE lies in cot, head up stage, covered up.  He should weigh
over two hundred pounds.  He wears Buster Brown wig and nightie
that buttons up the back.  GLADYS is seated at table d. s. R.,
sewing on a tiny handkerchief.  She is magnificently dressed and
wears all the jewelry she can carry.  Pile of handkerchiefs at
back of table within reach and a waste basket in front of table
where she can throw handkerchiefs when used.

As curtain rises, the clock off stage slowly strikes for the
sixteenth or seventeenth time.

GLADYS:  Five o'clock and my sewing still unfinished.  Oh, it must
be done to-night.  There's the rent--six dollars.  To-day is
Friday--bargain day--I wonder if the landlord would take four

(Business.  PHONSIE snores.)  And my child needs more medicine.
The dog biscuits haven't helped him a bit, and his stomach is too
weak to digest the skin foods.  (Wood crash off stage.)  How restless
he is, poor little tot!!!!  Fatherless and deserted, sick and
emaciated--eight years have I passed in this wretched place,
hopeless, hapless, hipless.  At times the struggle seems more than
I can bear, but I must be brave for my child, my little one.  (Buries
face in hands.) (Business.  Sews.)

PHONSIE:  (Business.)  Mommer!  Mommer!  Are you there?  (Blows pea
blower at her.)

GLADYS:  (Hand to cheek where he hit her.)  Yes, dolling, mommer is

PHONSIE:  Say, mommer, am I dying?  (Loud and toughly.)

GLADYS:  (Sadly.)  I am afraid _not_, my treasure.

PHONSIE:  Why not, mommer?

GLADYS:  You are too great a pest to die, sweetheart.

PHONSIE:  But the good always die young, don't they, mommer?

GLADYS:  (Still sewing.)  But you were not speaking about the good--you
were speaking of yourself, my precious.

PHONSIE:  Ain't I good, mommer, don't you think?

GLADYS:  (Business.)  Oh, I don't dare to think!!!!  (Moves up stage.)

PHONSIE:  Don't think if it hurts you, mommer.

GLADYS:  (At dresser.)  But come, it is time for your medicine.
(Shows enormous pill.)

PHONSIE:  (Scared.)  What is that, mommer?

GLADYS:  Just a horse pill, baby.  (Puts it in his mouth.)  There,
that will help cure mother's little man.  (At table.)

PHONSIE:  Gee!  That tasted fierce.  (Business.  Knock.)  Some one is
knocking, mommer.

GLADYS:  They're always knocking mommer.  (At door.)

VOICE:  Have yez th' rint?

GLADYS:  I haven't.

VOICE:  Much obliged.

GLADYS:  You're welcome.

PHONSIE:  Who was that, mommer?

GLADYS:  That was only the landlord for the rent.  Alas, I cannot
raise it.

PHONSIE:  Then if you can't raise the rent, raise me, mommer.  Can't
I have the spot-light to die with?

GLADYS:  Why certainly you shall have one.  Mr. Electrician, will
you kindly give my dying child a spot-light?  (Business.)  There,
dearest, there's your spot-light.

PHONSIE:  (Laughs.)  Oh, that's fine.  Mommer, can I have visions?

GLADYS:  Why surely, dear, you can have all the visions you want.
(Shoves opium pipe in his mouth and lights it.)  Now tell mommer
what you see, baby!

PHONSIE:  Oh, mommer, I see awful things.  I can see the Gerry
society pinching me.  And oh, mommer, I can see New York, [1] and
there ain't a gambling house in the town.

[1] Substitute name of any big city.

GLADYS:  He's blind!!!!  My child's gone blind!!!!  (PHONSIE snores.)
He sleeps at last, my child, my little dying child!!!!  (Enter

GLADYS:  (Discovers ALGERNON.)  You!!!!  (ALGERNON turns to Orchestra
and conducts Chord with cane.) (GLADYS Left, ALGERNON C., BIRDIE R.)

ALGERNON:  (Chord.)  Yes, Gladys Dressuitcase, once more we meet!!!!!

GLADYS:  And the lady with the Brooklyn [1] gown!!  Ah, you will
start, but I know you in spite of your disguise, Birdie Bedslatz.

[1] Substitute name of the local gag town.

BIRDIE:  Disguise!  What disguise?

GLADYS:  Woman, you cannot deceive me.  You've been to the dry-dock
and had your face scraped.

BIRDIE:  So, you still want war?

GLADYS:  No, I want justice!!!!  (ALGERNON conducts Chord.)  You have
tracked me like sleuthhounds.  You have hunted me down after all
these years.  You have robbed me of home, husband, honor and
friends.  What then is left me?  (L.)

BIRDIE:  (Menacingly.)  There is always the river.

GLADYS:  What, you dare suggest that, you with your past!

BIRDIE:  How dare you mention that to me!  I am now writing Sunday
stories for the New York "American." [2] (Crosses to left and sits.)

[2] Substitute name of the local sensational newspaper.

GLADYS:  (Stunned.)  Sophie Lyons, now I see it all.

ALGERNON:  (Center.)  I have here a mortgage.

GLADYS:  A mortgage!!!!  What is it on?

ALGERNON:  I don't know.  What difference does that make?  It is a
mortgage.  That's all that's necessary.

GLADYS:  Can it be a mortgage on the old farm?

ALGERNON:  (Moves over to R.)  Certainly, on the old farm!!!!  The
dear old homestead in New Hampshire.  (Takes paper from pocket.
Crosses over to GLADYS.)  I have also the paper that always goes
with the mortgage.  Sign this paper and the mortgage shall be
yours, refuse--and--do you mind my coming closer so that I can
hiss this in your ear?

GLADYS:  Not at all, come right over.

ALGERNON:  (Close to GLADYS.)  Refuse (Hiss), I say, and you and
your child shall be thrown into the streets to starve.  (Hiss.)

GLADYS:  (Crosses R.)  Oh, I must have time to drink--I mean think.
But this is infamous.  The landlord will--

ALGERNON:  I am the landlord.  Now will you sign the papers?

GLADYS:  No, a thousand times no!!!!!  (Chord.) (ALGERNON conducts
Chord.)  No!!!!

BIRDIE:  (Hand to ear.)  Good gracious, don't scream so, where do
you think you are?

ALGERNON:  You won't sign?

GLADYS:  No, do your worst, throw me into the street with my child.
He is sick, dying!!!!

ALGERNON:  What's the matter with him?  (Goes to bed.) (PHONSIE is
heaving and whistling.)  Great heavens, he has the heaves.  (Goes R.)

BIRDIE:  What are you doing for him?

GLADYS:  Trying the hot air treatment.

BIRDIE:  I should think you would be expert at that.

GLADYS:  The doctor says he has grey matter in his brain.

BIRDIE:  (Comes down L.)  I am sorry, very sorry.

ALGERNON:  Sorry!  Bah, this is a cheap play for sympathy!  (To
GLADYS:) Will you sign the papers?

GLADYS:  Never, I defy you:  (To BIRDIE.)  As for you, beautiful fiend
that you are, you came between me and my husband; you stole him
from me with your dog-faced beauty; I mean doll-faced.  But I can
see your finish, I can see you taking poison in about fifteen

BIRDIE:  (Over to ALGERNON.)  Put me wise, is this true?

ALGERNON:  No, 'tis false, false as hell!!!!!  (Points up.)

GLADYS:  It's true, as true as heaven.  (Points down.)  I swear it.

ALGERNON:  (Crosses up to GLADYS.)  Why, curse you, I'll--

GLADYS:  (With pistol.)  Stand back!!!!!  I'm a desperate woman!!!!!

ALGERNON:  (Center.)  Foiled, curse the luck, foiled by a mere slip
of a girl.

BIRDIE:  What's to be done?

ALGERNON:  (Yells.)  Silence!!!!  (Business.)  Once aboard the lugger
the girl must and shall be mine!!!!

BIRDIE:  But how do you propose to _lug her_ there?  (ALGERNON moves
up to door.)

GLADYS:  Oh, I see it all.  You have brought this she-devil here
to work off her bad gags on me.  Man, have you no heart?

ALGERNON:  (Comes down C.)  Of course I have a heart.  I have also
eyes, ears, nose, tongue and--

BIRDIE:  Brains, calves' brains--breaded.

ALGERNON:  That will be about all from you.  Go, leave us!

BIRDIE:  Alone?


GLADYS:  Alone!

PHONSIE:  (In sepulchral tone.)  Oh, Gee!

BIRDIE:  But it's hardly decent.  You need a tamer.

ALGERNON:  Go!  (Crosses to R.)  Go, I say, before it is too late.

BIRDIE:  Oh, there's no hurry.  Every place is open.

ALGERNON:  Don't sass me, Birdie Bedslatz, but clear out, scat!!!!

BIRDIE:  Ain't he the awful scamp?  (Starts to door.)

GLADYS:  (Clinging to her.)  No, you cannot, must not go.  Don't
leave me alone with that piano mover.

BIRDIE:  I must go.  I have poison to buy.  (At door.)  Ah, Algernon
O'Flaherty, if there was more men in the world like you, there'd
be less women like me--I just love to say that.  Ta--ta.  (PHONSIE
blows pea-shooter at her as she Exits.  She screams and grabs

ALGERNON:  (To GLADYS back.)  So, proud beauty, at last we are alone!

GLADYS:  Inhuman monster!!!  What new villainy do you propose?

ALGERNON:  None, it's all old stuff.  Listen, Gladys.  When I see
you again, all the old love revives and I grow mad, mad.

GLADYS:  You dare to speak of love to me?  Why, from the first
moment I saw you, I despised you.  And now I tell you to your face
that I hate and loathe you, for the vile, contemptible wretch that
you are.

ALGERNON:  (Center.)  Be careful, girl!  I can give you wealth, money,
jewels--jewels fit for a king's ransom.

GLADYS:  (Runs into his arms.)  Oh, you can--Where are they?

ALGERNON:  They are in hock for the moment, but see, here are the
tickets.  I shall get them out, anon.

GLADYS:  Dastardly wretch!!!!!  With your pawn tickets to try and
cop out a poor sewing girl.  (Up at door.)  There is the door, go!
(Points other way.)

ALGERNON:  (Up to her.)  Why curse you, I'll--

GLADYS:  Strike, you coward!  (Chord.) (ALGERNON conducts Chord.)

ALGERNON:  Coward!!!!  (He conducts same Chord an Octave higher.)

GLADYS:  Yes, coward. . . . Now go, and never cross this threshold

ALGERNON:  (Going up stage.)  So, I'm fired with the threshold gag?
Very well, I go, but I shall return. . . .  I shall return!  (Exits.)

PHONSIE:  (Blows pea-blower after him.)  Who was that big stiff,
mommer, the instalment man?

GLADYS:  No, darling, he is the floor-walker in a slaughter house.

PHONSIE:  Mommer, when do I eat?

GLADYS:  Alas, we cannot buy food, we are penniless.

PHONSIE:  If you would only put your jewels in soak, mommer.

GLADYS:  What, hock me sparks?  Never!  I may starve, yes, but I'll
starve like a lady in all my finery!

PHONSIE:  Mommer, I want to eat.

GLADYS:  What shall I do?  My child hungry, dying, without even the
price of a shave!  Oh, my heart is like my brother on the railroad,

PHONSIE:  Ah, don't cry, mommer.  You'll have the whole place damp.
You keep on sewing and I'll keep on dying.

GLADYS:  Very well.  (Drying eyes.)  But first I'll go out and get
a can of beer.  Thank goodness, we always have beer money.

PHONSIE:  Oh yes, mommer, do rush the growler.  Me coppers is
toastin'. And don't forget your misery cape and the music that
goes with you, will you, mommer?

GLADYS:  I'll get those.

PHONSIE:  And you'd better take some handkerchiefs.  You may want
to cry.  But don't cry in the beer, mommer, it makes it flat.

GLADYS:  Thank you, baby, I do love to weep.  Oh, if we only had a
blizzard, I'd take you out in your nightie.  But wait, sweetheart,
wait till it goes below zero.  Then you shall go out with mommer,

PHONSIE:  Don't stand chewing the rag with the bartender, will you,

GLADYS:  Only till he puts a second head on the beer.  (Exit R.)

PHONSIE:  Gee, it's fierce to be a stage child and dying.  I wonder
where my popper is?  I want my popper--I want my popper.  (Bawls.)

MOE REISS:  (Enters.)  Why, what is the matter, my little man?

PHONSIE:  Oh, I'm so lonely, I want my popper.

MOE REISS:  And where is your popper?

PHONSIE:  Mommer says he is in Philadelphia.  (Sniffles.)

MOE REISS:  (Lifts hat reverently.)  Dead, and his child doesn't
know.  And where is your mama?

PHONSIE:  Oh, she's went out to chase the can.

MOE REISS:  And what is your name, my little man?

PHONSIE:  Alphonso.  Ain't that practically the limit?

MOE REISS:  Alphonso?  I once had a little boy named Alphonso, who
might have been about your age.

PHONSIE:  And what prevented him?

MOE REISS:  (Sighs.)  Alas, I lost him!

PHONSIE:  That was awful careless of you.  You oughtn't to have
took him out without his chain.  (Sniffs.)

MOE REISS:  What's the matter with your nose?

PHONSIE:  I have the glanders--and the heaves.  I get all the horse
diseases.  Father was a race track tout.

MOE REISS:  A race track tout?  What is your last name?

PHONSIE:  Dressuitcase, Alphonso Dressuitcase.

MOE REISS:  Dressuitcase?  And have you heavy shingle marks on your
person, great blue welts?

PHONSIE:  You bet I have, and my popper put them there, too.

MOE REISS:  Why, it's my boy, Phonsie, my little Phonsie.  Don't
you know me?  It's popper.  (Slams him in face hard with open hand.)

PHONSIE:  Well, your style is familiar, but you don't need to show

GLADYS:  (Enters.  Carrying Growler carefully.)  Moe!  Moe!  My husband!
(Buries face in can.)

MOE REISS:  Gladys!  Gladys!  My wife!  (Takes can from GLADYS.)

PHONSIE:  (Comes between them.)  Here, I want to have my fever
reduced.  (Back to bed.)

GLADYS:  Where have you been all these years, Moe?

MOE REISS:  Just bumming around, just bumming around.  When I
deserted you and copped out Birdie Bedslatz, I went from bad to
worse, from Jersey City to Hoboken. [1] When my senses returned,
I was insane.

[1] Local.

GLADYS:  My poor husband, how you must have suffered!

MOE REISS:  At heart, I was always true to you and our little boy,
and I want to come back home.

GLADYS:  But tell me, Moe, how are you fixed?  (Tries to feel his
vest pocket.)

MOE REISS:  Fine, I am running a swell gambling joint.

GLADYS:  Splendid!  Now, Phonsie shall have proper nourishment.

MOE REISS:  He shall have all the food he can eat.  (Up to bed.)

GLADYS:  Yes, and all the beer he can drink.

MOE REISS:  Great heavens, I could never pay for that.

GLADYS:  Ah, then he will have to cut out his souse.  Dear little
chap; he loved to get tanked up.  Oh look at him, Moe, he is the
living image of you.  I think if he lives, he will be a great bull
fighter.  (PHONSIE has finished the beer, and is sucking at a nipple
on large bottle marked "Pure Rye.")

MOE REISS:  Then he does take after me--dear little chap.  (Hits him.)

GLADYS:  Indeed he does.  But is it safe for you to come here, Moe?

MOE REISS:  Not with Whitman [1] on my trail.  You know, Gladys,
in the eyes of the world, I am guilty.

[1] Local District Attorney.

GLADYS:  Then the world lies.  (Chord.  ALGERNON comes on from R. I
and conducts and then Exits.)  I still trust you, my husband, though
the police want you for stealing moth balls.  (Crash off.)  What's
that?  (Runs to door.)  Oh, it's the health department.  They have
come with the garbage wagon to arrest you.  Quick, in there.  (Points
to door R.)

MOE REISS:  No, let them come.  I am here to see my wife and here
I shall remain.

GLADYS:  But for our child's sake.  See, he holds up his little
hands and pleads for you to go.  (PHONSIE in pugilistic attitude.)

PHONSIE:  Say, pop, if you don't get a wiggle on and duck in there,
there'll be something doing.  (Business.)

MOE REISS:  My boy, I can refuse you nothing.  (Exits.)

GLADYS:  (At door C.)  They are sneaking up, on rubbers!  (To PHONSIE.)
Lie down, Fido.  (Guarding door R. Enter ALGERNON and BIRDIE, Door C.)

ALGERNON:  There's some hellish mystery here!

BIRDIE:  You can search me.

ALGERNON:  (Sees GLADYS.)  Aha!  Now will you sign those papers?

GLADYS:  Never.  (Bus.)  I'll sign nothing.  (Down R.)

ALGERNON:  (Takes carrot from his hip pocket.)  You won't?  There,
curse you, take that.  (Hits her in neck with carrot.)

GLADYS:  In the neck!  In the neck, where I always get it!

ALGERNON:  (Center.)  Quick, Birdie, seize the child and run.

BIRDIE:  (Left, looks scornfully at PHONSIE.)  You've got your nerve.
He weighs a ton!!

PHONSIE:  Oh!  She's going to kidnap me!!  Assistance!!

ALGERNON:  Silence!!  Enough!!  (To GLADYS.)  I have just come from
the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.

GLADYS:  Well?

ALGERNON:  I have reported to them that your child has the heaves.

GLADYS:  Well?

ALGERNON:  The Society is sending a horse ambulance to take him to
the dump.

GLADYS:  Dump?  To the dump?!!!  No, no, it's a cruel, hideous jest!
Take away my little dying boy?  It would kill him, you understand,
it would kill him!!

PHONSIE:  (Toughly.)  Sure, it would kill me!!  (Bites off big chew
of Tobacco.)

ALGERNON:  Nevertheless, in five minutes the horse ambulance will
be here.

GLADYS:  Oh no! no! no!  What if my child should die?

ALGERNON:  Then they will make glue out of his carcass.

GLADYS:  Glue.  Aw!  (Shakes snow on herself from box hanging over
the table L.)

PHONSIE:  I don't want to be no glue, mommer, I'd be all stuck up.

GLADYS:  (Goes C. to PHONSIE.)  Why this fiendish plot?  What have
I done that you thus pursue me?

ALGERNON:  (R. C.)  You repulsed my hellish caresses.

GLADYS:  Oh, I will do anything to save my child.  I'll try to love
you. . . .  I will love!  See?  (Business.) (Into his arms.)  I love
you now!

MOE REISS:  (Enter, center.)  What's this?  My wife in that man's
arms?  Oh!  (Crosses L.)

GLADYS:  (At right, to MOE REISS.)  Oh, Moe, I can explain.  (Grabs
his throat and shakes him.)

MOE REISS:  (To GLADYS.)  Explain!!!  How?  I go away and desert you
for eight years.  (Turns from her and goes L.)  In that short absence
you forget your husband.  (Turns to her.)  I return to find you in
his arms, before my very nose.  (Smashes PHONSIE in face.) (Business.)
(He sees BIRDIE.)  You, Birdie!

BIRDIE:  Yes, I, little Birdie--Birdie on the spot.

MOE REISS:  Ah, you she-fiend, you lady demon!  (Kisses her.)

GLADYS:  (Screams.)  No, no!  (Runs to him.)  It's all a plot!  A hideous
plot to part us!  This man has complained to the S. P. C. A. that
our little Phonsie has the heaves.  They are sending a horse
ambulance to take him to the dump!  They'll make _glue_ out of his
carcass!  (To ALGERNON.)  You see what you have done!  (Beats him on
back.)  Tell my husband, you devil, tell him the truth!!!

ALGERNON:  (To MOE REISS) (C.)  Well, if you must know the truth,
your wife loves me and was forcing her caresses upon me when you

MOE REISS:  It's true then, it's true?

PHONSIE:  (Sits up.)  No, popper, it's false, and I can prove it.

ALGERNON:  The child is delirious from the heaves!

PHONSIE:  I'll heave you out of here in a minute.  Listen, popper,
mommer's done the best she could.  It ain't easy to nurse a dying
child who is liable to croak at any moment.  But she's done that,
popper, she's often went without her dill pickle so I could have
my spavin cure.  She thought I might get well and strong and maybe
get a job as a safe mover.  But I've been so busy dying I couldn't
go to work.  (Shakes fist at ALGERNON.)  Don't believe that man,
popper; I'm dying, cross my heart if I ain't dying, so I couldn't
tell a lie.  (Back to bed.)

MOE REISS:  Oh, my boy!  My boy! (heart-brokenly.) (Hits PHONSIE.)

GLADYS:  Dh, Moe Reiss, don't you believe him?

ALGERNON:  (Left of C.)  Of course not, he saw you with your arms
around my neck.

MOE REISS:  Yes, I saw it, I seen it.

BIRDIE:  I can swear to it, if necessary.

PHONSIE:  I can swear too, popper, want to hear me?

MOE REISS:  No, I have heard enough.  Now I intend to act.  (Throws
off coat, L.)

ALGERNON:  What do you mean?

MOE REISS:  I mean that either you or I will never leave this place
alive.  For I tell you plainly, as sure as there is a poker game
above us, I mean to kill you!

ALGERNON:  (Throws off coat and hat.)  Well, if it's a roughhouse
you're looking for, I'm right there with the goods.  (Struggle.)

PHONSIE:  Give him an upper cut, popper, soak him!!!

BIRDIE:  Knife him, Algernon, knife him!  (Has out her hat pin.)
(During struggle, PHONSIE shoots three times.) (As they struggle
to window, ALGERNON turns back, and PHONSIE sees [after third shot]
his vest is a target and fires three times.  Bell on each shot.)
Curse you, you've got me.  Here are your three cigars.  (Falls
dead, C.)

MOE REISS:  (Kneels and feels heart.)  Dead!!!  Who could have done

PHONSIE:  Father, I cannot tell a lie, I done it with my little
hatchet.  (Shows big gun and a picture of George Washington.  All
the others lift American flags and wave them.) (PHONSIE L. waving
flag, MOE and GLADYS C. BIRDIE dead in chair R.)



Author of "Youth," "Little Mother," "Mon
Desir," "The Locks at Panama,"
"Lady Gossip," Etc., Etc.



   FRED SALTUS                 MISS CAREY

SCENE:  The apartment of Miss Carey, a hardworking modiste about
45 years of age, rather sharp in manner, very prudish and a hater
of men.

                TIME:  About 2 A.M.

When the curtain rises, the stage is dark.  First, "feminine snores"
are heard, then a sharp ringing of bell.  Then MISS CAREY from her
bed in next room (curtained off, but partly visible) calls out:

MISS CAREY:  Who is it?

VOICE:  (Off stage.)  It's me.  Open!

MISS CAREY:  (Poking her night-capped head out of curtains.)  Well,
who are you?

VOICE:  (Off stage.)  You don't know me.  But that's all right.
Please let me in--hurry!  Hurry!

MISS CAREY:  (Rising and getting into a kimono.)  Well--whoever you
are--what do you mean by waking me at two in the morning?  I'll
report this to the janitor.  (She turns up light and opens door.
ANGELA MAXWELL rushes in--in fluffy peignoir--her hair in pretty
disorder--her hands full of wearing apparel, etc., as if she just
snatched same up in haste.  An opera coat, a pair of slippers, etc.)

ANGELA:  (Rushing in--closing door after her and silencing MISS
CAREY by the mysterious way she seizes her by the wrist.)  Listen,
you don't know me, but I've just left my husband.

MISS CAREY:  (Sharply.)  Well, that's no reason why I should leave
my bed.

ANGELA:  (Reassuringly.)  You can go right back again, dear--in fact,
I'll go with you and we'll talk it over there.

MISS CAREY:  I don't wish to talk it over anywhere, and--

ANGELA:  Well, surely, you don't think it was wrong of me to leave
Harry--now do you?

MISS CAREY:  I never blame any woman for leaving any man.

ANGELA:  See, I knew it.  After I fired the Wedgewood vase at
him--and just for doing it he was brute enough to call me "Vixen,"--
I snatched up as much as I could that was worth taking, and left him
_forever_.  (Suddenly, as she sees dress on model.)  Oh, what a
lovely little frock.  (Back to other tone.)  Yes, forever; and it
was only when I stood out in the cold hall that I realized it would
have been better to have left him forever when I was all dressed
in the morning.  (Beginning to shiver and weep.)  Take my advice,
dear, if you ever leave your husband, never do it on a _cold night_.

MISS CAREY:  (Sharply.)  I'm not married.

ANGELA:  (Weeping copiously and shivering.)  Well, then, you needn't
bother, dear, about the weather, 'cause you never will be married.

MISS CAREY:  No, I never will--catch me selling my freedom to any
selfish brute of a man.

ANGELA:  (As before.)  See, I knew it.  I said to myself, that little
lady on the second floor who makes dresses with a long, thin nose--

MISS CAREY:  (Outraged.)  Makes dresses with a long, thin nose?

ANGELA:  Yes--she's the only one in the whole apartment house I can
go to--she's the only one won't give Harry right.

MISS CAREY:  No man is ever right.

ANGELA:  I'm commencing to believe all men are brutes.

MISS CAREY:  Of course they are.  (Commencing to thaw.)  Have a cup
of tea.  (She goes to table to prepare tea things.)

ANGELA:  Thanks--I brought my own tea with me.  (Takes a little paper
bag of tea out of one of the slippers and crosses to MISS CAREY.)
If I had struck him with the vase, I could understand his calling
me "Vixen" (Beginning to weep again.)--but I only flung it at him,
'cause I cracked it by accident in the morning, and I didn't want
him to find it out.  He was always calling me "butter-fingers."
(Sits at opposite side of table.)

MISS CAREY:  Oh, he was always calling you names.

ANGELA:  No, that's all he ever called me--"Butter-fingers."  (Cries

MISS CAREY:  (Pouring tea.)  Oh, he's the kind that just loves to
stay home and nag.

ANGELA:  I'd like to catch any husband I ever get, nag.

MISS CAREY:  Oh, a pouter--I know that kind.

ANGELA:  Oh, no.  Why, every time I insulted him he kissed me--the
brute.  (After a second's pause.)  But--excuse me--how do you know
so many kinds of men if you've never been married?

MISS CAREY:  (Quickly.)  Boarders--to make ends meet, I've always
had to have a male boarder since I was left an orphan.  (She
rises--turns her back to audience--gives a touch to her pigtail,
during the laugh to this line.  This business always builds laugh.)

ANGELA:  (Absent-mindedly.)  Well, I've heard that male boarders are
very nice.

MISS CAREY:  I've never had a nice one yet, but I've named nearly
all the style male brutes there are.  What kind of a brute have
you?  (She sips tea.)

ANGELA:  Why, I don't know--I've often wondered--you might call
Harry a "lollard."

MISS CAREY:  A lollard?

ANGELA:  Yes, I invented the word, and believe me, a woman suffers
with a lollard.  (At this, MISS CAREY lets her spoon fall in cup.)

MISS CAREY:  I should think she would.  How did a sweet young thing
like you ever meet such a type of a vertebrate?

ANGELA:  At a military ball, and oh Mrs.--

MISS CAREY:  _Miss_ Carey.

ANGELA:  Miss Carey--he was the handsomest specimen.  His hair
looked so spick--his shoulders were so big and broad--his teeth
so white--and his skin, well, Miss Carey, if you'd seen him, I'll
bet you'd have just gone crazy to kiss him yourself.  (MISS CAREY,
who is drinking tea, nearly chokes on this--coughing on the tea
which goes down the wrong way.)

MISS CAREY:  (After the business.)  How did he lose his looks?

ANGELA:  By becoming a lollard.  Listen!  (They pull chairs in front
of table together, teacups in hand.)  It happened on the honeymoon--
on the train--as we sat hand in hand, when all at once, the wind
through the window, started to blow his hair the wrong way, and
oh, Miss Carey, what do you think I discovered?

MISS CAREY: He had been branded on the head as a criminal.

ANGELA:  Oh nothing so pleasant as that--but the hair that I thought
grew so lovely and plentifully, had been coaxed by a wet brush
from the back over the front, and from the east over to the west.
(Indicates by imitating action on her own head.)

MISS CAREY: Oh, a lollard is a disappointment of the hair.

ANGELA: No, Miss Carey, no.  Listen.  I said, "Oh, Harry, your
hair which I thought grew so evenly and plentifully all over your
head really only grows in patches."  He only answered, "Yes, and
now that we're married, Angela, I don't have to fool you by brushing
it fancy anymore."  In despair, I moaned "Yes, Harry--fool me--go
on love, fool me and brush it fancy."

MISS CAREY; (Rising and crossing R.)  That was your first mistake.
No woman should ever call any man "love."

ANGELA:  Oh, I didn't know what I said--I was so busy the whole
journey pulling his hair from the back to the front and the east
to the west (Same business of illustrating.)--and then, oh Miss
Carey, what do you think was the next thing I discovered?

MISS CAREY:  (In horror.)  His _teeth_ only grew in patches.

ANGELA:  No, but I had fallen in love with a pair of tailor's
shoulder-pads--yes--when he took off his coat that night, he shrunk
so, I screamed (Pause--as laugh comes here.)--thinking I was in a
room with a strange man--but all he muttered was "Angie, I can
loll about in easy things now, I'm married"--and that's how gradually
his refined feet began to look like canal-boats--his skin only
looked kissable the days he shaved--twice a week--his teeth became
tobacco stained--and to-night--to-night, Miss Carey, he stopped
wearing hemstitched pajamas and took to wearing canton flannel
night shirts.  (In depth of woe after the big laugh this gets.)
Miss Carey, have you ever seen a man in a canton flannel night

MISS CAREY:  (After an expression of horror.)  I told you I am not

ANGELA:  (Innocently.)  Oh, excuse me, I was thinking of your boarders.
(MISS CAREY screams "what" and shows herself insulted beyond words.)
Is it any wonder my love for him has grown cold?  Men expect a
woman to primp up for them--we must always look our best to hold
their love--but once they wheedle us into signing our names to the
marriage contract--they think (Suddenly, seeing dress again.)--Oh
Miss Carey, what do you charge for a frock like that?

MISS CAREY:  I have no night rates for gowns, Mrs.--

ANGELA:  Just call me Angie--'cause I probably will live with you
now.  (Slips her arm through MISS CAREY'S, laying her head on the
older woman's shoulder.)

MISS CAREY:  (Disengaging her.)  We'll talk that over in the morning--
if you want, you may sleep upon that couch--I'll put out the light.
(She does so.)  I'm going to bed--I must get a little rest.  (She
gives a sharp turn and goes to her room.  Blue light floods stage.
Through the half open curtain she is seen having trouble with her
bed covers--getting them too high up, then too far down, etc.  Big
laughs on this business.)

ANGELA:  (Taking down hair.)  Miss Carey, you said you were an
orphan--I'm an orphan, too.  (There is no answer.)  I can't tell you
how I appreciate your insisting on my staying--let me make your
breakfast in the morning, Miss Carey.  (No answer.)  Harry might at
least try to find me.  Aren't men brutes, Miss Carey?

MISS CAREY:  (Loudly from within.)  They certainly are.

ANGELA:  (Lets peignoir slip off her shoulders, is in pretty silk
pajamas.)  In the morning, I must think how I can earn my own living.
(She lies down as snores come from next room.)  Miss Carey, are you
asleep?  (Snore.)  Oh dear, she's asleep before I am--she might have
waited.  (A key is heard in the door--Angela sits up in alarm--as
key turns, she screams.)  Oh Miss Carey, wake up--someone's at the
door--wake up.  (Miss Carey jumps up and out of bed.)

MISS CAREY:  Good Lord--what is it now?  (Puts up light--the door
opens, and immaculately dressed, handsome young man in evening
clothes, white gloves, etc., enters--FRED SALTUS.)

ANGELA:  Burglars!  (She runs behind curtain of MISS CAREY'S room.)

MISS CAREY:  You simpleton.  I told you I had a male boarder.  This
is it, Mr. Saltus.

FRED:  Oh, Miss Carey, pardon me--I'd have come in by the back door,
but I didn't know you were entertaining company.

MISS CAREY:  I'm not entertaining anyone--I'm trying to get a little
rest before it's time for me to get up--and young lady, if you'll
come out of my room and let me in, I'll beg of you not to disturb
me again.  (She shoves ANGELA out in her pajamas, unintentionally
knocking her into MR. SALTUS, and goes back to bed.) (Ad. lib.

ANGELA:  (Embarrassed and rushing behind the frock on the dressmaker's
figure.)  I've made her awfully cross--but I thought it must be a
burglar--'cause, you see, I never knew boarders were allowed out
so late at night.

FRED:  (Recognizing her.)  What are you doing here?

ANGELA:  (Forced to confess.)  I've left my husband.  (He gives a
whistle of surprise.) You know he's the man on the floor below--you
may have seen me with him--once in a great while.

FRED:  I've seen you often (Delighted.)--and so you've left him, eh?

ANGELA:  Yes--and I'm really quite upset about it--naturally he's
the first husband I've ever left--and you can imagine how a woman
feels if _you've_ left _your_ husband--that is your wife.  (All in one
breath.)  Are you married?

FRED:  No indeed--not a chance.

ANGELA:  (Quickly fishes her opera cloak off couch--slips it over
her and goes to couch.)  Then come here and sit down.  (He does so.)
I should think the girls would all be crazy about you.

FRED:  Oh--they are--are you boarding here too now?

ANGELA:  Yes, but Miss Carey doesn't know it yet.

FRED:  Tell me, have you ever noticed me coming in or going out of
the building?

ANGELA:  Oh yes, indeed--I used to point you out to Harry and show
him how you always looked so immaculate and dapper--just as he
used to look before we were married.  (Starting to weep.)

FRED:  Oh, you'll go back to your home to-morrow.

ANGELA:  No--I'll never enter it again--never again--except for

FRED:  Then you're planning a divorce?

ANGELA:  (As it dawns on her--with a smile.)  I suppose it would be
well to get something like that.

FRED:  Is he in love with another woman?

ANGELA:  (Indignantly.)  My Harry--I guess not.  (His hand is stretched
toward her--in anger she slaps it.)

FRED:  Then you'll never get it (Making love to her.) unless you
fall in love with another man and let your husband get the divorce.

ANGELA:  (Innocently.)  I think I'd like that better--I'll tell Miss
Carey (She approaches curtain--a snore makes her change her
mind.)--I'll tell her later.

FRED:  I'm awfully glad I'm a fellow boarder here.  (He advances
to her--as he is about to put his arm about her--suddenly a pounding
on door and a gruff voice without:) Open--open!

ANGELA:  (In terror.)  Oh, it's my husband--it's Harry.

FRED:  Don't talk, or he'll hear you.

ANGELA:  I'll hide--and you open, or he'll break down the door.

FRED:  I'll have nothing to do with this mixup.

HARRY:  (Loudly, without.)  Open, or I'll bang--down--the--door.

ANGELA:  If you don't open, he'll do it--he's a regular "door-banger."

FRED:  Well, I'll not.

ANGELA:  Then I'll get Miss Carey.  (Up to curtains again.)  Miss
Carey--Miss Carey--get up.

MISS CAREY:  (Sticking her head out of curtains.)  My Gawd, what is
it now?

ANGELA:  (After struggle as to how to explain.)  My husband is here
to see us.

MISS CAREY:  Confound your husband.

HARRY:  (Outside.)  I want my wife.

ANGELA:  (Pleading.)  Oh, Miss Carey, the poor man wants his wife--
tell him I'm not here.

MISS CAREY:  (Jumping up--to FRED.)  You go to your room, Mr.
Saltus--I'll bet you were afraid to open the door.  (FRED goes to
his room.)  And you go into my bed--if he sees you, I'll never get
any sleep.

ANGELA:  Don't hurt my Harry's feelings, Miss Carey--he's awfully
sensitive.  (She goes behind curtains.)

MISS CAREY:  No, I won't hurt his feelings--(Opening door fiercely
for HARRY.)  What do you want?

HARRY:  (Pushing her aside as he rushes in.)  My wife--she's in here.

MISS CAREY:  (Following him down.)  She's not here--and you get
out--what do you mean by waking me up at this hour?

HARRY:  I've waked up everybody else in the building--why should
_you_ sleep?

MISS CAREY:  I've never seen you before, but now that I have, I
don't wonder your wife left you.

HARRY:  Madam, you look like a woman who could sympathize with a

MISS CAREY:  With a man?  Never--now get out.

HARRY:  (Making a tour of the room--she following.)  Not till I've
searched your place--my wife must be here.

MISS CAREY:  I don't know your wife--and I don't want to.

HARRY:  Why, madam--I'm crazy about her--suppose I'm the only man
in the world who would be, but she's my doll.

MISS CAREY:  Well, you've lost your doll--good night.

HARRY:  Oh, I'll get her back again--but a change has seemed to
come over her of late, and to-night she broke out in a fury and
hit me violently over the head with a Wedgewood vase.

ANGELA:  (Rushing out--ready to slap him again.)  Oh Harry, I did
not--it never touched you.

MISS CAREY:  (Throwing up her hands.)  Now I'll never get to sleep.

HARRY:  (Turning on MISS CAREY.)  Oh, I understand it all--it's you
who've come between us--you designing, deceitful homebreaker.

MISS CAREY:  You leave my apartment--you impertinent man.

HARRY:  Not without my wife.

ANGELA:  Then you'll stay forever--'cause I'm not going with you.
(She sits right of little table.)

MISS CAREY:  See here--you argue this out between you--but I'm going
to bed--but don't you argue above a whisper or I'll ring for the
police--the idea of you two galavanting about my apartments.
(Going behind curtains.)

(A funny scene ensues between husband and wife--they start their
argument in whispered pantomime--she shakes her finger at him--he
shakes back at her--it finally grows slightly louder and louder
until they are yelling at each other.)

ANGELA:  (Screaming.)  If you say the vase hit you--you're a wicked--

HARRY:  I don't care anything about the vase--you're coming downstairs
with me.  (He pulls her off chair and swings her R.)

ANGELA:  (Falling on couch.)  I'm not.

HARRY:  (Grabbing her again.)  You are.

ANGELA:  I'm not.  (He tries to pull her to door--she bites his
finger, and breaking away, runs up to curtains again.)  Miss Carey,
Miss Carey, wake up, he bit me.  (MISS CAREY dashes out in fury,
ANGELA hangs to her.)  Oh, Miss Carey, you're the only one I have
in all the world to keep me from this monster.  Oh, Miss Carey,
pity me, make believe you're my mother.

MISS CAREY:  I told you I'm not married.

ANGELA:  Well, think how you'd feel if you were and I were your own
little girl and a wicked man was ill-treating me, etc.  (She finally
touches the mother vein in MISS CAREY.)

MISS CAREY:  (Affected.)  Go into my room, dear.  (She leads her up
to bed behind curtains.  After Angela disappears behind curtains,
MISS CAREY turns--facing HARRY.)  I'll settle with this viper.
(Coming down.)  Aren't you ashamed of yourself?

HARRY:  Why should I'be ashamed?

MISS CAREY:  (Resolutely.)  Because you're a lollard.

HARRY:  I'm what?

MISS CAREY:  You're one of those vile creatures whose hair grows
from east to west.  (Dramatically.)  Where are your refined feet
now? )

HARRY:  (Thinking she's mad.)  What on earth are you talking about?

MISS CAREY:  The man she fell in love with and married was spick
and span--his shoulders were big and broad--his teeth were white--and
his skin--well, if he were standing before me now, I'd be just
crazy to kiss him myself.

HARRY:  I was all that you say when I married her--that's how I won

MISS CAREY:  And now you're _not_ all that I say--that's how you _lost_
her.  You can't blame a little woman if she thinks she's getting
a man of gold and she finds she's got a gold brick.

HARRY:  Why, I'm not different now than I was then--only before I was
married I was like all men, I did everything to appear at my best--
to fool her.

MISS CAREY:  Fool her now--we women love to be fooled.  We want to
be proud of our husbands.  Most of us get gold bricks, but we don't
want anyone else to know it.

HARRY:  By George, there may be something in all this.  How did you
come to know it?

MISS CAREY:  I'm an old maid, and old maids know more about men
than anyone--that's why they stay old maids.  What were you wearing
the first time you met?

HARRY:  (Reminiscently.)  A suit of regimentals.

MISS CAREY:  (Hurrying up to door.)  Quick, go downstairs and put
'em on and come up as quick as you can.

HARRY:  (Looks at himself in glass near door.)  By George--you're
right.  Oh, Miss Carey, I am a lollard.  (He runs off.)

MISS CAREY:  You're a lollard, all right.  Now young woman--get
your things together and get ready to go--young woman, do you hear
me?  (She goes up to curtains, and opens them--there lies ANGELA
cozily huddled in a heap, fast asleep.)  Well, if the little fluff
hasn't fallen asleep.  Here--wake up--the idea.

ANGELA:  (In her sleep.)  Harry, be gentle with Miss Carey--she can't
help it.  (MISS CAREY shakes her so she jumps up.)  Oh Miss Carey--

MISS CAREY:  Now get your things together--your husband is coming
for you in a minute.

ANGELA:  (A la Ibsen.)  I shall never return to Harry again--
I've left him for life.

MISS CAREY:  You'll not stay here all that time.

ANGELA:  (As she comes down, dreamily.)  No, I intend to marry
another--and oh, Miss Carey, his hair is so spick--his shoulders
so broad--his teeth are so white.

MISS CAREY:  Good Lord, woman, now you're commencing with another.
Who is it?

ANGELA:  Surely you must have foreseen my danger--I'm in love with
your boarder.

MISS CAREY:  Why, you must be crazy--girl--I won't let you enter
into such a madness.

ANGELA:  (In horror.)  Oh Miss Carey, don't tell me you're in love
with him yourself.  (MISS CAREY sinks in chair.)  But you'll not get

MISS CAREY:  Why, my dear, I wouldn't have him for a birth-day
present and neither will you.  (After an ad lib. argument.)  We'll
see.  (She calls off in next room.)  Fire!  Fire!!  Fire!!!

(ANGELA gets scared and starts to run one way as FRED runs in--in
canton flannels without toupee, etc., etc.  ANGELA flops.  After
audience has seen FRED'S condition, he realizes presence of ladies
and rushes back to door--sticking his head out.)

FRED:  Where?  Where's the fire?

MISS CAREY:  Go back to your bed, Mr. Saltus.  (With a look at
ANGELA.)  There was a fire.

ANGELA:  (Disgusted.)  But Miss Carey--has--put--it--out.

(On word "out" she gestures him out of room and out of her life.
FRED closes door as he withdraws head.)

ANGELA:  Oh Miss Carey, what an awful lollard _that_ is.  (There is
a ring at bell.)

(Music commences sweet melody.)

MISS CAREY:  (Knowing it is HARRY.)  Open the door and see who it is.

(ANGELA opens the door--HARRY stands there in regimentals--handsome,
young and dapper.  ANGELA falls back in admiration.)

HARRY:  Angela.

ANGELA:  Oh, Harry darling!

MISS CAREY:  He does look good!

ANGELA:  (As she picks up her belongings.)  I'm going home with you.

MISS CAREY:  (As ANGELA goes up to HARRY.)  Don't forget your tea
dress.  (Hands her the little bag.)

ANGELA:  I'm so tired, Harry--take me home.  (He lifts his tired
little wife up in his arms and as he goes out, she mutters:) You're
not such a bad lollard after all.

MISS CAREY:  (Going to put out light.)  Now, thank Gawd, I'll get a
little sleep.



Author of "Van Bibber Stories," "Soldiers of Fortune,"
The Playlets, "The Littlest Girl," played by Robert
Hilliard for ten years, "Miss Civilization," etc., and
many full-evening plays.



RICHARD FALLON, a millionaire mine owner.
"LOU" MOHUN, a crook.
KELLY, a Pinkerton detective.


The scene shows the interior of the sitting room of a suite in a
New York hotel of the class of the Hotel Astor or Claridge.  In
the back wall a door opens into what is the bedroom of the suite.
The hinges of this door are on the right, the door knob on the
left.  On the wall on either side of the door is hung a framed
copy of a picture by Gibson or Christy.  In the left wall, half
way down, is a door leading to the hall.  Higher up against the
wall is a writing desk on which are writing materials and a hand
telephone.  Above this pinned to the wall is a blue-print map.
In front of the desk is a gilt chair without arms.  Above and to
the right of the gilt chair is a Morris chair facing the audience.
In the seat of the chair is a valise; over the back hangs a man's

In the right wall are two windows with practical blinds.  Below
them against the wall, stretches a leather sofa.  On it is a
suitcase, beside it on the floor a pair of men's boots.  Below the
sofa and slightly to the left stands a table, sufficiently heavy
to bear the weight of a man leaning against it.  On this table are
magazines, a man's sombrero, a box of safety matches, a pitcher
of ice water and a glass, and hanging over the edge of the table,
in view of the audience, are two blue prints held down by pieces
of ore.  The light that comes through the two windows is of a sunny
day in August.


RICHARD FALLON is discovered at table arranging the specimens of
ore upon the blue prints.  He is a young man of thirty-five, his
face is deeply tanned, his manner is rough and breezy.  He is
without a coat, and his trousers are held up by a belt.  He is
smoking a cigar.

FALLON crosses to Morris chair, opens valise, turns over papers,
clothing, fails to find that for which he is looking and closes
the valise.  He recrosses to suit case which is at lower end of
the sofa.  He breaks it open and searches through more papers,
shirts, coats.  Takes out another blue print, tightly rolled.
Unrolls it, studies it, and apparently satisfied, with his left
hand, places it on table.

In attempting to close the suit case the half nearer the audience
slips over the foot of the sofa, and there falls from it to the floor,
a heavy "bull dog" revolver.  FALLON stares at it, puzzled, as
though trying to recall when he placed it in his suit case.  Picks
it up.  Looks at it.  Throws it carelessly into suit case and shuts
it.  His manner shows he attaches no importance to the revolver.
He now surveys the blue prints and the specimens of ore, as might
a hostess, who is expecting guests, survey her dinner table.  He
crosses to hand telephone.

FALLON:  (To 'phone.)  Give me the room clerk, please.  Hello?  This
is Mr. Fallon.  I'm expecting two gentlemen at five o'clock.  Send
them right up.  And, not now, but when they come, send me up a box
of your best cigars and some rye and seltzer.  Thank you.  (Starts
to leave telephone, but is recalled.)  What?  A lady?  I don't know
any.  I don't know a soul in New York!  What's her name?  What--Mrs.
Tom Howard?  For heaven's sake!  Tell her I'll be there in one
second!  What?  Why certainly!  Tell her to come right up.  (He rises,
muttering joyfully.)  Well, well, well!

(Takes his coat from chair and puts it on.  Lifts valise from chair
and places it behind writing desk.  Kicks boots under sofa.  Places
cigar on edge of table in view of audience.  Looks about for mirror
and finding none, brushes his hair with his hands, and arranges
his tie.  Goes to door L. and opens it, expectantly.)

MRS. HOWARD enters.  She is a young woman of thirty.  Her face is
sweet, sad, innocent.  She is dressed in white--well, but simply.
Nothing about her suggests anything of the fast, or adventuress

Well, Helen!  This is fine!  God bless you, this is the best thing
that's come my way since I left Alaska.  And I never saw you looking

MRS. HOWARD:  (Taking his hand.)  And, it's good to see you, Dick.
(She staggers and sways slightly as though about to faint.)  Can I
sit down?  (She moves to Morris chair and sits back in it.)

FALLON: (In alarm.)  What is it?  Are you ill?

MRS. HOWARD:  No, I'm--I'm so glad to find you--I was afraid!  I was
afraid I wouldn't find you, and I _had_ to see you.  (Leaning
forward, in great distress.)  I'm in trouble, Dick--terrible trouble.

FALLON:  (Joyfully.)  And you've come to me to help you?


FALLON:  That's fine!  That's bully.  I thought, maybe, you'd just
come to talk over old times.  (Eagerly.)  And that would have been
fine, too, understand--but if you've come to me because you're in
trouble, then I know you're still my good friend, my dear old pal.
(Briskly.)  Now, listen, you say you're in trouble.  Well, you knew
me when I was down and out in San Francisco, living on free lunches
and chop suey.  Now, look at me, Helen, I'm a bloated capitalist.
I'm a millionaire.

MRS. HOWARD:  (Nervously.)  I know, Dick, and I'm so glad!  That's
how I knew you were here, I read about you this morning in the

FALLON:  And half they said is true, too.  See those blue prints?
Each one of them means a gold mine, and at five, I'm to unload
them on some of the biggest swells in Wall Street.  (Gently.)  Now,
all that that means is this:  I don't know what your trouble is,
but, if money can cure it, you _haven't got any trouble_.

MRS. HOWARD:  Dick, you're just as generous and kind.  You haven't
changed in any way.

FALLON:  I haven't changed toward you.  How's that husband of yours?
(Jokingly.)  I'd ought to shot that fellow.

MRS. HOWARD:  (In distress.)  That's why I came, Dick.  Oh, Dick--

FALLON:  (Anxiously, incredulously.)  Don't tell me there's any
trouble between you and Tom?  Why, old Tom he just worships you.
He loves you like--

MRS. HOWARD:  That's it.  And I want to _keep_ his love.

FALLON:  (Laughingly.)  Keep his love?  Is that all you've got to
worry about?  (Throughout the following scene, Mrs. Howard speaks
in a fateful voice, like a woman beaten and hopeless.)

MRS. HOWARD:  Dick, did you ever guess why I didn't marry you?

FALLON:  No, I knew.  You didn't marry me because you didn't love
me, and you _did_ love Tom.

MRS. HOWARD:  No, I didn't know Tom then.  And I thought I loved
you, until I met Tom.  But I didn't marry you, because it wouldn't
have been honest--because, three years before I met you, I had
lived with a man--as his wife.

FALLON:  Helen!  (His tone is one of amazement, but not of reproach.
In his astonishment, he picks the cigar from the table, puffs at
it standing and partly seated on the table.)

MRS. HOWARD:  (In the same dead level, hopeless voice.)  I was
seventeen years old.  I was a waiter girl at one of Fred Harvey's
restaurants on the Santa Fe.  I was married to this man before a
magistrate.  (Fallon lifts his head.)  Three months later, when
he'd grown tired of me, he told me the magistrate who had married
us was not a magistrate but a friend of his, a man named Louis
Mohun, and he brought this man to live with us.  I should have
left him then, that was where I did wrong.  That was all I did
that was wrong.  But, I couldn't leave him, I couldn't, because I
was going to be a mother--and in spite of what he had done--I
begged him to marry me.

FALLON:  And--he wouldn't?

MRS. HOWARD:  Maybe he would--but--he was killed.

FALLON:  (Eagerly.)  You?

MRS. HOWARD.  (In horror.)  God, no!

FALLON:  It's a pity.  That's what you should have done.

MRS. HOWARD:  He was a gambler, one night he cheated--the man he
cheated, shot him.  Then--my baby--died!  After two years I came
to San Francisco and met you and Tom.  Then you went to Klondike
and I married Tom.

FALLON:  And, you told Tom?

MRS. HOWARD:  (Lowering her face.)

FALLON:  Helen!

MRS. HOWARP:  I know, but I was afraid.  I loved him so, and I was

FALLON:  But Tom would have understood.  Why, you thought you were

MRS. HOWARD:  I was afraid.  I loved him too much.  I was too happy,
and I was afraid I'd lose him.  (FALLON shakes his head.)  But, we
were leaving San Francisco forever--to live in the East--where I
thought no one knew me.

FALLON:  Well?

MRS. HOWARD:  Well, one man knew me.  Mohun, the man who played the
magistrate.  He came East, too.  Three years ago he saw me one
night with Tom in a theatre.  He followed us and found out where
I lived.  The next morning he came to see me, and threatened to
tell!  And, I was terrified, I lost my head and gave him money.
(Slowly.)  And I have been giving him money ever since.

FALLON:  Helen!  You!  Fall for blackmail?  Why, that isn't you.
You're no coward!  You should have told the swine to go to Hell,
and as soon as Tom came home, you should have told him the whole

MRS. HOWARD:  (Fiercely.)  My story, yes!  But not a story Mohun
threatens to tell!  In a week he had it all backed up with letters,
telegrams, God knows what he didn't make me out to be--a vile,
degraded creature.

FALLON:  And who'd have believed it?

MRS. HOWARD:  Everybody!  He proved it!  And my children.  He threatened
to stop my children on the way to school and explain to them what
kind of a woman their mother was.  So, I paid and paid and paid.
I robbed Tom, I robbed the children.  I cheated them of food, and
clothes, I've seen Tom look almost ashamed of us.  And when I'd
taken all I'd dared from Tom, I pretended I wanted to be more
independent, and I learned typewriting, and needlework and decorating,
and I worked at night, and when Tom was at the office--to earn
money--to give to Mohun.  And each time he said it was the last,
and each time he came back demanding more.  God knows what he does
with it, he throws it away--on drink, on women, opium.

FALLON:  Dope fiend, too, hey?

MRS. HOWARD:  He's that, too; he's everything that's vile; inhuman,
pitiless, degenerate.  Sometimes, I wonder why God lets him live.
(Her voice drops to a whisper.)  Sometimes, I almost pray to God
to let him die.  (FALLON who already has determined to kill MOHUN,
receives this speech with indifference, and continues grimly to
puff on his cigar.)  He's killed my happiness, he's killing me.
In keeping him alive, I've grown ill and old.  I see the children
growing away from me, I see Tom drawing away from me.  And now,
after all my struggles, after all my torture, Tom must be told.
Mohun is in some _new_ trouble.  He must have a thousand dollars!
I can no more give him a thousand dollars than I can give him New
York City.  But, if I don't, he'll _tell!_ _What_ am I to do?

FALLON:  (Unmoved.)  When did you see this--this _thing_ last?

MRS. HOWARD:  This morning.  He'd read about you in the papers.
He knows I knew you in San Francisco.  He said you'd "struck it
rich," and that you'd give me the money.  (Rises, and comes to him.)
But, get this straight, Dick.  I didn't come here for money.  I
don't want money.  I won't take money.  I came to you because you
are my best friend, and Tom's best friend, and because I need a
_man's brain_, a man's advice.

FALLON:  (Contemptuously.)  Advice!  Hell!  Am I the sort of man that
gives girls--_advice?_ (With rough tenderness.)  Now, you go home
to Tom, and tell him I'm coming to dinner.  (Impressively.)  And
leave this _leech_ to me.  And, _don't_ worry.  This thing never
happened, it's just a bad dream, a nightmare.  Just throw it from
your shoulders like a miner drops his pack.  It's never coming
back into your life again.

MRS. HOWARD:  (Earnestly.)  No!  I won't _let_ you pay that man!  He'd
hound you, as he's hounded me!

FALLON:  (Indignantly.)  Pay him?  Me?  I haven't got enough _money_
to pay him!


FALLON:  _No man_ on earth has money enough to pay blackmail.
Helen, this is what I think of a blackmailer:  The _lowest_ thing
that crawls, is a man that sends a woman into the streets to earn
money for him.  Here, in New York, you call them "cadets."  Now,
there's only one thing on earth lower than a cadet, and that's the
blackmailer, the man who gets money from a woman--by threatening
her good name--who uses her past as a _club_--who drags out some
unhappy act of hers for which she's repented, in tears, on her
knees, which the world has forgotten, which God has forgiven.
And, for that _past_ sin, that's forgotten and forgiven, this
blackguard crucifies her.  And the woman--to protect her husband
and her children, as you have done--to protect her own good name,
that she's worked for and won, starves herself to feed that _leech_.
And, you ask me, if _I'm_ going to feed him, too!  Not me!  Helen,
down in lower California, there are black bats, the Mexican calls
"Vampire" bats.  They come at night and fasten on the sides of
the horses and drink their blood.  And, in the morning when you
come to saddle up, you'll find the horses too weak to walk, and
hanging to their flanks these vampires, swollen and bloated and
drunk with blood.  Now, I've just as much sympathy for Mr. Mohun,
as I have for those vampires, and, I'm going to treat him just as
I treat them!  Where is he?

MRS. HOWARD:  Downstairs.  In the cafe.

FALLON:  Here, in this hotel?


FALLON:  (Half to himself.)  Good!

MRS. HOWARD:  He said he'd wait until I telephoned him that you
would pay.  If you won't, he's going straight to Tom.

FALLON:  He is, is he?  Helen, I hate to have you speak to him
again, but, unless he hears your voice, he won't come upstairs.
(Motions towards telephone.)  Tell him I'll see him in ten minutes.
Tell him I've agreed to make it all right.

MRS. HOWARD:  But, _how_, Dick, _how_?

FALLON:  Don't you worry about that.  I'm going to send him away.
Out of the country.  He won't trouble you any more.

MRS. HOWARD:  But he won't _go_.  He's promised _me_ to go many times--

FALLON:  Yes, but he's not dealing with a woman, now, he's dealing
with a man, with boots on.  Do as I tell you.

(MRS. HOWARD sits at writing desk and takes receiver off telephone.
FALLON leans against table right, puffing quickly on his cigar,
and glancing impatiently at the valise that holds his revolver.)

MRS. HOWARD:  Give me the cafe, please.  Is this the cafe?  I want
to speak to a Mr. Mohun, he is waiting to be called up--oh, thank
you.  (To FALLON.)  He's coming.  (To 'phone.)  I have seen that man
and he says he'll take up that debt, and pay it.  Yes, now, at
_once_.  You're to wait for ten minutes, until he can get the
money, and then, he'll telephone you to come up.  I don't know,
I'll ask.  (To Fallon.)  He says it must be in _cash_.

FALLON:  (Sarcastically.)  Why, certainly!  That'll be all right.
(MRS. HOWARD Places her hand over the mouth piece.)

MRS. HOWARD:  I'll not _let_ you pay him!

FALLON:  I'm not going to!  I'm going to _give_ him just what's coming
to him.  Tell him, it'll be all right.

MRS. HOWARD:  (To 'phone.)  He says to tell you, it'll be all right.
The room is 210 on the third floor.  In ten minutes, yes.  (She

FALLON:  Now, then, you go back to Tom and get dinner ready.  Don't
forget I'm coming to _dinner_.  And the children must come to
dinner, _too_.  We'll have a happy, good old-time reunion.

MRS. HOWARD:  (With hand on door knob of door left.)  Dick, how can
I thank you?

FALLON:  Don't let me catch you trying.

MRS. HOWARD:  God bless you, Dick.  (With a sudden hope.)  And you
really believe you can make him _go_?

FALLON:  Don't worry!  I'm sure of it.

MRS. HOWARD:  And, you think he won't come back?

FALLON:  (After a pause, gravely.)  I _know_ he won't come back.

MRS. HOWARD:  God bless you, Dick!

FALLON:  See you at dinner.

(MRS. HOWARD exits.  FALLON stands considering, and chewing on his
cigar.  Then, he crosses room briskly and lowers the blind at each
window.  Opens valise and examines revolver.  Places the revolver
in his left hip pocket.  Then, in a matter-of-course manner from
his right hand pocket, he draws his automatic pistol.  This, as
though assured he would find loaded, he examines in a quick,
perfunctory way, and replaces.  He crosses left to desk, and taking
from it a cheque book, writes out a cheque, which he tears from
the book, and holds in his right hand.  With left hand he removes
the receiver from the telephone.)

Give me Murray Hill 2828.  Hello, is this the Corn and Grain Bank?
I want to speak to the cashier.  Hello, is that the cashier?  This
is Richard Fallon, of San Francisco, speaking from the Hotel
Wisteria.  I opened an account with you day before yesterday, for
two hundred thousand dollars.  Yes, this is Mr. Fallon speaking.
I made out a cheque yesterday payable to Louis Mohun (Glances at
cheque.), dated August 4th, for two thousand dollars.  I want to
know if he's cashed it in yet?  He hasn't, hey?  Good!  (He continues
to look at cheque, to impress upon audience, that the cheque they
have just seen him write, is the one which he is speaking about.)
Well, I want to stop payment on that cheque.  Yes, yes.  I made
it out under _pressure_, and I've decided not to stand for it.  Yes,
_sort_ of a hold up!  I guess that's why he was afraid to cash it.
You'll attend to that, will you?  Thank you.  Good-bye.  (He takes
an envelope from desk, places cheque in it and puts envelope in
his breast pocket.  Again takes off receiver.)  Hello, give me the
cashier, please.  Am I speaking to the cashier of the hotel?  This
is Mr. Fallon in room 210.  Is your hotel detective in the lobby?
He is?  Good!  What--what sort of a man is he, is he a man I can
rely on?  A Pinkerton, hey?  That's good enough!  Well, I wish you'd
give him a thousand dollars for me in hundreds.  Ten hundred-dollar
bills, and before you send them up, I wish you'd mark them and
take their numbers.  What?  No, there's no trouble.  I just want
to see that the right bills go to the right people, that's all.
Thank you.

(He crosses to door centre, and taking key from the bedroom side,
places it in keyhole on side of door in view of the audience.  He
turns the key several times.  He takes the revolver from his left
hip pocket and holding it in his right hand, rehearses shooting
under his left arm through his coat which he holds from him by the
fingers of his left hand.  Shifting revolver to his left hand, he
takes the automatic from his right hip pocket, and goes through
the motions of firing with both guns in opposite directions.  His
pantomine must show he intends making use of both guns at the same
time, using one apparently upon himself, and the other, in earnest,
upon another person.  He replaces the revolvers in his pockets.
There is a knock at the door.)

Come in.

(KELLY enters.  In his hand he carries an envelope.  He is an
elderly man with grey hair, neatly dressed and carrying a straw
hat.  He has an air of authority.  His manner to FALLON is

KELLY:  Afternoon, Mr. Fallon.  I am Kelly, the house detective.

FALLON:  Yes, I know.  I've seen you in the lobby.

KELLY:  Mr. Parmelee said I was to give you this.  (Gives envelope
to FALLON.  FALLON takes out ten yellow-back bills.)  There ought
to be a thousand dollars there in hundreds.

FALLON:  That's right.  Now, will you just sit over there, and as
I read the numbers, you write them down.

KELLY:  Mr. Parmelee made a note of the numbers, Mr. Fallon.

FALLON:  I know.  I want you to identify them too.

KELLY:  I can do that.  I saw him mark them.

FALLON:  Good.  And if you saw these bills in the next five minutes
you'd be able to swear they're the same bills you gave me?

KELLY:  Sure.  (Starts towards door.)

FALLON:  Wait a minute.  Sit down, Kelly.  (KELLY seats himself in
Morris chair, holding his hat between his knees.)  Kelly, this hotel
engages you from the Pinkertons to stay around the place, and--protect
the guests?

KELLY:  Yes, sir.

FALLON:  Well, there's a man downstairs thinks he has a claim on
this money.  Now, I'd like you to wait in that bedroom and listen
to what he says with a view to putting him in jail.

KELLY:  Blackmail, Mr. Fallon?

FALLON:  Yes, blackmail.

KELLY:  (Eagerly.)  And you're not going to stand for it?

FALLON:  I am not!

KELLY:  (Earnestly.)  Good!  That's the only way to treat those dogs.
Never _give up_, never _give up_!

FALLON:  No, but yesterday, I _had_ to give up.  He put a gun at
my head.

KELLY:  (Excitedly.)  Where?  Not in this hotel?

FALLON:  Yes, in this room.  I gave him a cheque for two thousand
dollars.  That made him think I was _easy_, and he telephoned this
morning that he's coming back for another thousand, and he wants
it in _cash_.  That's why I marked those bills.

KELLY:  Why, we got him _now_!  He's as good as _dead_.

FALLON:  (Startled.)  What?

KELLY:  I say, we've got him nailed now.

FALLON:  Oh, yes.  (Pause.)  He hasn't turned in the cheque yet--I've
just called up the bank to find out.  I guess he means to hold
_that_ over my head, hey?

KELLY:  More likely he's _afraid_ of it.  (Eagerly.)  We may _get_
that back, too.  We may find it _on him_.

FALLON:  What?  Yes, as _you_ say, we may find it on him.

KELLY:  (Eagerly.)  And as soon as he gets those bills in his clothes,
you give me the high sign (Fiercely.)--and we'll _nail_ him!

FALLON:  Yes, we'll nail him.  And, if he puts his gun in my face
_today_, he won't catch me empty-handed the second time.  (Draws
automatic from his pocket.)  I'm _ready_ for him, today!

KELLY:  (Greatly concerned.)  Here, none of _that_ stuff, Mr. Fallon.
A gentleman like you can't take _that_ chance.

FALLON:  Chance?  Kelly, I haven't _always_ lived in a swell hotel.
The man that gets the drop on _me_--_when_ I've got a gun--has got
to be damned quick.

KELLY:  That's just what I mean!  I'm not thinking of him, I'm
thinking of _you_.  Give me that gun.

FALLON:  Certainly not.

KELLY:  You don't want to go to jail for a rat like that.

FALLON:  I don't mean to go to jail, and, I don't mean to die,
either.  For the last six years I've been living on melted ice and
bacon.  Now, I'm worth seven million dollars.  I'm thirty-five
years old and my life is in front of me.  And, I don't mean to
waste one hour of it in a jail, and I don't mean to let any
blackmailer take it away from me.

KELLY:  You don't want no judge to take it away from you, either!
You're not in the Klondike.

FALLON:  I guess, I've got a right to _defend_ myself, _anywhere_.

KELLY:  Yes, but you'll get excited and--

FALLON:  (Quietly.)  I?  Excited?  I never get excited.  The last
time I was excited was when I was seven years old, and the circus
came to town.

KELLY:  Don't mix up in this.  What am _I_ here for?

FALLON:  You won't be here.  How can you help me in that room, when
a fellow's pumping lead into my stomach in this one?

KELLY:  He won't pump no lead.

FALLON:  (Carelessly.)  I hope not.  But, if he does, he's got to
do it awful quick.  (Motions towards centre door.)  Now, you go in
there and shut the door, and I'll talk out here.  And you tell me
if you can hear what I say?  (KELLY goes into bedroom and closes
door.  FALLON walks to door R. with his back turned towards KELLY.)
Have you got the door shut tight?

KELLY:  (From bedroom.)  Yes.

FALLON:  (Speaks in a loud tone, to an imaginary person.)  No, not
another penny.  If I pay you, will you promise not to take the
story to the newspapers?  I give you this thousand dollars--(Turns
towards centre door.  KELLY opens door.)  Could you hear me?

KELLY:  Yes, I could hear _you_, but _he_ won't talk that loud.  You
put him in that chair (Points to Morris chair.)--so that he'll sit
facing me, and you stand over there (Points at safe.)--so then
he'll have to speak up.

FALLON:  I see.  Are you all ready?

KELLY:  Yes.  (KELLY closes door.  FALLON goes to desk.  Lifts both
guns from his pocket an inch or two, and then takes receiver from
telephone.  To 'phone.)  Give me the cafe, please.  Is this the
cafe?  There's a Mr. Mohun down there waiting to hear from Mr.
Fallon--yes.  All right.  Tell him to come up.  (KELLY opens door.)

KELLY:  Hist.  Listen, this guy knows what he's up against; he knows
it might land him in Sing Sing and he'll be leery of this door
being shut.  So, if he insists on looking in here, you speak up
loud, and say, "That's my bedroom.  It's empty."  Say it quick
enough to give me time to get out into the hall.

FALLON:  I see.

KELLY:  Then, when he's had his look around, you slam the door shut
again, and I'll come back into the bedroom.  Have you got it?

FALLON:  I understand.  (In loud voice.)  That's my bedroom.  It's

KELLY:  That's the office for me to sneak into the hall.  (In bedroom,
he disappears right.)

FALLON:  (At open door, rehearsing.)  You see, the room is empty.
(Closes the door with a bang.  Pause, then he calls.)  Are you there
now, Kelly?

KELLY:  Yes, I'm here.

(FALLON stands looking at the key in the door.  For an instant his
hand falters over it as though he would risk turning it.  Then,
he shakes his head, and walks to table right.  There is a low knock
at door left.)

FALLON:  Come in.

(MOHUN enters door left.  He is lean, keen faced, watchful.  He
is a head taller than FALLON.  His manner always has an undercurrent
of insolence.)

MOHUN:  Afternoon.  Am I speaking to Mr. Fallon?

FALLON:  Yes.  Lou Mohun?

MOHUN:  Yes.  (MOHUN stands warily at the door.  Glances cautiously
around the room.  Bends over quite openly to look under the sofa.
For some seconds his eyes rest with a smile on bedroom door.  He
speaks slowly, unemotionally.)  A mutual friend of ours said you
wanted to see me.

FALLON:  (Sharply.)  We've no mutual friend.  No one's in this but
you and me.  You want to get that straight!

MOHUN:  (Easily.)  All right.  That's all right.  Well, what do you
want to see me about?

(FALLON speaks in a loud voice.  In the speeches that follow, it
must be apparent that his loud tone and excited manner is assumed,
and is intended only to convince KELLY.)

FALLON:  I understand, you think you have a claim on me for a
thousand dollars.  And, I'm going to give it to you.  But, first,
I want a plain talk with you.  (Sharply.)  Are you listening to me?

MOHUN:  No, not yet.  Before there's any plain talking, I want to
know where that door leads to.

FALLON:  What door?  That?  (In a louder voice.)  That's my bedroom.
It's empty.  Is that what you want?  Think I got someone in there?
Do you want to look for yourself?  (Opens door.)  Go on in, and look.
(MOHUN takes a step forward, and peers past FALLON into bedroom.)
Go on, search it. Look under the bed.

MOHUN:  I guess that's all right.

FALLON:  Don't you _want_ to look?

MOHUN:  (Falling back to door left.)  Not now.  No need to, if you're
willing to let me.  (Impatiently.)  Go on.  What is it you want with
me?  (FALLON closes door with a slam.  Comes down to table.)

FALLON:  What do I want?  I want you to understand that this is the
last time you come to me for money.

MOHUN:  (Indifferently.)  That's all right.

FALLON:  No, its not all right.  (Takes out bills.)  Before I give
you this, you've got to promise me to keep silent.  I'll stand for
no more blackmail.

MOHUN:  Don't talk so loud.  I'm not deaf.  Look here, Mr. Fallon,
I didn't come here to be shouted at, I came here to get the money
you promised me.

FALLON:  Well, here it is.  (Gives him bills.  MOHUN sticks them in
his right-hand vest pocket.)  No, you listen to me.  (As soon as he
obtains the money, MOHUN'S manner changes.  He is amused, and

MOHUN:  No, not a bit like it.  Now that I've got _this_, you'll
have to listen to me.  (Moves deliberately to Morris chair and seats
himself) Mr. Fallon, I don't like your tone.

FALLON:  (Slowly.)  You--don't--like my tone?  I don't think I
understand you.

MOHUN:  You talk like you had a whip over me.  You don't seem to see
that I got you dead to rights.

FALLON:  (In pretended alarm.)  Have you?

MOHUN:  Have I?  I got a mortgage on you for life.  You got in wrong
when you gave me that money.  Don't you see that?  Mr. Fallon,
I've been taking out information about you.  Some 'Frisco lads
tell me you used to be pretty sweet on a certain party, but she
chucked you and married the other fellow.  But the first day you
come back a millionaire she visits your rooms--and you give her a
thousand dollars!  Why?  She can't tell.  You can't tell.  But _I_
can tell.  I can tell her _husband_.  He's only got to ask the
hotel clerk and the cashier and the bell hops, and when I've told
my story _as I'll tell it_--he's liable to shoot you.  (There is a
pause during which FALLON stares at MOHUN incredulously.)  Let it
sink in, Mr. Fallon.

FALLON:  (Quietly.)  I am--letting it sink in.

MOHUN:  Now, a thousand dollars is all well enough from a lady that
has to scrape to find it, but a thousand dollars from a millionaire
like you is a joke.  And unless you want me to go to the husband,
you'll come across with fifty thousand dollars, and until I get
it, I'm not going to leave this room.

FALLON:  (Solemnly.)  Then, I don't believe you are going to leave
this room.

MOHUN:  (Impudently.)  Oh, I'll go when I'm ready.

FALLON:  (Going up close to centre door.)  Let me understand you.
You are going to this husband with a lie that will wreck his faith
in his wife, that will wreck his faith in his best friend, unless
I give you a thousand dollars?

MOHUN:  No!  Fifty thousand dollars!

FALLON:  Fifty thousand.  It's the same thing.  But, you'd keep
quiet for ten dollars, wouldn't you, if that was all I had?

MOHUN:  (Grinning at him.)  If that was all you had.

FALLON:  (In a whisper, slowly, impressively.)  Then, Mr. Mohun (He
raises his right arm.), may--God--have mercy--on your soul.  (In
loud, excited tones and purposely, so that MOHUN can see him, he
turns his face towards the centre door.)  I won't pay that fifty
thousand.  I won't stand for blackmail, you're robbing--(MOHUN
leaps to his feet, and points at centre door.)

MOHUN:  (Fiercely.)  Here.  What are you doing?  You're trying to
trap me?  There _is_ someone in that room.  (FALLON laughs mockingly
at MOHUN, but speaks for KELLY to hear.)

FALLON:  Don't go near that room.  (With his left hand he quickly
turns the key in the door.)  Don't lock that door!  Don't lock that
door!  Kelly, he's locked the door.  (He draws the revolver from his
left pocket.  KELLY is heard shaking the handle of the door, and
beating upon the panel.  FALLON speaks in a whisper.)  I told you,
you'd never leave this room, Mr. Mohun.  (In a loud, excited tone.)
Drop that gun.  Drop that gun.  Don't point that gun at me!  (Still
smiling mockingly at MOHUN, FALLON shoots twice through his own
coat on the left side, throws the gun at MOHUN'S feet, and drawing
his automatic pistol, shoves it against MOHUN'S stomach and fires.
MOHUN falls back into the Morris chair dead.) (Shouts loudly.)
Break in the door.  Break in the door.  (From his pocket he takes
the envelope containing the cheque, and sticks it into the inside
pocket of MOHUN'S coat.  Then turns to table, right, as KELLY
bursts open the door and sees MOHUN.)

KELLY:  My God, Mr. Fallon.  I _told_ you to give me that gun!

FALLON:  Have I hurt him?

KELLY:  (Bending over body.)  Hurt him?  You've killed him!  (FALLON
with his face turned from KELLY, smiles.  He speaks with pretended
emotion.)  Killed him?  Here, you're an officer.  (Throws gun on
table.)  I give myself up.  (KELLY runs to hand telephone.  FALLON
picks up his cigar from the table and a box of matches.  Starts
to light cigar, but seeing KELLY at 'phone hesitates and listens

KELLY:  (To 'phone.)  Send the hotel doctor here.  Quick!  Mr. Fallon's
wounded.  (To FALLON.)  Are you badly hurt?  (FALLON places his left
hand on his left hip under the coat and removes it showing the
fingers covered with blood.)

FALLON:  Only scratched.

KELLY:  (To 'phone.)  Some crank tried to shoot him up.  Mr. Fallon
fired back and killed him.  (Pause.) _No_!  Mr. Fallon killed _him_!
(Pause.)  Of course, in self-defense, you fool, _of course_, in
self-defense!  (KELLY slams back the receiver, and rising quickly,
turns to the right and stands with hands on his hips, and back to
audience, gazing down at MOHUN.  He does not once look at FALLON.)

FALLON:  (On hearing the words "in self-defense" sighs, smiles and
striking the match, lights the cigar as



Author, producer and star of "The Star Bout," "The
Futurity Winner," "The Yellow Streak," Etc., Etc.


Author of "The Marital          Author of "The Winning
Coach," "Neighbors," "Coon    Widows," "When We Grow
Town Divorcons," Etc., Etc.      Up," Etc., Etc.



BILLY BRADLEY . . . . . . Alias "The Eel."
DAN MCCARTHY  . . . . . . Inspector of Police.
TIM DUGAN . . . . . . . . Lieutenant of Police.
JAMES O'MARA. . . . . . . Desk Lieutenant.
OFFICER FLYNN . . . . . . Patrolman.
BOBBY PERKINS . . . . . . A Police Reporter.
HAROLD BROOKTHORNE  . . . A Cub Reporter.
MR. INBAD . . . . . . . . A Souse.
JIM, TOM  . . . . . . . . Central Office Men.
JANITRESS . . . . . . . . At 327 East Broadway.
GOLDIE MARSHALL . . . . . The Eel's "Gal."

Policemen, Citizens, Morbid Crowds, Etc.



Door C. Door L. 2nd E. leading below to cells.  Windows in flat
R. and L. showing two green lights in front of Station.  Street
backing, showing the other side of Street.  Bench at L. window,
chair at R. window.  Small platform R. 2, with desk, railing, etc.
Chairs on Platform.

AT RISE:  (O'Mara at desk speaking through telephone.  PERKINS in
chair R., writing.  FLYNN searching INBAD, who is intoxicated.)

O'MARA:  (Speaking through 'phone.)  All right!  Good-bye!  (Puts
'phone down.)  Take him down, that fellow is a champion souse.

INBAD:  (As FLYNN is jerking him off L.)  Thatsh what I am, and I'll
defend my title against all comers.  (Exit INBAD followed by FLYNN.)

PERKINS:  (Coming R. to O'MARA.)  That Worthington robbery will make
a corking story, if it's true.  (Starts for door C.)

O'MARA:  Well, why don't you wait till the pinch comes off and then
get the story for sure?

PERKINS:  Your word's good enough.

O'MARA:  But I haven't given you me word.  I don't know whether
they've nailed him yet or not.

PERKINS:  (Coming back to desk railing R.) (Disappointed.)  Oh, I
thought you said they'd got him.

O'MARA:  That's the way you reporters twist everything.  I said
"Dugan was after him," that's all.

PERKINS:  Well, that's as good as got him; anything Dugan sets out
to get, comes pretty near materializing.  (Starts C., stops on
meeting BROOKY, who enters door C.)  Hello!  Brooky!  Just in time.
Here's a chance for you to distinguish yourself in your new capacity.

BROOKY:  (Coming C.)  Got a story?

PERKINS:  A pippin!  Listen to this.  (Reads from notes.) "Police
fishing.  Make a big haul!  Throw out the dragnet and once more
capture the Eel."  A very slippery article.

BROOKY:  I don't understand.

PERKINS:  Oh, can't you understand, the Eel is the nickname, the
alias of one of the slickest crooks in the country, Billy Bradley.

BROOKY:  Billy Bradley?  Oh yes, I've heard of him.

PERKINS:  Well, that's the Eel.

BROOKY:  Oh I see; well, what about him?

PERKINS:  He's been taken, or at least is going to be.

BROOKY:  What's he done?

PERKINS:  (Looking at BROOKY surprised.)  You're up on that Worthington
robbery, aren't you?

BROOKY:  What robbery is that?

PERKINS:  (Disgusted.)  Don't tell me you don't know that burglars
entered Mrs. Demming Worthington's house last night, and made off
with a five thousand dollar necklace?

BROOKY:  I hadn't heard of it.

PERKINS:  Good heavens, man! hasn't your paper got it?

BROOKY:  (Going L.)  I don't know.  I never read our paper.  (Perkins
follows BROOKY in disgust.)

O'MARA:  (Smiling.)  Well, I don't know but what you're just as well
off.  (Enter INSPECTOR door C., O'MARA comes from behind desk and
stands above it for INSPECTOR to cross him.)

PERKINS:  Good evenin', Inspector.

INSPECTOR:  (Glancing about room, without stopping, goes straight
to stool behind desk.)  How are you, boys!  (INSPECTOR salutes O'MARA
as he passes him, O'MARA returns the salute, then goes to upper
end of desk, where he stands.)

BROOKY:  How do you do, sir.

INSPECTOR:  (Back of desk.)  Well, O'Mara.  They've got the Eel.

O'MARA:  They have?

INSPECTOR:  Dugan is on his way up with him now.

PERKINS:  I guess it will go pretty hard with him, won't it Inspector?

INSPECTOR:  If he is guilty.

PERKINS:  Well, he is, isn't he?

INSPECTOR:  I believe every man innocent until proven guilty.

BROOKY:  Bravo, Inspector!  Those are my sentiments.

INSPECTOR:  I've sent for Mrs. Worthington.  When we get her, Goldie,
the Eel and Dugan together, we shall be able to get a clearer view
on the matter.  Bring up Goldie.  (O'MARA exits door L.)

PERKINS:  (Coming R. C.)  Inspector, has this girl Goldie Marshall
ever been up before?

INSPECTOR:  Well, she's been arrested a number of times, on
shop-lifting charges, but we've never been able to prove anything
on her.

PERKINS:  Perhaps she's square after all.

INSPECTOR:  Not at all unlikely; as I said before, I believe a
person innocent until proven guilty.

BROOKY:  (Crossing R. to railing of desk.)  And as I said before--Bravo,
old chap.  (The INSPECTOR looks at BROOKY sternly and he retires
up stage R. confusedly, bumping into chair, sits in it.)

PERKINS:  (Crossing R. to railing.)  Inspector?


PERKINS:  I suppose many a person has been railroaded through the

INSPECTOR:  (Rising angrily.)  System!  How dare you!  What do you

PERKINS:  I--I--beg your pardon, Inspector, I--

BROOKY:  (Rising from chair and coming down L.  of PERKINS.)
I say, don't make a bally ass of yourself.

INSPECTOR:  Don't ever let me hear you say that again.  (Voices of
O'MARA and GOLDIE are heard off L.) (Enter GOLDIE, followed by
O'MARA.  Door L.)

GOLDIE:  (Jerking away from O'MARA.)  Well, don't yank my arm off.
(Looking around room.)  I know the way.  (Starts R.)

O'MARA:  (Following GOLDIE, catches her by the back of neck as she
reaches C.)  Don't give me any back talk or I'll yank your neck off.

INSPECTOR:  O'Mara! let go your hold.  Don't forget you're dealing
with a woman.  (O'MARA releases hold.)

GOLDIE:  (Mockingly courteous.)  Thanks, Inspector!  What'll I send
you for Christmas, a bunch of sweet forget-me-nots or a barrel of

INSPECTOR:  Goldie, don't be so incorrigible.

GOLDIE:  Gee! but you're an educated guy.

INSPECTOR:  Have a seat.  (O'MARA jumps for chair with mock politeness.)

GOLDIE:  (To reporters.)  He's polite, too.  (Crosses to chair.)

INSPECTOR:  Well, Goldie!

GOLDIE:  (Sitting.)  Well, Inspector!

INSPECTOR:  Do you intend to stay here to-night or are you going
to get bail?

GOLDIE:  Where would I get bail?

INSPECTOR:  I thought perhaps some gentleman friend of yours--

GOLDIE:  (Rising angrily.)  I ain't got no gentlemen friends.  What
do you think I am, a Moll?  (Sits.)

INSPECTOR:  Don't make any grand stand play now, Goldie!

GOLDIE:  Well, if you mean that I'm a bad girl, you'd better not
say it (Rising, crosses to desk and pounds angrily on railing.),
'cause I ain't, see?

INSPECTOR:  Well, you don't deny that you and the Eel are sweethearts?

GOLDIE:  Was, yes.  Gee, we was goin' to get married, until in a
jealous huff he tried to kill me and was shipped for two years for
assault and battery, but it wasn't none of my doin's.

INSPECTOR:  Didn't you prefer charges against him?

GOLDIE:  I did not.  Do you think I'd squeal on a pal?  If it wasn't
for Dugan, they'd turn the Eel loose.  (Sits.)

INSPECTOR:  Why Dugan?

GOLDIE:  Didn't he shove him in?

INSPECTOR:  He was simply acting in his official duty.

GOLDIE:  Official duty, my eye.

INSPECTOR:  What other motive could Mr. Dugan possibly have had?

GOLDIE:  (With a sneer.)  Maybe you don't know.  Well, I'll tell
you.  He thought by shovin' the Eel out of the way, he could get

INSPECTOR:  And did he?

GOLDIE:  Not so as you could notice it.  I ain't no fall guy for

INSPECTOR:  Now that the Eel's been sprung, are you going back to

GOLDIE:  (Almost in tears.)  Oh gee!  I wish I could, but there's
nothing doin', he's sore on me.

INSPECTOR:  When did you last see him?

GOLDIE:  Just before he went up, two years ago.

INSPECTOR:  How about this Worthington robbery, wasn't he in on it?

GOLDIE:  (Hastily.)  No, he wasn't.

INSPECTOR:  (Quickly.)  Who was?

GOLDIE:  (After a slight pause as though to confess.)  Well, I'll
tell you.  There was three of us, me, Jesse James, and Christopher
Columbus.  (Looks first at INSPECTOR then to PERKINS.)  Ah, put it
down on your little yellow paper.

INSPECTOR:  (Angrily.)  Answers like that'll get you nothing here.

GOLDIE:  See, you won't believe me when I tell you.

INSPECTOR:  Silence, I say!  (To O'MARA.)  Take her down.  (GOLDIE
rises from chair leisurely and strolls impudently L. as she comes
to BROOKY.)  Oh, poo! poo!

INSPECTOR:  (Stopping GOLDIE at door L.)  And you'll stay down unless
you have a confession to make.

GOLDIE:  (At door L.)  Say, Inspector, if you're waitin' for a
confession from me, you'll wait until pigs fly kites.  (Exit door
L. GOLDIE followed by O'MARA.) (PERKINS and BROOKY look off after

BROOKY:  What a little terror!

PERKINS:  Looks mighty like her work, doesn't it, Inspector?

INSPECTOR:  No!  The job has all the ear marks of the Eel, but she
undoubtedly is his accomplice.  (Enter MRS. WORTHINGTON door C.,
she looks around uncomfortably and as she comes down C., BROOKY
and PERKINS on seeing her, remove their hats.  INSPECTOR rises and
indicates chair R. C.)  Ah!  Mrs. Worthington!  (Indicating Reporters.)
Have you any objection to talking for publication?

MRS. WORTHINGTON:  (Looking toward Reports.)  No, not at all.  (PERKINS
has note paper and takes down as she talks.)

INSPECTOR:  Will you kindly be seated?  And we shall proceed?  (MRS.
W. sits.)  Now in the first place, how long had this girl, Goldie
Marshall, been in your employ?

MRS. WORTHINGTON:  Just one week.

INSPECTOR:  (Half aside.)  That's about the time the Eel was sprung.
(To Mrs. W.)  Had you missed anything else up to the time of this

MRS. WORTHINGTON:  No, nothing.

INSPECTOR:  Who else was in the house at the time, besides yourself
and the maid?

MRS. WORTHINGTON:  Only my guests who were at dinner with me.  Mr.
Appleby and his wife.

INSPECTOR:  The horseowner?

MRS. WORTHINGTON:  Yes, and a Miss Hazelton from Pittsburgh.

INSPECTOR:  Would you suspect them?

MRS. WORTHINGTON:  Well, hardly.

INSPECTOR:  Anyone else?

MRS. WORTHINGTON:  Yes, Mr. Dugan.

INSPECTOR:  What Dugan?

MRS. WORTHINGTON:  Why, your Mr. Dugan here.

INSPECTOR:  Oh, Tim Dugan.

MRS. WORTHINGTON:  Yes, we're great friends, and he frequently dines
at my house.  (Low murmur begins in the distance and grows louder.
MRS. W. rises in fear and appeals to the INSPECTOR, who comes from
behind the desk and--)

INSPECTOR:  Don't be alarmed, Mrs. Worthington, just step behind
the desk.  (MRS. WORTHINGTON steps back of desk and sits in chair
below stool.  INSPECTOR replaces the chair in which MRS. W. has
been sitting in front of the window R. C. then returns to back of
desk where he stands.  The REPORTERS at first sound show excitement,
PERKINS goes to door C. and looks off R. B.)

PERKINS:  (At door C.)  It's Dugan and he's got the Eel.  (Goes down
L. C.) (DUGAN is seen out of window R. bringing the EEL along, who
is hand-cuffed.  They are followed by a noisy crowd.  DUGAN throws
the EEL down, C., then chases the crowd away from door C.)

EEL:  (Looks around smiling until he sees INSPECTOR.)  Hello,
Inspector!  Gee! it's real oil for the wicks of my lamps to see you

DUGAN:  (Coming down C.)  Yes, he's tickled to death to see you,
ain't you, Billy?

EEL:  (Angrily.)  The Eel to you, Copper; Billy to my pals.

INSPECTOR:  Well, Billy!

EEL:  That's right, Inspector, you're my pal.  (Movement from
INSPECTOR.)  Oh, I ain't forgot when you was just a plain Bull and
saved me from doin' my first bit on a phoney charge.  They tried
to railroad me, you remember, and Dugan here was runnin' the engine.

INSPECTOR:  Oh, you've got Dugan wrong, Billy, he bears you no

EEL:  No, it's a mistake, he just loves me.  Say, he thinks so much
of me, that if he saw me drowning, he'd bring me a glass of water.

DUGAN:  You know why you were brought here?

EEL:  Sure, so's you could railroad me again.

INSPECTOR:  Nonsense, Dugan has nothing against you personally.

EEL:  Oh yes he has; when he was new on the force, I beat him up
good.  He was only a harness cop then, and one night he thought
he made me coppin' a super from a lush, which you know ain't my
graft.  He started to fan me with a sap, so I just clubbed my smoke
wagon, and before I got through with him, I made him a pick-up for
the ambulance, and he ain't never forgot it.

INSPECTOR:  What do you know about this Worthington robbery?  (EEL
looks around suspiciously.)  Before you answer, Billy, I warn you
to be careful, everything you say will be used against you.

EEL:  Yes, and everything I don't say will be used, too.  I know
the system.

DUGAN:  (Crossing R. to EEL.  REPORTERS follow.)  Well, what have
you got to say?

EEL:  (Taking time, looks around.)  You don't think I'm goin' to
address this Mass Meeting here.  (BROOKY looks L. to see if there
is anyone else there.)

INSPECTOR:  You're not afraid to talk in front of a couple of
newspaper reporters, are you?

EEL:  (Grinning at INSPECTOR to gain time.)  Roosevelt gets a dollar
a word, where do I come in?  (Resignedly.)  All right, flag the
pencil pushers and I'll gab my nob.  (DUGAN turns L. to tell the
REPORTERS to go.  BROOKY says he don't understand.  PERKINS pulls
him off door C., remonstrating, going R.) (The INSPECTOR signs to
DUGAN that they will now grill the EEL.)

INSPECTOR:  This lady I suppose you know.

EEL:  (Looks at MRS. WORTHINGTON.)  I never lamped her before in my

DUGAN:  That is Mrs. Worthington, the lady you robbed.

EEL:  (Banteringly to MRS. WORTHINGTON to gain time.)  Is it?  How
do you do, pleased to meet you.  Gee! but you must be an awful
mark to be robbed.  (INSPECTOR raps on desk.)  What was it I stole
from you, Mrs. Worthington?

DUGAN:  Nix on that bull.  You know what you stole.

EEL:  Yes, and I suppose you know what I stole before I stole it.

DUGAN:  With dips like you, I always look far ahead.

EEL:  Get out! you couldn't look far enough ahead to see the ashes
on your cigar.  Why, if it wasn't for your stool pigeons--

DUGAN:  That's enough out of you.

EEL:  Oh, go chase yourself.  (DUGAN smashes at EEL, who ducks around
back of him.)

INSPECTOR:  Dugan!!!  (When Dugan locates the EEL, he goes after him
again.  MRS. WORTHINGTON screams.)

INSPECTOR:  None of that, Dugan!  Remember, he had no marks on him
when you brought him in.  (DUGAN crosses L. in front of EEL and
looks off door L.  in subdued rage.)  A little more civility out
of you, Bradley.

EEL:  All right, Inspector.  (To MRS. W.)  I beg your pardon, lady.

INSPECTOR:  You have been brought here as a suspect in a five
thousand dollar jewelry theft which happened at the home of Mrs.
Worthington last night.  (EEL makes no move.)  Circumstances point
strongly in your direction.  Your former sweetheart, Goldie Marshall,
was serving as maid to Mrs. Worthington at the time of the robbery.

EEL:  And you think I planted her there as a stall.

DUGAN:  Goldie spilled that much, and we didn't, have to third
degree her.

EEL:  So Goldie declared me in on this?

INSPECTOR:  She couldn't help it, we knew it was a two-man's job.

EEL:  She snitched me into a frame-up.

DUGAN:  Same as she did two years ago.

EEL:  Why say, Inspector, I ain't seen Goldie since I was sprung
from the Pen.

DUGAN:  Is that so?  I got it straight that the first place you
mozied to was Goldie's flat on East Broadway.  You were trailed.

EEL:  Sure I was, by one of you pathfinders at the Central Office.
Oh, I've played tag with you before; Dugan, whatever you say, is.

INSPECTOR:  Then you admit--

EEL:  I don't admit nothin'.

INSPECTOR:  Be careful what you say.  Have you retained counsel?

EEL:  A mouthpiece!  What for?

INSPECTOR:  You've got to be represented.  Have you any money?

EEL:  Sure!  I left the hotel of Zebra clothed with a pocket full
of smiles and a wad of joy.  (INSPECTOR whispers for O'MARA to bring
up GOLDIE.  O'MARA exits door L.)

INSPECTOR:  Well, the state will furnish you with an attorney.

EEL:  What, one of them record shysters?  Eighty years old and never
won a case.  No, thanks, Inspector.  I'll plead my own case; then
I got at least a chance to beat this rap.

DUGAN:  You'd have a swell time pleading your own case.

EEL:  Yes, and believe me I'll spring a sensation when I open up.
I'll show up some of this rotten graft.  I'll bust "The System "
to smithereens.  Dugan, I won't be railroaded--(EEL crosses in
rage L. to Dugan.)

INSPECTOR:  Bradley! hold your tongue, you've said enough.

EEL:  I ain't said half what I'm going to say--

INSPECTOR:  (Fiercely.)  Not another word out of you.  Do you

EEL:  (Coming down.)  All right, Inspector.  I don't want to get
anybody that's right, in bad, but I've got something up my sleeve.
(DUGAN laughs and goes up stage.) (GOLDIE enters door L. brought
in by O'MARA.  She is startled at seeing EEL, then pleadingly:)

GOLDIE:  Billy!  (EEL turns and is about to go to GOLDIE but stops.)

EEL:  You snitched again!  You snitched again!  (Running L. to GOLDIE
with arms up as though to hit her with hand-cuffs.  GOLDIE snatches
his upraised arms.)

GOLDIE:  Oh no, Billy!  True as God I didn't!

DUGAN:  (Aside to INSPECTOR.)  Let's leave them alone, they'll talk.

GOLDIE:  (Still holding EEL'S arms.)  Why, I'd rather die than snitch.

EEL:  (Jerking away and going R.)  How about two years ago?

GOLDIE:  I didn't even then when you left me dying.  They framed
you while I was in the hospital.

EEL:  Who?

GOLDIE:  Dugan and his--

EEL:  Sh!!!  Oh if I could only believe you, kid.

GOLDIE:  Look at me, Billy.  Do you think I'd snitch?

EEL:  (Looks at her, then pushes her head roughly back.) No, I can't
believe you did it, kid.  (EEL takes GOLDIE in his arms.)

GOLDIE:  (Sobbingly.)  I'm so glad to see you again.

EEL:  Me, too, kid.  Gee, your head feels as natural on my shoulder
as a piece of pie on a prize-fighter's knife.  (EEL takes GOLDIE
from his shoulder and says inquiringly.)  But what are you doing

GOLDIE:  (Drying her tears.)  Bein' held on suspicion, but they can't
get met I'm protected.  Dugan's got to--

EEL:  Nix on the crackin', don't shoot your trap, they're leavin'
us together for a stall.  Talk about something else.  (EEL turns
R. and GOLDIE grabs his hand.)  Do you still love me?

GOLDIE:  Always.

EEL:  Will you marry me?

GOLDIE:  If you want me to.

EEL:  You know I do.  (Looks around suspiciously.)  Say, if I beat
this rap (DUGAN comes, on door R., and stands at upper end of
desk), let's get spliced and go out West, turn over a new leaf,
and begin life all over again, far away from the subway world where
the sun of happiness is always clouded and the ace of joy is
coppered.  What do you say?

GOLDIE:  Gee! them's the kindest words you've ever said to me.  (Then
lightly.)  And I'll march down the aisle with you, with my hair in
a braid.

EEL:  Great!!  Gee, I wonder if we could make our get-away now.  (Both
start for door C., but DUGAN, who has come down behind them, stops

DUGAN:  How do you do!  Would you like to take a little trip out in
the air with me?

GOLDIE:  Say, I'd rather be home with the headache, than at the
Movies with a guy like you.  (Crosses L.) (INSPECTOR enters door
R. going behind desk.)

INSPECTOR:  Well, have you got anything to say to me before I lock
you up for the night?

EEL:  Nothin', except that it's a frame-up, and we defy you to go
through with it.

INSPECTOR:  Take 'em down.

DUGAN:  (Above door L.)  Come on.  (EEL starts for door L.)

GOLDIE:  Good-night, Inspector.

INSPECTOR:  Good-night.

EEL:  (Turning at door L.)  Same from me, Inspector.

INSPECTOR:  Good-night, Bradley.  (DUGAN shoves the EEL roughly off.
GOLDIE circles around and switches in front of DUGAN.)  By the way,
Goldie, what's the number of your flat on East Broadway?

GOLDIE:  (Hesitatingly at door L.) 327, Inspector.


GOLDIE:  (Impudently.)  You're welcome.  (Exit door L. followed by
DUGAN.) (O'MARA locks door after them.)

INSPECTOR:  (Calling O'MARA.)  O'Mara!

O'MARA:  (At door L.)  Yes, sir.

INSPECTOR:  I want a wire installed at 327 East Broadway.

O'MARA:  (In front of desk.)  Goldie's flat?

INSPECTOR:  Yes.  I'm leaving it to you to see that the orders are
carried out to the letter.

O'MARA:  Yes, sir, to-morrow.

INSPECTOR:  To-night, at once.  I'm going to turn them loose.  You

O'MARA:  (Looks puzzled, then face brightens.)  I understand.




Showing flat house with stoop.  Time:  The same evening.  A small
boy enters L. with bottle of milk, goes up steps door C., rings
bell, clicker sounds, and he exits door C. MAGGIE enters door C.
She is an East side janitress.  She has a tin pail on her arm
around which is wrapped newspaper.  She walks off L. PERKINS and
BROOKY are heard off R.)

PERKINS:  (Entering R. briskly.)  Come on, Brooky, don't be so slow.

BROOKY:  (Straggling in after PERKINS.)  I say, old chap, this sort
of work is most laborious.  This flitting from one tram to another,
and being jostled and ordered to "step lively" by vulgar guards,
and running, yes actually running.  It's not only bad taste, old
man, but positively undignified.  (Dusting shoes with handkerchief,
L., PERKINS is up in vestibule of door C.)

PERKINS:  If you want to supply your paper with live news, you've
got to keep hustling.

BROOKY:  Very true, but it seems such a waste of energy.

PERKINS:  (Coming down to BROOKY.)  No energy is wasted that is
productive of flaring headlines.  Now take that note pad I gave
you, and get your pencil busy with a description of this neighborhood.
(Goes R. making notes.)

BROOKY:  (Taking paper and pencil from pockets after a search for
them.)  This is more like being a Scotland Yarder than a reporter.

PERKINS:  A Scotland Yarder!

BROOKY:  I should say detective.

PERKINS:  (Coming L.)  Let me tell you something, Brooky.  The
reporters and newspapers unravel more cases than the police.

BROOKY:  I dare say you do.  You're so damned inquisitive.

PERKINS:  It isn't inquisitiveness, my boy, it's just being on the
level with the public.

BROOKY:  (Laughing.)  You know, some great man said, "The public be

PERKINS:  He wasn't a great man, he was an ignorant man.  The public
will stand for just so much, then look out; let your mind wander
back to the history of the French Revolution.  An infuriated public
is the most ferocious blood-lapping animal in the earth's jungle.

BROOKY:  Perky, I adore your descriptive talents.

PERKINS:  (Going up into vestibule and ringing bell.)  You make me

BROOKY:  But surely you're not going to enter that apartment house

PERKINS:  No, I'll tell them a couple of reporters want some news,
then you'll hear language no paper can print.

BROOKY:  Why, are they all foreigners?

PERKINS:  Say, Brooky, you're a perfect ass.

BROOKY:  No, my dear fellow, none of us are perfect.

PERKINS:  (Coming down out of vestibule to BROOKY.)  Now listen, I
told you that I had inside information that the EEL and GOLDIE
were to be released, that's why I hustled you over here.  I could
have come alone, but I let you in on a big scoop for your paper.

BROOKY:  Righto, old chap, righto; but what bothers me is, what's
it all about?

PERKINS:  It's about time you got next to yourself.

BROOKY:  Another impossible metaphor, my dear fellow; how can one
get next to one's self without being twins?

PERKINS:  Brooky, Englishmen as a rule are thick, but you are a
density of thickness that is impenetrable.

BROOKY:  Yes, I know I am a rare sort.

PERKINS:  Now, we haven't time to argue a lot of piffle.  The girl
isn't in yet, there's no answer to my ring, so let's stroll around
and come back later.  (Exit R.)

BROOKY:  (Not seeing that PERKINS has gone.)  Righto! old man, we'll
stroll, for if there's anything that I like, its having a nice
little--(Seeing that PERKINS is gone.)  Perkins! you said stroll.
Don't run, don't run, it's so damned undignified.  (Exit R.) (Enter
L., O'MARA dressed in citizen's clothes.  He looks at number on
house then motions off for TOM to come on.  TOM comes on L., they
go up into vestibule and look for names on bells.  Enter Officer
FLYNN, stealthily.)

FLYNN:  Come on, now, you don't live there, I've had my eye on you
for five minutes.

O'MARA:  (Coming down from vestibule to FLYNN.)  Well, keep your eye
on something else, if you know what's good for you.  (Takes badge
out of pocket.)

FLYNN:  (Surprised.)  Central Officer!  (Whistles and walks off R.)

O'MARA:  (Returning to vestibule.)  Ring any bell?

TOM:  No, her flat's on the second floor, so I'll ring up the top
flat.  (TOM rings the bell and sound of electric door opener is
heard, they both exit door C.) (FLYNN strolls back on from R. ad
MAGGIE enters from L.)

FLYNN:  Hello, Maggie! been out to get the evening paper?  There
is not much in it.

MAGGIE:  There's enough in it to quench me thirst after a hard day's

FLYNN:  I see you've got the paper wrapped around something good.

MAGGIE:  I have that, and it's meself instead of the paper'll be
wrapped around it in a minute.  (Light goes up in window above.)

FLYNN:  I see you've got a new tenant.  Is she hard on you?

MAGGIE:  Divel-a-bit!  She's a nice respectable dacent girl, and
aisy to get along with.  I never seen her with no men folks.  Maybe
she's a widdy, as I'd like to be.

FLYNN:  A widow?  What's the matter with your old man?

MAGGIE:  He ain't worth powder enough to blow up a cock-roach.

FLYNN:  Is he working?

MAGGIE:  He ain't done a tap since the civil war.

FLYNN:  That's quite a vacation.

MAGGIE:  Vacation?  It's a life sentence of laziness.

FLYNN:  There's many a good man layin' off.

MAGGIE:  No, the good men are dyin' off, it's the bums that are
layin' off.

FLYNN:  (Looking at house.)  Well, the landlord of this house ain't
particular about his tenants.

MAGGIE:  Not a bit, it's been a nest for thieves ever since I came

FLYNN:  Well, they've got to live somewhere, the jails are overcrowded.

MAGGIE:  Oh, I don't mind thim, they can steal nothin' from me but
me old man, and they're welcome to him without usin' a jimmy.

FLYNN:  A jimmy?  You're getting on to the thief slang.

MAGGIE:  Why wouldn't I?  That's all I hear mornin' and night from
"Tommy the Rat," "Tim the Flim," and "John the Con."

FLYNN:  You know all their monakers?

MAGGIE:  I do that.  Say, they've given me a monaker, too.

FLYNN:  What do they call you?

MAGGIE:  "Mag the Jag."

FLYNN:  (Laughs.)  Well, I must be off.  (Starts off R.)

MAGGIE:  (As she goes up into vestibule.)  Won't you come in and
have a sup of beer and a pull at the old man's pipe?

FLYNN:  I can't, I've got a stationary post.

MAGGIE:  Look at that now, that shows where you stand.  Good-night,

FLYNN:  Good-night, Maggie.  (Exits R.) (Enter EEL and GOLDIE arm
in arm, talking earnestly.  As they come to steps, GOLDIE goes up
and unlocks door.  EEL sees FLYNN coming up on R., he lights
cigarette and motions to go in.  GOLDIE exits door C. FLYNN comes
up to EEL, who throws the match in his face and disappears door
C. as FLYNN is rubbing his eyes.)




Living room, bedroom, and kitchen can be seen.  At rise, O'MARA
and TOM are installing the dictagraph, on wall L. C. TOM is standing
on chair L. C. He places the instrument--then runs his hand down
to wire.)

TOM:  All right, Jim, hand me that picture.

O'MARA:  (C. handing TOM framed picture.)  Here you are, Tom.

TOM:  (Hangs picture over dictagraph, gets off of chair and backs
off, seeing if it's placed right.)  There, that'll do, I guess.

O'MARA:  Nobody would ever suspect anything's been happening here.

TOM:  (Picking up bits of wire and tools from floor L. C. O'MARA
puts chair TOM has been standing on, R. and brings bag C.)  Pick
up these pieces.  Did you give the Inspector the office?

O'MARA:  Twenty minutes ago.

TOM:  (Putting scraps into bag.)  The job took a little longer than
I thought it would.

O'MARA:  (Closing bag and handing it to TOM.)  Yes, and we'd better
get a gait on out of here, or the EEL and his girl will be walkin'
in on us.  (Door slams off stage.)

BOTH:  What's that!

O'MARA:  It must be them!

TOM:  (Starts for door R.)

O'MARA:  We can't go that way.

TOM:  (Indicating the window L.)  The fire escape, quick.  (TOM crosses
quickly to window L., opens it, and goes through.)

O'MARA:  (Follows TOM, but stops at window L.)  Wait a minute!  (Goes
back, turns out light, then goes through window, closing it after
him.) (Footsteps begin on steps off stage as O'MARA pulls down
window.)  Stage is in darkness but for the moonlight that streams
in through window L. Steps sound closer.  Key rattles and door is
unlocked.  Door R. opens just a bit at first, then GOLDIE enters,
followed by the EEL.)

EEL:  (Holding GOLDIE back.)  Wait a minute, kid, till I strike a

GOLDIE:  Oh, never mind, Billy, I don't need one.  (Gropes her way
C. and turns on light.  EEL stays at door R. listening to hear if
they are followed.)  Home again!  Gee! but that guy what said "ther
ain't no place like home" must have travelled some.

EEL:  (Turning around.)  Yep!  Gee, but this is some swell dump you
got here, Kid!

GOLDIE:  Ain't this classy?

(The EEL hurries into bedroom and then into kitchen as though
looking for some one.  GOLDIE follows him, but stops at kitchen
door.)  What are you looking for, the ice-box?

EEL:  (Coming down to C. R. of GOLDIE.)  No, it ain't that.

GOLDIE:  What then, lookin' for a sleeper?

EEL:  No telling what they're up to.  You don't think they've given
us our liberty, without a string to it, do you?  They're Indian
givers, they are.

(Starts for door R.)

GOLDIE:  Gee, Billy!  I hadn't thought of that.  (Goes into bedroom
and lights electric light L. of bedroom off C.)

EEL:  (R. C. looking at door R.)  I kind of thought I saw a light
through the bottom of this door, when we was coming up the stairs.

GOLDIE:  (Coming down C.)  Oh, it must have been the reflection of
the moon.  (Takes off hat and puts it on dresser in bedroom.  EEL
crosses room backwards to L., holding hand in moonlight to make
the shadow on bottom of door.  GOLDIE watches him.  EEL then turns
to window and GOLDIE looks under bed.)

EEL:  (Excitedly.)  This latch is sprung.

GOLDIE:  I must have left it open, when they hiked me down to the
club house.

EEL:  Are you sure?


EEL:  (Going down L.)  Well, then, I guess we're all right for the
present at least.

GOLDIE:  (Coming down C. with travelling bag which she has taken
off of bed.)  Yes, until Dugan finds out we've been sprung, and
then he'll be after us like a cat after a mouse.  (Puts bag on table
up R.)

EEL:  We'll be on a rattler for Chi, before that.  How long will
it take you to pack?

GOLDIE:  (Going into bedroom.)  About a half hour.

EEL:  That's good.  If Dugan does go after us (Chuckles.), he's got
to get us first.

GOLDIE:  (Coming down C. with kimono which she has taken from door
C. in bedroom, and is folding.)  Say, Billy, I guess I'd better
lock this door.  (Starts for door, but his next line stops her.)

EEL:  He can't break in here without a search warrant, and he can't
get that before Monday.  (Lying down on couch.)

GOLDIE:  Well, what's he going to get it on then?  (Putting kimono
in bag on table R., picking up a pair of shoes from the floor near
table, but the EEL's next line stops her.)

EEL:  (Still on couch.)  You ought to know Dugan well enough by this
time.  He'll get something on us, leave it to him.

GOLDIE:  (Stopping thoughtfully in door C., then throwing shoes on
floor near bed decisively and coming down C.)  If he does, I'll
turn squealer for the first time in my life.

EEL:  (Jumping off of couch quickly.)  Don't you do it.  I could
never look you square in the eyes again if you did.

GOLDIE:  It ain't no worse to squeal than it is to steal.

EEL:  Yes, it is, Kid, God'll forgive a thief, but he hates a

GOLDIE:  Maybe you're right, Billy.  Well, I guess we'd better get
a move on.  (Going into bedroom and getting hair brush off of
dresser.)  We can't get out of here any too soon to suit me.  (Putting
brush in bag on Table R., then smiling at EEL.)

EEL:  You betcher!  (Goes to mantle L. and leans against it

GOLDIE:  (Coming C.)  What's on your mind now?

EEL:  I was just thinkin' of that first job I'd have to do when we
get to Chi.

GOLDIE:  What do you mean?

EEL:  Gee, Goldie, I hate to go back to the old life.  (Sits on
sofa L.)

GOLDIE:  Old life?  I thought you said we was goin' to begin all
over again, and live like decent, respectable people?

EEL:  I know, but you've got to have money to be respectable.

GOLDIE:  Well, we'll get the money.

EEL:  That's what I hate about it.  Having to get it that way.

GOLDIE:  But Billy, I mean honestly, work for it.

EEL:  (Rising and coming R.)  Yes, but supposing we can't get work?
And supposing we can't hold it after we do get it?

GOLDIE:  If they go digging into our past, it'll be tough rowing.
But there (caressing EEL.), don't let's worry till we come to the
bridge.  Wait until we get to Chicago.  (Goes into bedroom and takes
down coat which is hanging on door C.)

EEL:  (Lies on couch L.)  Have you got enough cale to carry us over

GOLDIE:  (Brushing off coat at door C.)  What?

EEL:  I say, have you got enough money to hold us till we get to

GOLDIE:  (C. looking in surprise.)  Why no, Billy, I ain't got no

EEL:  (Surprised, slowly rising from couch to sitting position.)

GOLDIE:  I ain't got a cent.  I thought you had the sugar.

EEL:  Me?

GOLDIE:  AIN'T you got no money neither?

EEL:  (Throwing away cigarette and going R.)  I ain't got enough
money to buy the controlling interest in a rotten egg.  (Goldie
throws coat on couch.)  How about that necklace?

GOLDIE:  Why, Dugan's got it.

EEL:  Well, how about your share?

GOLDIE:  Well, he promised I was going to get five hundred out of
it, but now that you're sprung, I suppose I'll have to whistle for

EEL:  Well, I see where I have to get to work before we get to

GOLDIE:  (Turning him around quickly.)  What do you mean?

EEL:  Well, we've got to get to Chi, and as the railroads are very
particular, somebody'll have to pay our fares.  I won't be long.
(Crosses L. in front of GOLDIE and gets hat and coat off of sofa.
GOLDIE runs to door R., then as EEL turns:)

GOLDIE:  Oh no, no, don't, please don't. We're going to be good,
you said so yourself.  We're going to travel the straight road.

EEL:  (C. with hat and coat in hand.)  But that road won't take us
to Chi.  (Pause.)  You see, there's no other way out of it.  (Starts
toward door but GOLDIE stops him pleadingly.)

GOLDIE:  Oh no, you musn't, you shan't. I won't go with you if you
do.  I won't go!  I won't go!  (Becomes hysterical, pounds on door,
then begins to cry.)

EEL:  (Putting arm around her.)  There, there, don't cry.  Look!  (He
turns her around and then puts his hat and coat in chair above
door R.) (GOLDIE takes his hands in relief The EEL pats her cheek.)
You see, I'll do as you say.  (Crossing down C.)  I'll cut it out.

GOLDIE:  (Following the EEL and putting her arms around him.)  I
knew you would.

EEL:  Oh, you did?  Well, what's the next move?

GOLDIE:  I don't know, Billy.

EEL:  There you are.  (Crosses L.)  We're no better off than we were
before.  By Monday, Dugan'll have me back in the Tombs, maybe on
a charge of murder.  You know that he ain't going to rest while
I'm loose.

GOLDIE:  Then why not let me end it all?

EEL:  Not by squealing.

GOLDIE:  It will be that sooner or later.

EEL:  (Coming R. slowly.)  No, the best way is to let me go out and
get some money.  (Crossing GOLDIE and going toward hat and coat on
chair R.)

GOLDIE:  (Stopping him.)  But, Billy, you promised me--

EEL:  (Turning to GOLDIE.)  I don't mean to rob anybody (Scratches
head in puzzled way, then brightly, as thought strikes him), I
mean to borrow it.

GOLDIE:  (Joyfully.)  Borrow it?

EEL:  Yes, I'll knock a guy down, strip him of his leather, get his
name and address, then when we get to Chicago, I'll send it back
to him.

GOLDIE:  (Shaking her head and smiling.)  Oh no, it won't do.

EEL:  Why?

GOLDIE:  You might forget his address.  (Going up C. into bedroom.)
Now, you come and help me pack the trunk.  (Stopping.)  Oh Billy,
come help me pull this trunk in there.  (Disappearing to R. of
trunk.  EEL comes and takes L. end and they carry it into living
room and place it C. under chandelier to open up stage.  As they
carry it down stage she speaks.)  There are a few more things to
go in.

EEL:  (As they set trunk down.)  I've got it.

GOLDIE:  What?

EEL:  I know where I can get that money.

GoLDffi:  Where?

EEL:  Isaacson.

GOLDIE:  What Isaacson?

EEL:  Why the fence on Second Ave.  I'm aces with him.

GOLDIE:  Yes, but what have you got to pawn?

EEL:  I don't need nothing.  I've thrown thousands of dollars his
way in business, he'll lend me a century sure.  I'll be back in
fifteen minutes.  (Goes to chair and gets coat and hat, then starts
for door R.)

GOLDIE:  Wait!  (Crosses to mantel L. and gets keys from up stage
end.)  Here, take my keys.  (Coming back to C. above trunk where EEL
meets her putting on coat and hat.)  To make sure, we'd better work
on signals.

EEL:  (Taking keys.)  How do you mean?

GOLDIE:  In case anything happens while you're gone, when you come
back, ring the bell downstairs three times.  If I don't answer,
everything's O. K., come up; but if I do answer, don't come up,

EEL:  If you don't answer, everything's all right, come up; but if
you do answer, don't come up.

GOLDIE:  That's it.

EEL:  I got you.  (Goes to door R. Opens it quickly to see if anyone
is there.  Closes door, footsteps are heard in hall, then going
downstairs, then door slams.)

GOLDIE:  (Listens intently until door slams, then begins to pack
trunk.  Opens trunk first.  Gets jacket from couch where she has
thrown it, puts it in trunk.  Goes up into bedroom and gets skirt
which hangs out of sight on end of dresser.  Comes down C. shaking
skirt.  Long, low whistle stops her, then club raps.)  Bull's!!
(Looks up at light burning, turns it out and closes the trunk at
the same time.  Stands still until she sees the shadow of man's
hand in the moonlight on the wall R.  Frightened exclamation, then
cowers on sofa.  DUGAN appears at window, looks in, then raises
window and enters, closing window after him.  Takes gun out of
pocket, then goes up into kitchen and bedroom.  At door C. he sees
GOLDIE, points gun at her.

DUGAN:  Ah!  (GOLDIE springs to her feet with frightened exclamation,
and DUGAN says:) don't squawk or I'll pop sure!

GOLDIE:  (Nervously.)  Me squawk?  What do you think I am, a school

DUGAN:  (Goes to door R., opens it to see if anyone is there, closes
it and locks door.  Comes to C., turns on light, then puts gun in
pocket.  Coming L. to GOLDIE.)  I don't want to frighten you.

GOLDIE:  (L. nervously.)  I know, but one look at you would scare
some people to death.

DUGAN:  Am I that homely?

GOLDIE:  Homely?  Why an undershot bulldog is a peacock, 'long side
of you.

DUGAN:  Ain't I welcome?

GOLDIE:  You're about as welcome as a rainy holiday.  (Sits on sofa.)

DUGAN:  Say, Goldie, we've been almost more than friends in the
last two years.

GOLDIE:  You mean almost friends.  (Rising.)  Never more.  Dugan, you
know why I've been your go-between in the System.  Because you
promised to let up on the Eel.

DUGAN:  I'll never let up on him.  He's a crook.

GOLDIE:  Well, what are you?  (Turns L. away from DUGAN.)

DUGAN:  Don't get sore, Goldie.  You know I want you for myself.
(Puts his arms around GOLDIE'S waist.)

GOLDIE:  Well, you're wasting time.  (Pulls savagely away from him
and crosses R.)

DUGAN:  (Following GOLDIE R.)  Am I?  I'll get you, or I'll send you
both up for years.

GOLDIE:  (Savagely into DUGAN's face.)  Is that why you had me steal
that necklace?

DUGAN:  Yes, if you want to know it, I've been trying for two years
to get something on you, and now I've got you.

GOLDIE:  Well, suppose I squeal.

DUGAN:  It's my word against yours, the word of an officer against
a crook.

GOLDIE:  Say, Dugan, if looks of contempt would hurt a man's feelings,
I'd disable you with a squint.  (DUGAN goes L., getting necklace
out of pocket; GOLDIE is in panic for fear EEL will ring the bell,
but she crosses and sits on trunk.)

DUGAN:  Goldie, this necklace will bring four thousand dollars from
a Buffalo fence, and if you'll say three words, "I love you," the
price is yours.  Won't you say them, Goldie?  Just three words?

GOLDIE:  (Thinks it over, then looks at DUGAN.)  Go--to--Hell.

DUGAN:  (Going L. puts back necklace and takes out red wallet, then
comes C. to GOLDIE.)  Well, how does this strike you?  Here's twenty
thousand dollars.  It's all yours for the asking.  Twenty thousand
dollars.  (Sits on trunk beside GOLDIE.)

GOLDIE:  Gee, but you're doing a land office business.

DUGAN:  I've got no kick coming.  Why say, I can take care of you
in real style.  Why waste your time on the EEL?  I can make more
money in a week than he can steal in a year.

GOLDIE:  That's because you're a better thief than he is.  (Rises
and goes R.)

DUGAN:  I wouldn't say that.  (Following GOLDIE R.)  Come on, Goldie
(putting his arms around her, with purse in front of her face),
what's the answer?

GOLDIE:  (Apparently weakening.)  Twenty thousand dollars!  Gee,
that's a lot of money, and I could live right.

DUGAN:  (Greedily, as though he has won her.)  Sure you could.  I'd
set you up like a Queen, and between us we could milk the Tenderloin

GOLDIE:  But the Eel?

DUGAN:  (Crossing L. and putting wallet away.)  I'll attend to him!
(Then to GOLDIE who has come L.)  Listen to this!  Ten minutes after
you two were turned loose, an old man was beaten and robbed, not
two blocks from here.  He never came to!  (GOLDIE backs R. in horror.
DUGAN follows.)  He died on his way to Bellevue.  Do you know who
the murderer is?  I'm here to arrest him on the charge of murder.

GOLDIE:  (In mad rage.)  You lie, Dugan!  Billy said you'd frame him,
but you won't this time--(GOLDIE flies at DUGAN as though to scratch
his eyes out, but he struggles with her and throws her to the floor
L.)  No, Dugan, not murder, that would mean the chair!  (GOLDIE on
knees pleading to DUGAN.  Bell rings three times, they both start.
DUGAN puzzled and surprised, and GOLDIE terror-stricken, wondering
what to do.  Then the thought of the bell on the wall comes.
Looking at DUGAN with a forced smile and still on the floor.)  Oh,
I wonder who that can be?  (By the last two words she is on her
feet and makes a dash for the bell up L., but DUGAN reaches it

DUGAN:  No, you don't. I'm wise.  "If I answer, don't come up."
(GOLDIE, in disgusted rage, goes down to head of couch, followed
by DUGAN.)  Old stuff, Goldie.  Let him come, I want him.  (Door
slams off stage.  GOLDIE starts and DUGAN goes to door R. and
unlocks it.  They both stand rigid.  DUGAN with gun in hand, while
footsteps come nearer.  As door opens and EEL enters.)

GOLDIE:  Look out, Billy!  (DUGAN grabs EEL'S hand and throws him
in the room and locks the door.  While he is doing this EEL runs
across room over trunk and disappears behind sofa.  When DUGAN
turns, he can't locate EEL and points gun up into bedroom.)

DUGAN:  Hands up, Billy!  Hands up!  (He then locates EEL behind
sofa.)  I won't tell you again!  Hands up!  (The EEL holds hands up
and appears behind sofa.) (GOLDIE is up C. behind trunk.)  Goldie,
frisk him clean.  (GOLDIE protests.)  Come on!  Come on!  (DUGAN points
gun at EEL, and GOLDIE runs to him and goes through his pockets.
She finds tobacco bag which she hands to DUGAN.  He doesn't take
it, and she drops it on floor.)  Get to his gun pocket.  Get to his
gun pocket.  (GOLDIE hesitates, then goes to EEL'S hip pocket, where
she finds a roll of money.  She tries to put it back but DUGAN
sees it.)  Come on, hand it over.  (GOLDIE appeals to the EEL who
pantomimes to do so, and she hands it to DUGAN.)  This is the money
he took from the man he killed.  (Putting money into red wallet and
returning wallet to pocket.)

EEL:  Do you think I'd frisk a stiff?  Let me tell you something,
Dugan.  (Throwing hat on floor.)  You staked me two years ago in the
Pen, and then tried to make me believe that Goldie was in on the frame.
You lied like a yellow dog, Dugan, and you know it.  Yes, I am a crook
and a thief, and I've robbed a lot of people, but I'm just a little
bit above you, Dugan, just a little bit above you.  Because, I never
took money from a woman, and that's part of your graft.  (DUGAN takes
out gun as though to hit EEL with it.  GOLDIE grabs his arm and bites
his hand and he drops the gun; Noise begins off stage.  GOLDIE runs
to door R. while EEL and DUGAN struggle.  DUGAN throws EEL off and
goes toward window L. EEL sees gun on floor R., runs and gets it,
but GOLDIE prevents his shooting it.  The Police break in the door
at this point.  One catches GOLDIE as she is running toward the
window L. Another, who comes through the window, catches the EEL.
The Inspector stands at door R., crowd back of him.  DUGAN comes
down to him.)

DUGAN:  Well, Inspector, I got him.  He robbed and croaked an old
man.  I got him with the goods on!

INSPECTOR:  Let these people go!  (Pointing to DUGAN.)  There's your
man, arrest him!  (GOLDIE and the EEL are released.)

DUGAN:  Inspector, you've got nothing on me.

INSPECTOR:  No?  (Crossing to DUGAN.)  Well, there's a dictagraph in
this room (GOLDIE rushes into EEL'S arms.), and we've got everything
on you, you dog.  You're a disgrace to all mankind.  It is unclean
curs like you that have bred a cancer in the department, and pointed
the finger of suspicion at ten thousand honest policemen.  But
that cancer must be cut out, and the operation begins now.  Take
him away.  (Policemen hand-cuff DUGAN, who struggles, then resignedly
walks off, preceded and followed by police.  The INSPECTOR follows
them, but stops and turns at door R.)  Well, Billy!  (EEL and GOLDIE
come C. and stand in front of trunk.)

EEL:  Well, Inspector?

INSPECTOR:  If you're going to live square, stick to it.  (EEL takes
GOLDIE'S hand.)  I never want to see you at headquarters again.
(EEL drops his head and GOLDIE puts her arm around him.)  I won't
even need you as a witness.  The dictagraph has recorded all.  (EEL
and GOLDIE pleased.)  Good-night!  (INSPECTOR exits, closing door
after him.)

EEL and GOLDIE:  Good-night, Inspector!  (They both listen until his
footsteps die off, and door slams.  Then EEL runs to door to listen,
and GOLDIE sits dejectedly on trunk.)

GOLDIE:  Well, we're broke again.  (Tearfully.)  We can't go West
now, so there's no use packing.  (The EEL goes stealthily to window
L., looks out, pulls dictagraph from wall, then comes down R. of
GOLDIE who is sitting on trunk and has watched him.  He taps her
on the shoulder, taking DUGAN'S red wallet out of pocket.)

EEL:  Go right ahead and pack!  (GOLDIE looks astounded, and begins
to laugh.)


First picture.  (Both sitting on trunk counting money.)



Author of "The Lollard," "The Lady of the Press,"
"A College Proposition," "Master Willie Hewes, or
The Lady of the Sonnets," Etc., Etc.

Composer of "My Little Dream Girl," "My
Sweet Adair," Etc., Etc.

(Order in which they appear.)

ROSE                      DUDLEY STANFORD
LETTY                     PHIL
BETTY                     DOWLEH
               PAUL MORGAN


The Rose Gardens of the American Legation in Persia--the entrance
to the building on left.  Large Persian jardinieres on right with
a large Persian Rose Tree.


ROSE:  "The Girl in the Persian Rug."  After number off stage is
heard in old man's voice:  "Illa au Rose aboukar."

GIRLS:  (Running up.)  Oh--here comes the old Sheik now.  (Enter the
old SHEIK ABU MIRZAH preceded by Persian servant.)

ABU:  Ah--ma Rosa Persh--ma waf to be--to-morrow we marry, eh?  (The
SHEIK carries eartrumpet.)

ROSE:  (Running from him in alarm.)  Oh, don't touch me--don't--don't!
(They are both yelling at each other as MRS. SCHUYLER enters first
arch and sees ROSE'S actions--she is flashy--an ex-chorus girl--married
to the retiring consul.)

MRS. SCHUYLER:  Say, tie a can to that duet.  What's the matter?

ROSE:  (Crossing to her.)  Oh, Mrs. Schuyler, I won't marry him--I
hate him!

MRS. SCHUYLER:  Oh, the poor old prune.  (Crossing to ABU, garrulously.)
How are you, Sheik?  Our little ward, Rose, is so young and foolish!
But I was just that innocent when I was in the chorus.  When I
came out of it, believe me, I was a different woman.  (Enter Persian

SERVANT:  The new consul wants to know when we are going to move out--

MRS. SCHUYLER:  Not till after Rose's wedding to-morrow.  (ROSE
utters exclamation of rage, slaps the SHEIK'S face and exits.)  I
was just that emotional until I'd been married a few times--Come,
Sheik--my husband won't return from Tabris till this evening--join
me in a cocktail.  (She illustrates drink in pantomime.)

ABU:  (Understanding pantomime.)  Yes!  Yes!  (LETTY and BETTY go up
to table and chair C.)

MRS. SCHUYLER:  Mousta, two cocktails on my back porch.  Come,
Sheik--Sheik!  (Business with girls.)  This way to the dog house.
(Takes hold of chain on his ear trumpet and passes him in.  Girls
have gone off.)  Oh--and, Mousta--don't put any cherries in--they
take up too much room in the glass.  (She exits one way--Waiter,

(MUSIC.  Entrance of men.)

PAUL:  (Entering with DUDLEY.)  Well, there are some beautiful girls
in our new Persian home--has Phil brought our things from the boat?
Phil!  Phil!  (Phil enters with all the luggage.)

PHIL:  (Meekly.)  Here I am, sir.--

PAUL:  (As if brushing mosquitoes away.)  Oh gee! these Persian
mosquitoes!  (Finally kills one on his own face.)

PHIL:  (Hungrily.)  When are we going to have lunch, sir?

PAUL:  Well, there are several little things I want you to do first.
(Whacking him on one side of face.)  Another mosquito.

PHIL:  (Gratefully.)  Oh, thank you, sir.

DUDLEY:  Paul, you look as if you were mashed on that Madison
girl--(Sees mosquito on PHIL's face.)  Another mosquito.  (Whacks
him on other side of face.)

PHIL:  Oh, thank you, sir--I have never seen such extreme kindness.
(Both whack him this time--one on each side of face.)

PAUL:  Ho!  Ho!  Two of them this time.

PHIL:  Probably twins.

DUDLEY:  I'll go in and see when the retiring consul will move out.

PAUL:  All right, and I'll get a bite of luncheon awhile.  (DUDLEY

PHIL:  (Hungrily.)  Oh--are you going to have your luncheon _alone_?
(PAUL sees mosquito on PHIL--is about to kill it--PHIL falls back.)
Ah--let it live--let it live.

PAUL:  Now--you run in the house and take our things out of the

PHIL:  Is there any other little thing I can do for you?

PAUL:  Not till after I've had my lunch.

PHIL:  Thank you, sir!  (PHIL looks a starved look at him--exits
into house--stumbling over bundles.) (ROSE is heard singing off-stage
chorus of "My Little Persian Rose"--enters humming.)

PAUL:  (As he hears her singing.)  It's Miss Madison--I know her
sweet voice!

ROSE:  (As she enters and sees PAUL, she stops singing, embarrassed.)
Oh, I didn't know you were here.  (The music continues faintly in

PAUL:  I'm not--I'm in heaven when I hear you sing.

ROSE:  Oh, I hope you don't mean my singing kills you.

PAUL:  No--for _then_, I'm afraid I wouldn't be in heaven.  What was
that song?

ROSE:  An old Persian poet taught me the words.

PAUL:  (Ardently.)  Oh, how I love--those words.  Are you going back
to America with Mr. and Mrs. Schuyler?

ROSE:  (Sadly.)  No, I must stay here in Persia.

PAUL:  (Forgetting himself.)  Hooray!

ROSE:  Ah--but you don't know.

PAUL:  Know what?

ROSE:  Don't ask me now--good day, sir.  (She courtesies and runs

(Music in orchestra stops.)

PAUL:  I wonder what she meant by that?

PHIL:  (Rushing on.)  I've taken out your things.  Now, may I eat?
(Persian servant enters in haste.)

SERVANT:  Oh please, sir, the Sheik has drunk three cocktails, and
Mrs. Schuyler says he is disgusting.  Quick, get someone to take him

PAUL:  Phil--do you hear?  The Sheik's disgusting--take him home.
(Servants exit.)

PHIL:  (As he exits.)  Is there any little thing I can do for you?

PAUL:  Not just now.  (PHIL exits.)  The melody of that song haunts
me.  (He starts to hum it.) (PHIL enters with SHEIK on his
shoulders--struggles to get him off.  Finally exits with him.  As
he exits, MRS. SCHUYLER enters first arch.)

MRS. SCHUYLER:  I hope he gets the old fool home, all right.  (Sees
PAUL.)  Oho--it looks good to mother.  (Business of humming same

PAUL:  (Turning and seeing her, with great surprise.)  Agnes!

MRS. SCHUYLER:  (Startled.)  Mercy, where was I Agnes?

PAUL:  (Crosses to MRS. SCHUYLER.)  Have you forgotten--the summer
I met you in Niagara Falls?

MRS. SCHUYLER:  Niagara Falls?  I must have been on one of my
honeymoons--oh, yes--of course--Mr. Morgan.  (They shake hands.)
You see, I've met so many mushy men.  (He sighs.)  What makes you
look so unhappy?

PAUL:  I'm in love with a girl.

MRS. SCHUYLER:  Only one?  Why so economical?

PAUL:  Ah--I'm afraid you don't know what real love is.

MRS. SCHUYLER:  Oh, yes I do!  Real love is the kind that lasts after
you've heard a man sleeping right out loud.  Who's the girl?

PAUL:  Miss Madison.

MRS. SCHUYLER:  (Surprised.)  Our Rose?  Not on your life.  To-morrow,
before we return to America, she's to marry the Abu Mirzah, and
nothing can prevent it.

PAUL:  (In horror.)  She's being sacrificed to that old mummy--I'll
kill him.

MRS. SCHUYLER:  The doctors say he is so strong, nothing can kill
him, except his fondness for Persian plums, and there is a mandate
out inflicting death upon any man who sends him any.  (ROSE enters.)

PAUL:  (Crossing to her.)  Oh, Miss Madison, I've just heard--

MRS. SCHUYLER:  Rose--go to the grape arbor at once--I'll join you
there presently.  (DUDLEY enters.)

DUDLEY:  Say, Paul--I--(Sees MRS. SCHUYLER--with surprise.)  Lena--

MRS. SCHUYLER:  Du, "Allmaechtiger Strohsach"--where was I Lena?

DUDLEY:  Have you forgotten, in Germany, Unter den Linden?

MRS. SCHUYLER:  Germany?  Oh, the man who made love to me over a
plate of frankfurters?  Well--well--wie geht's!  Tell me, do you
think I've grown stouter since the days when I was Lena?  (PAUL

DUDLEY:  Not a bit.  (PAUL and ROSE laugh.)

MRS. SCHUYLER:  (Seeing ROSE and PAUL in earnest conversation.)
Excuse me.  (She crosses and grabs ROSE.)  Rose, there's some grape
juice waiting for us in the grape arbor.  (She sends ROSE off.)
(Boys step toward MRS. SCHUYLER.)  Boys--later--when Rose has gone,
you may come and crush a grape with me in the arbor.  (She exits.)

PAUL:  Aber nit!  Dud, she's determined to keep us apart--you must
help me--go and grab her, and run her off into the house.

DUDLEY:  Lena--not much--she once flung a glass at my head.

PAUL:  Well, then, where's Phil?  (Calls.)  Phil--Phil!  (DUDLEY calls
also.  PHIL rushes on.)

PHIL:  Am I going to eat?

PAUL:  Quick, go and grab Mrs. Schuyler in the grape arbor.

PHIL:  Grab her in the grape arbor?

PAUL:  (Pushing them off.)  And run her into the house.  Quick.  (He
pushes PHIL off one way.)  And you run into the house and hold her
there.  (Rushes DUDLEY into house.)  I'll run to the grape arbor to
join Rose when she's alone.  (He exits.) (PHIL enters, pushing MRS.
SCHUYLER toward the house.  They enter from grape arbor.)

MRS. SCHUYLER:  (Beating him with parasol.)  The idea!  What's the
meaning of this?  You little runt!  (Pushing him off.) (Ad lib
talk.)  Who are you, anyhow?

PHIL:  (Turning and seeing her.)  Maggie!

MRS. SCHUYLER:  (As before.)  For the love of the Chambermaids'
Union, where was I Maggie?

PHIL:  Don't you remember when I was a "merry merry" with you in
the "Blonde Broilers' Burlesque" troupe?

MRS. SCHUYLER:  Were you one of the Blonde Broilers?

PHIL:  Sure, I was the fellow that came out in the last act disguised
as a bench.

MRS. SCHUYLER:  (Finally remembering him.)  Oh, you dear old Benchie!
(They embrace.)  And I used to come in and sit all over you.

PHIL:  That's how I came to fall in love with you.

MRS. SCHUYLER:  A man always thinks more of a woman when she sits
on him.

PHIL:  Do she?


PHIL:  Come and sit on me now.

MRS. SCHUYLER:  (Coyly.)  Oh, you fascinating devil.

PHIL:  Ah, go on--ah, sit on me.  (Business of sitting--nearly
flopping--finally getting on his knee.)

MRS. SCHUYLER:  You're not the bench you used to be!

PHIL:  You're not the sitter you used to be.

MRS. SCHUYLER:  Remember the night you let me flop?

PHIL:  I couldn't get into my part at all that night.  I kept saying
to myself:  Phillip, be a bench, be a bench; but when I felt you
near me, all the benchiness left me.  When you sat on me, I put
my arms about you, like this.  (Does so.)

MRS. SCHUYLER:  Ah--how it all comes back to me now!  When you would
put your arms about me, I would close my eyes and make believe it
was Otis Skinner.  (Business.)

PHIL:  And then before all the crowd, I kissed you so.  (He illustrates
as PAUL enters with ROSE from arbor.)

PAUL:  (Seeing PHIL and MRS. SCHUYLER.)  Well--(They break apart.)
I'm surprised!

MRS. SCHUYLER:  (Works PHIL around to hide him first, then turns
him around to PAUL.)  You wouldn't be if you were as used to it as
I am.

PAUL:  (Aside to PHIL.)  What did I tell you to do?

(PHIL seizes MRS. SCHUYLER and runs her into house--she saying:
"What's the idea," etc., till off.) (Sunset falls upon scene.)

SONG--PAUL and ROSE--"My Little Persian Rose."  (ROSE exits at end
of song.)

PAUL:  (Left alone.)  I won't let her marry him.  (A girl passes,
crying out "Persian Plums--who will buy?")

PAUL:  Persian Plums--Mrs. Schuyler said the old Sheik had such a
passion for them, they might prove his death.  Here!  Girl--let me
have a basket.  (Hands her a roll of money.)  There!  (As he comes
down with plums, the girl exits.)  But she said whoever was caught
sending him any would suffer the penalty of death.  (Gets idea and
calls off.)  Phil--Phil!  (Moonlight effect.  As PHIL enters, anxiously,
PAUL extends the basket of plums to him.)

PHIL:  (Taking plums, greedily.)  Oh thanks, I was starving--

PAUL:  (Stopping him as he is about to eat.)  Here--here--they're
not for you.  Quick--take them to the palace of the old Sheik Abu

PHIL:  But I left him asleep in his bed, sir.

PAUL:  Well, place them where he'll see them when he wakes, and
(ominously) don't let anyone catch you with them, for the country
is full of revolutionists and it might mean death.

PHIL:  (Trembling.)  My death!  Is there any other little thing I can
do for you?

PAUL:  No.  (Several pistol shots are heard.  PHIL drops plums and
starts to run into house.  PAUL catches him by the hair--business.)
You coward!  I'm surprised!  Go to the Palace of the Abu Mirzah.  (He
places basket in PHIL's hands.)  Go!

(As PHIL backs off with plums, he bumps into a fierce looking
Persian who enters.  PHIL starts and has comedy exit.  The Persian
is the Emir Shahrud, who has disguised himself as DOWLEH the chef.
DOWLEH grinds his teeth at PAUL, who runs off.)

(DOWLEH sneaks over to house mysteriously--sees someone coming,
and then runs and hides behind rosebush.)

(Now, moonlight floods scene.  MRS. SCHUYLER enters in evening
gown with LETTY and BETTY.  Waiter enters and sets two tables.)

MRS. SCHUYLER:  Turn up the lights!

LETTY:  Our last night in Persia.

MRS. SCHUYLER:  I've ordered my "paflouka" out here.  (MRS. SCHUYLER
crosses to rosebush and, DOWLER jumps out at her.)  Mercy--how you
scared me!

DOWLEH:  Fatima!

MRS. SCHUYLER:  Now, I'm a cigarette!

DOWLEH:  You are cruel to me--the noble Prince of Persia, who just
to be near you, disguised himself as a cook.

MRS. SCHUYLER:  Prince, I eat your cooking--that's kind enough.

DOWLEH:  (Business.)  Yes, I love you so that one day I hear a lady
say you paint your face--I put a secret poison in her food--she
took one taste--in ten seconds, she die.

MRS. SCHUYLER:  It serves her right for telling the truth.

DOWLEH:  Come!  Fly with me!

MRS. SCHUYLER:  Oh Prince, I've flown so much in my days, there
isn't another flap left in me.  (Throws him off.)  Go--serve my

DOWLEH:  You throw me down--very well--I will be revenged.  (Grinds
his teeth in her ear.)  Mmmm-ha!

MRS. SCHUYLER:  (With start, holding ear.)  He bit me.  (The girls
come down as DOWLEH goes off bumping into DUDLEY, who enters in
dress clothes--he swears at DUDLEY, in Persian and exits.)

DUDLEY:  (To MRS. SCHUYLER.)  Oh Lena--if it's you that has made him
mad, I'd advise you not to taste any of his food again.


DUDLEY:  I just heard _he's_ under suspicion of having put poison
in a lady's food, which killed her in ten seconds.

MRS. SCHUYLER:  Ten seconds!  Then it was true.  (Waiter enters with
"paftouka.") Oh my beautiful paflouka--and it smells so good.

DUDLEY:  But Lena--you _daren't touch_ it unless you get someone
to try it first.

MRS. SCHUYLER:  Will you?

DUDLEY:  Excuse me.  (She turns to the three--they all decline.)

MRS. SCHUYLER:  Oh, if heaven would only send some unsuspecting
imbecile to taste my paflouka for me--(PHIL backs on from grape
arbor--looking to see if he's being followed.)  Heaven has sent it
hither.  (She steps PHIL's way.  As he bumps into her, he starts.)

PHIL:  (After start.)  Hello.

MRS. SCHUYLER:  Why, what's the matter?

PHIL:  Oh, I'm faint--for food.

MRS. SCHUYLER:  (Aside to others.)  Oh, it's a shame to do it.  (To
PHIL.)  How would you like to "paflouka" with me?

PHIL:  (After business.)  No--before I do anything else, I must eat.

MRS. SCHUYLER:  To "paflouka" is to eat.

PHIL:  Well--hurry--let's do it.

MRS. SCHUYLER:  (To waiter.)  Now, Mousta place my "rakoush" before

PHIL:  (As waiter places soup and roll before him.)  Oh, it looks
like soup.

MRS. SCHUYLER:  (Crossing to him.)  I always start with something

PHIL:  (Takes spoonful.)  It is soup!  (As he goes for second spoonful,
they hold his hand.)

WARNING:  Could not break paragraph:
MRS. SCHUYLER:  (Counting.)  One--two--three--four--five--six--
seven--eight--nine--ten--(Looking at him.)  How do you feel?

PHIL:  (Completely puzzled.)  Well, I can't say I feel just full yet.

DUDLEY:  Go on, take a bite of roll.

PHIL:  Thank you!  (He takes one bite--as he goes for second bite,
DUDLEY holds his hand--as they all count ten.  Looking from one
to another.)  Say, what is this--a prize fight?

MRS. SCHUYLER:  (Looking at him closely.) (DUDLEY takes roll from
PHIL.)  It's all right--he still lives--I feel better now.

PHIL:  I'm glad of that.  (He starts to take another spoonful of

MRS. SCHUYLER:  Mousta, bring my rakoush.  (Just as PHIL gets spoon
to mouth, MOUSTA grabs it out of his hand and crosses with soup
and roll to MRS. SCHUYLER, saying to PHIL in Persian:  "Rekkra milta

PHIL:  Say, isn't there some mistake?  I understood that was my

MRS. SCHUYLER:  No, dear boy--it's ours.  (She starts to eat.)

PHIL:  I guess that's what they call to paflouka.

MRS. SCHUYLER:  Oh, it tastes good.

PHIL:  It sounds good.

MRS. SCHUYLER:  Now, Mousta, my bird and salad.  (He exits.)

PHIL:  I hope the bird's an ostrich.  (He hears MRS. SCHUYLER drink
soup.) (Enter MOUSTA--crosses with bird to MRS. SCHUYLER.)

MRS. SCHUYLER:  No--place it before him.

PHIL:  Yes--put it down--put it down.

MRS. SCHUYLER:  No one can cook a bird like Princey.

PHIL:  A bird?  It looks like an insect!  (He sees them approaching
him as before and grabbing the bird in his hand starts to make off
with it--they seize him and throw him into chair.)

PHIL:  (As DUDLEY snatches bird from him.)  Say, what kind of a game
is this anyhow?

MRS. SCHUYLER:  I'll explain.  The chef is enraged at me, and as
he's under suspicion of having put poison in a lady's food that
killed her in ten seconds--

PHIL:  (Jumping up in alarm.)  Poison?

MRS. SCHUYLER:  (With DUDLEY'S help setting him down again.)  Yes,
so we got you to try my food on--

PHIL:  Oh, I see--I'm the dog.

DUDLEY:  Precisely.  Now go on--taste that bird.

PHIL:  No, thanks--I've had enough.

ALL:  (Together.)  Go on--commence!  (Business of making him taste


PHIL:  (Finishing counting for her.)  Two--(To nine.) (As he reaches
ten, he sneezes.)

MRS. SCHUYLER:  I'm afraid to look.  (Business of PHIL tasting bird,
then getting idea of pretending to be poisoned, he commences to
get a fit.)  Help!  Bring a chair!  (They finally get his feet on
chair.)  Well, we got him on the chair anyhow.

DUDLEY:  He's poisoned--

LETTY and BETTY:  We've killed him.

MRS. SCHUYLER:  Come on--let's beat it--(They all run off.  PHIL
gets up to grab all the food, when DUDLEY is heard off, calling
"Lena."--He flops back with a jump to same dead position on floor.
Finally gets up, grabs all the food and exits.  MRS. SCHUYLER

MRS. SCHUYLER:  He's gone and he's taken all the food with him.
Quick, Mousta, clear away all these things.  (Paul enters.)

PAUL:  Mrs. Schuyler, I'm really in love with Rose.  (DOWLEH enters
now in Persian dress clothes.)

DOWLEH:  Ah, Fatima--can I see you alone?  (DUDLEY enters.)

DUDLEY:  Oh, Lena, could I see you alone?

MRS. SCHUYLER:  If any more turn up, I'll scream.  (LETTY and BETTY
run on, carrying a note.)

LETTY:  An important letter.

MRS. SCHUYLER:  (Opening it.)  From my husband.

BETTY:  I'm afraid it's bad news.

MRS. SCHUYLER:  Bad news!  P'raps he's coming home earlier than I
expected.  (Reads:) "Dear Becky!"

ALL THE MEN:  Becky!

MRS. SCHUYLER:  Yes, we met at Arverne!  "I have heard of your
carrying on with four old sweethearts:  Had it been _one_, I would
have killed him quietly and let the matter drop, but four are too
many.  I shall kill them all and divorce you.  Expect me at
ten.--Hamilton."  Oh, gentlemen, this is awful--Hamilton is unlike
most men--he means what he says--

PAUL:  (Following.)  But surely you can find a few more to help us
defend ourselves.

MRS. SCHUYLER:  Ah, you don't know Hamilton.  When he's angry, an
army couldn't withstand him.

DOWLEH:  If your husband kills, I will kill him.

MRS. SCHUYLER:  Ah, that doesn't worry me--but he may cut my

DUDLEY:  (Following.)  We _must_ save you from such a fate.

MRS. SCHUYLER:  Save me?  You could!  If there was one among you
brave enough to say:  "I am the only guy here ever loved your wife.
Kill _me_, but don't cut her allowance."

MEN:  (Going up stage.)  Excuse me!  (Waiter enters with straws in
glass, from arbor.)

MRS. SCHUYLER:  Ah--straws--the very thing--gentlemen.
(Takes them out of glasses.)  Come--choose--whoever has the shortest
straw is to show his courage and die for me--who is it?  Who is
it?  (PHIL enters--they see him--drop straws--and seize him.)

PAUL:  Phil!

MEN:  Ah!  Welcome to our city.  Welcome!  Welcome!

PHIL:  Is there any little thing I can do for you?

MRS. SCHUYLER:  Yes.  My husband will be here at any moment to kill
these gentlemen and divorce me.  You can save us all by saying you
are the only old sweetheart of mine here.

PHIL:  Excuse me!

MRS. SCHUYLER:  Oh, Benchie!  Think of your bench days when I used
to sit on you--

PHIL:  If you'd only sit on me now, I'd feel safer--

PAUL:  Now don't be a fool.  When he comes, say:  "I am the only
man here ever had an affair with your wife.  What have you to say
about it?"

ALL:  (Together.)  Repeat that now.

PHIL:  (In terror.)  I am the only man here ever had anything to do
with your wife--just like that.  (An automobile horn heard.)

GIRLS:  Oh, here he is--(They run off.  Business of men holding
PHIL and finally rushing off as an enormous figure in Persian
"get-up" enters.)

MRS. SCHUYLER:  (Picking up PHIL.)  Benchie, it's sweet and accommodating
of you to die for these three gentlemen--a favor I shan't forget.
(From behind the Persian giant steps a midget in swell citizen
clothes)--"It's Hamilton--(Mrs. Schuyler picks him up and kisses
him.)  Oh, Hamilton-I'm so glad you've come.  (Crossing to Persian.)
And Nehmid Duckin--it is an honor to have the prime minister with
us.  I'll go for a stroll with you and come back when (Turning to
husband) you're through with this gentleman.

NEHMID:  (In deep voice.)  Is he the one?

MRS. SCHUYLER:  Yes--you're looking great.  (Takes his arm.)

NEHMID:  So are you!  (In deep tones to PHIL.)  And now sir, you
explain.  (Exits with Mrs. Schuyler.) (PHIL stands in terror,
thinking a powerful foe stands behind him.  In reality, it is the
midget husband.  PHIL tries to talk.  At first he cannot.)

PHIL:  (After comedy biz.)  I have a wife with an affair--I mean an
affair with your wife--what have you to say about it?

MR. SCHUYLER:  (In piping voice.)  I'm very angry.  (PHIL starts--looks
up to see where voice comes from--doesn't see anyone--walks and
bumps into HAMILTON--rolls up his sleeves.)

PHIL:  (Bravely.)  What have you to say about it?  (Slaps his hand
over his mouth.)  Don't say a word--I've been waiting for something
like you to show up.  (He backs HAMILTON off--his hand on his face.)

FINALE:  (During this, ROSE enters in bridal costume to be wed to
SHEIK.  Servant enters announcing his death from eating Persian

SONG:  "Who Sent These Persian Plums?"

Then, final meeting and happiness of lovers and comedy characters
and picture as "My Little Persian Rose" is repeated for





Author of "Love Blossoms," "Cohen from Bridgeport,"
"Before and After," Monologues for Nat M. Wills,
Joe Welch, Etc., Etc., Author and Publisher
"Madison's Budget."


OLD BLACK JOE . . . . . . . . An ex-slave, eighty years of age
ARTHUR MAYNARD. . . . . . . . . Owner of a Kentucky Plantation
VIOLA MAYNARD . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . His Daughter
CHARLIE DOOLITTLE. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  Her Sweetheart
EDGAR TREMBLE. . . . . . . . . . . . . . With a heart of stone
MRS. ALICE WILSON. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A frail widow
HARVEY SLICK . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . An adventurer
FELIX FAKE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . His assistant
CHLORINDA SOURGRASS. . . . . . . . . . . . . . A lady of color
  MAGGIE, MABEL, GERTIE. . . . . . . . . . . .  Invited Guests

SCENE:  Garden of ARTHUR MAYNARD'S plantation.  Landscape backing.
Set house at left with practical veranda (if possible). Wood wings
at right.  Set tree up stage at right behind which old pocketbook
containing a number of greenbacks is concealed.  Bench in front
of tree.  Pedestal up stage at left, dog-house at right.

DISCOVERED:  (At rise of curtain an invisible CHORUS is heard singing
"My Old Kentucky Home."  Then GOLDIE and other invited girl friends
come on stage and sing a MEDLEY OF POPULAR CHORUSES.  At conclusion
of medley, VIOLA enters from house.)

VIOLA:  Girls, do you know why I've invited you all today?

FANNIE:  To tell us that you're engaged to be married.

VIOLA:  Nothing so fortunate.  This is my father's birthday, and
I've arranged a little celebration in his honor, and I want you
all to participate.

LOTTIE:  We won't do a thing but enjoy ourselves.

VIOLA:  But there's one dark cloud, girls.

(CHLORINDA enters from house.)

TILLIE:  Yes, here comes the dark cloud now.

VIOLA:  The dark cloud I refer to is Mrs. Wilson, who calls herself
a widow and who has been hanging around father for the last few
months in the hope that he'll make her Mrs. Maynard number two.

DORA:  The hussy!

MAGGIE:  The cat!

VIOLA:  I wouldn't care if she loved father, but I suspect that all
she's after is his money.

CHLORINDA:  His mazuma.

GERTIE:  Get on to the African Jew!

LOTTIE:  Any woman that wants to fool your father has to get up
early in the morning.

VIOLA:  Mrs. Wilson sometimes looks as if she stays up all night.
(All girls laugh.)

VIOLA:  If she only knew that the old plantation is mortgaged up
to the roof, I guess she wouldn't be so anxious about marrying

VIOLA:  (To CHLORINDA.)  Well, Chlorinda, what brings you out here?

CHLORINDA:  I jes' came out to say dat refreshments am ready in de
house if de young ladies am thirsty or hungry.

(CHORUS by ladies of company, then they exit into house.  VIOLA
remains on stage.)

(CHARLIE DOOLITTLE enters from R. and stealing up softly behind
VIOLA, puts his hands over her eyes.)

CHARLIE:  Guess who it is?

VIOLA:  Is it a human being?

CHARLIE:  (Effeminately.)  Why, I like that!  Of course, it is.

VIOLA:  It's Lottie.


VIOLA:  Then it's Fanny.


VIOLA:  Then it must be Lillie.

CHARLIE:  No; you silly goose, it's Charlie.

VIOLA:  (In disgust.)  I thought you said it was a human being?

CHARLIE:  Just for that you must sit down on the bench and give me
a kiss.

VIOLA:  Wait a minute till I go into the house and get a veil.  The
sunlight hurts my eyes.  (She exits at L.)

CHARLIE:  (Moving towards R.)  That will just give me time to go
into the grove and smoke a cigarette.  (Exits.)

(Enter CHLORINDA from house.  She has a green veil on, which hides
her face; she sits down on bench.)

CHLORINDA:  Ebery wench on dis plantation has got a fellah 'ceptin
me, so I went to a fortune tellah an' she said Ah should sit on
dis heah bench ebery day and ah nice fellah would come along.
Well, I'se been doing it now for ovah a month an' Ah habent seen
no nice fellah yet; in fact, Ah habent seen a fellah of any kind.

(Enter CHARLIE from R.)

CHARLIE:  Ah, there, my sugar plum.

CHLORINDA:  Ain't he jes' too sweet for anything?

CHARLIE:  So you love your baby?

CHLORINDA:  'Deed I do, honey.

CHARLIE:  Then lay your beautiful head on my manly breast and let
me pour sweet words of love into your ear.

CHLORINDA:  Go to it, kiddo.  (Business of CHARLIE petting CHLORINDA.)

CHARLIE:  And now, ain't you going to, give me a nice, sweet kiss,

CHLORINDA:  Help yourself to as many as you want.

(CHLORINDA lifts veil just enough to let CHARLIE touch her lips.
He does not, however, notice that she is colored, and is busily
engaged hugging and kissing her, as VIOLA enters from house; she
is very much surprised.)

VIOLA:  Charlie Doolittle, what does this mean?  (CHLORINDA raises
her veil, then laughs and runs into house.)

CHARLIE:  (Discovering his error.)  Why, my dear, it's all a mistake;
I thought--that is to say--er--

VIOLA:  I'm not surprised at your embarrassment.  The idea of making
love to our colored cook the minute my back is turned.

CHARLIE:  If you'll just let me explain--

VIOLA:  Explain nothing.  I'm going to tell my father how you've
insulted me.  He doesn't like you, anyhow, and if he ever catches
you on the premises, your life won't be worth 23 cents in Confederate
money.  (VIOLA exits into house.)

CHARLIE:  Ain't she the exasperating creature!  I declare, she's
made me so peevish, I could crush a grape.  The idea of telling
me her father doesn't like me.  Why shouldn't he like me?  (ARTHUR
MAYNARD appears in back-ground unnoticed by CHARLIE.)  But, anyhow,
I'm not afraid of her father.  Why, if he were to stand before me
right at this moment, I'd--

MAYNARD:  (Stepping suddenly to the front.)  Well, what would you do?

CHARLIE:  I'd run like the devil.  (Runs off stage at R.)

MAYNARD:  I'm going to keep that disgusting fellow off the premises
if I have to notify the dog-catcher.  (Notices pedestal.)  Ever
since a tornado knocked that statue off its pedestal, this garden
has looked rather bare, so I've put an advertisement into the
newspaper, offering five hundred dollars for a suitable statue to
take its place.

(Mrs. Wilson enters from R. and coughs gently to attract MR.
MAYNARD'S attention.)

MAYNARD:  (Turning around.)  Why, Mrs. Wilson!

MRS. WILSON:  Good morning, Mr. Maynard!

(Both talking at the same time.)  This is indeed a surprise.  I did
not expect to see you as early as this.  How are you feeling?
Good?  That's good.  Lovely day, isn't it?

MAYNARD:  I have often wanted to ask you, Mrs. Wilson, where is
your husband?

MRS. WILSON:  I don't know.

MAYNARD:  What's that, you don't know where your husband is?

MRS. WILSON:  No; you see, he is dead--

MAYNARD:  (Laughingly.)  I understand.  Did he leave you much?

MRS. WILSON:  Yes, nearly every night.

MAYNARD:  No, no; I mean, did he leave you any property?

MRS. WILSON:  Yes, five small children, and believe me, Mr. Maynard,
it's hard to lose a husband when you have five children.  Do you
think I ought to get another?

MAYNARD:  No; I think five are enough.

MRS. WILSON:  I see you will have your joke.

MAYNARD:  Are you fond of horses?

MRS. WILSON:  I love horses.

MAYNARD:  Well, come down to the stable and I'll show you some of
the finest thoroughbreds you ever looked at.  (They both exit Right

(Enter HARVEY SLICK and FELIX FAKE at centre; HARVEY carries a
heavy blackthorn walking stick.)

HARVEY:  Now remember, you're a statue.

FELIX:  You're a liar.

HARVEY:  Don't call me a liar.

FELIX:  Then don't call me a statue.

HARVEY:  Don't you understand, the guy what owns this plantation
offers five hundred dollars for a statue and I've come to get the

FELIX:  But what have I got to do with all this?

HARVEY:  You're the statue.

FELIX:  Go on; I never was a statue in my life.

HARVEY:  All you have to do is to get on that pedestal and stand
perfectly still.

FELIX:  Oh, I just have to stand perfectly still.

HARVEY:  That's the idea.  Don't move a muscle.

FELIX:  But suppose a fly hops on my nose?

HARVEY:  Don't notice it.

FELIX:  Or suppose some bad boys throw stones at me?

HARVEY:  Why, my boy, simply don't notice it.

FELIX:  I don't think I want the job.

HARVEY:  Why, of course you do.  The figure you are to represent
is called "Ajax defying the lightning."

FELIX:  Oh, a jackass defying the lightning.

HARVEY:  No, Ajax; but look sharp, for here comes Mr. Maynard now.
Quick, jump on the pedestal.

(HARVEY hands stick to FELIX, who quickly jumps on pedestal and
poses in funny position, as Maynard enters from right.)

MAYNARD:  (To HARVEY.)  Well, sir, what can I do for you?

HARVEY:  You advertised for a statue, I believe.

MAYNARD:  I did, sir.

HARVEY:  Well, I think I've got just what you want--"a jackass
defying the lightning."

MAYNARD:  What's that?

HARVEY:  Excuse me, I mean "Ajax." (Aside, and pointing to FELIX.)
That son of a gun has got me talking that way now.

MAYNARD:  I'll be pleased to look at your statue.

HARVEY:  (Pointing to FELIX on pedestal.)  Here it is, sir.

MAYNARD:  (After surveying it critically.)  What material is the
statue made of?

HARVEY:  Brass--pure brass.

MAYNARD:  I think the statue will suit me except that the nose is
a bit too long.

HARVEY:  Well, you can easily take off a piece with a hammer and

MAYNARD:  Why, so I can.  But here's another objection.  Suppose
thieves come around some night and steal the statue?

HARVEY:  All you have to do is to bore a hole through one of its
legs, pass a chain through it and fasten to the pedestal.  (FELIX
works up this situation by comic mugging.)

MAYNARD:  A very good idea.  How much do you want for the statue?

HARVEY:  Five hundred dollars.

MAYNARD:  That's a lot of money, but I think I shall buy it anyhow.

HARVEY:  Well, just hand over the five hundred, and the statue is
yours.  (MAYNARD and HARVEY move to a position in front of the
statue.  MAYNARD takes a roll of bills from his pocket and in
handling them, drops one.  As he bends forward to pick it up, FELIX
pokes him with the stick, knocking him over frontwards.  MAYNARD
thinks HARVEY has kicked him.)

MAYNARD:  (To Harvey.)  What do you mean by kicking me, sir?

HARVEY:  Why, I didn't kick you.

MAYNARD:  If I hadn't set my heart on owning the statue, I'd call
the deal off right now.

HARVEY:  (Starting to get a bit angry.)  I tell you I didn't kick

MAYNARD:  Well, don't do it again.  Here's your money.  (MAYNARD
hands HARVEY roll of bills, who counts it and lets the last bill
fall on stage.  In stooping to pick it up, FELIX pokes HARVEY,
causing him to fall over frontwards.  HARVEY thinks MAYNARD has
kicked him.)

HARVEY:  (To MAYNARD.)  A joke's a joke, but this is going entirely
too far.

MAYNARD:  What on earth are you talking about?

HARVEY:  You just kicked me.

MAYNARD:  I didn't.

HARVEY:  You did.

MAYNARD:  I didn't.

FELIX:  Shut up.

MAYNARD and HARVEY:  (Both talking together.)

Don't tell me to shut up.  I didn't tell you to shut up.  Well,
somebody did.

HARVEY:  I'm awful thirsty.

MAYNARD:  I'll go into the house and get you a glass of wine.

FELIX:  Well, hurry up about it.

MAYNARD:  (Thinking HARVEY spoke.)  I never heard such impudence in
all my life.  Why, the idea!

(Exits into house.)

FELIX:  Yes, the idea.

HARVEY:  Well, I got the old fool's money all right.

FELIX:  Where's my share?

HARVEY:  (Laughing.)  Now, who ever heard of a statue having mo-non-ey.

FELIX:  But you promised me half of the five hundred dollars.

HARVEY:  Well, suppose I did; you don't expect me to keep my word,
do you?  You'd be a pretty looking sight, carrying two hundred and
fifty dollars around with you.  Why, I'd have to lay for you in
some dark alley and take it away from you.  I want you to understand
that I'm the wise guy of this combination and if you want any of
my money, you've got to take it away from me.  (HARVEY has taken a
position just in front of FELIX, who is still on the pedestal.
FELIX slips his hand slyly into HARVEY'S pocket and takes all the

HARVEY:  (Moving to centre exit.)  Well, so long, Felix, so long,
and remember, Felix, that money is the root of all evil.

(HARVEY exits.)

FELIX:  (Holding up roll of bills.)  Well, I've extracted some of
the root all right, all right.  (FELIX exits at right.)

(Big SINGING NUMBER by VIOLA and ladies of company.)

(Then, MR. MAYNARD enters from the house.)

GOLDIE:  In behalf of all your friends who are assembled here today,
Mr. Maynard, I want to congratulate you on your birthday anniversary.

MAYNARD:  Ah, thank you, ladies, I appreciate your good wishes very

DORA:  I hope you will live to be a hundred years old.

MAYNARD:  (Laughing.)  I hope so--but why should the Lord take me
for a hundred when he can get me at 70?

(OLD BLACK JOE comes ambling in from Right to melody of "Old Black

MAYNARD:  Well, Old Black Joe, how are you feeling today?

JOE:  Well, Massa, I'se got rheumatiz in the lef' shoulder--an'
de lumbago in mah back--an' I don' hear very well--an' ma teeth
am troubling me some--an' mah eyes is going back on me--an' mah
stomach ain't as good as it used to be--but otherwise, Massa, I'se
feelin' as sound as a nut.

MAYNARD:  What can I do for you, Old Black Joe?

JOE:  Massa, my mind ain't as clear like it used ter be, but der's
one thing I ain't never forgotten, and dat is your birthday
university, so I'd feel powerful flattered if you would accept
these few flowers what I picked myself.  (Hands MAYNARD small

MAYNARD:  Of all the many gifts I will receive to-day, Old Black
Joe, there is none that I will treasure more highly than these

JOE:  Ah, thank you, Massa, thank you.

(OLD BLACK JOE exits to melody of "Old Black Joe.")

GOLDIE:  I never could understand, Mr. Maynard, why you always make
such a fuss about that nigger, Old Black Joe.

MAYNARD:  Old Black Joe may have a black skin, but he's got a white
heart and I'll cherish and protect him as long as I have a roof
over my head.

GOLDIE:  One would think that he had done you some great favor, Mr.

MAYNARD:  He more than did me a favor.  He once saved my life.

CHORUS OF GIRLS:  Tell us about it.

MAYNARD:  (To melodramatic music.)  It was during the days of '61,
when brother fought against brother and the Blue was striving to
overpower the Grey.  On this very plantation, while hardly more
than a lad, I was attacked and badly wounded and would have fallen
into the hands of the enemy if it had not been for Old Black Joe,
who, at the risk of his own life, carried me to a place of safety
and nursed me back to health again.

CHORUS OF LADIES:  Three cheers for Old Black Joe.

(SONG by Ladies--all exit.)

(Enter CHARLIE at centre.)

CHARLIE:  I'm crazy about Viola, but I know she will never marry
me unless her father gives his consent.  If I only knew a way to
win him over.  Ah, here comes Chlorinda.  Perhaps she can help me.

(Enter CHLORINDA from house.)

CHARLIE:  Hello, Chlorinda.

CHLORINDA:  Miss Sourgrass, if you please.

CHARLIE:  What's the matter with Chlorinda?

CHLORINDA:  I only allows gentlemen I'se well acquainted with to
call me Chlorinda.

CHARLIE:  Well then, Miss Sourgrass, do you want to earn a dollar?

CHLORINDA:  What's the matter with it?

CHARLIE:  There's nothing the matter with it.  You see, I'm in love
with Viola Maynard, but her father doesn't like me.  Now, if you
can fix things up so her father will accept me as a son-in-law, I
will give you a dollar.

CHLORINDA:  Jes leave it to me and in half an hour he'll be so
tickled to see you that he'll put his arms around your neck and
kiss you.

CHARLIE:  That will be splendid.

CHLORINDA:  The dollar, please.

CHARLIE:  I never pay in advance.

CHLORINDA:  No dollar, no kisses.

CHARLIE:  (Handing her a dollar.) Oh, very well, but see that you do
as you promise.

CHLORINDA:  Leave it to me.

(CHARLIE exits at right.)

(MR. MAYNARD enters from house.)

CHLORINDA:  Did you hear what happened to Charlie Doolittle?

MAYNARD:  I suppose he took a pinch of snuff and blew his brains

CHLORINDA:  Goodness no; guess again.

MAYNARD:  No, I won't. I'm not at all interested in that addlepated,
monkey-faced nincompoop.  He's after my daughter, but he shall
never marry her.  Why, if wives could be supported for fifty cents
a year, that empty-headed specimen of vacuous mentality couldn't
even keep a cock-roach from starving.

CHLORINDA:  Don't say dat, massa, for Charlie's uncle has jes' died
an' left him fifty thousand dollars.

MAYNARD:  (Very much astonished.)  How much did you say?

CHLORINDA:  Five hundred thousand dollars.

MAYNARD:  Five hundred thousand dollars?

CHLORINDA:  Yes, sah; five million dollars?

MAYNARD:  I always did like Charlie.

CHLORINDA:  But you jes' said--

MAYNARD:  Never mind what I just said.  I was only joking.  Here's
a dollar to keep your mouth shut.

(MAYNARD hands CHLORINDA a dollar.)

CHLORlNDA:  Yes, sah.

MAYNARD:  I consider Charlie Doolittle an exceptionally bright young
man, and even if he didn't have a dollar in the world I would still
consider him an excellent match for my daughter.

CHLORINDA:  But you jes' said he couldn't even support a cock-roach.

MAYNARD:  Never mind about that.  Here's another dollar.  (Hands
CHLORINDA another dollar.)  And now, if you see Charlie Doolittle,
tell him I want to see him right away.

CHLORINDA:  Yes, sah.  (She exits at right.)

MAYNARD:  (Looking at empty pedestal.)  I wonder what became of the
statue?  I guess Chlorinda carried it into the barn because it
looks like rain.  (Enter CHARLIE from right.  He coughs to attract
MAYNARD'S attention.)

CHARLIE:  Are you very angry at me, Mr. Maynard?

MAYNARD:  Angry at you, Charlie?  Why, how can you only imagine
such a thing?  Have a cigar.

CHARLIE:  (Accepting the cigar with misgivings.)  It isn't loaded
with dynamite, is it?

MAYNARD:  Certainly not.  I give you the cigar because I like you,
Charlie, and I always have liked you.

CHARLIE:  It's very kind of you to say that.  (During these speeches,
FELIX has sneaked back on the pedestal, still carrying the blackthorn

MAYNARD:  You have only to say the word and you can have anything
I've got.

CHARLIE:  Can I have your daughter?

MAYNARD:  Why certainly, Charlie.  Just say the word and she's

CHARLIE:  It all seems like a dream.  (Business of FELIX hitting
MAYNARD on hat with stick and smashing it in.  MAYNARD thinks
CHARLIE did it.)

MAYNARD:  Now see here, Charlie, as my future son-in-law, I want
you to feel perfectly at home here, but there's such a thing as
carrying things too far.

CHARLIE:  Why, Mr. Maynard, what do you mean?

MAYNARD:  I saw you smash my hat just now, Charlie.

CHARLIE:  I didn't smash your hat.

MAYNARD:  You didn't smash my hat?

CHARLIE:  No; I didn't smash your hat.

MAYNARD:  Well, somebody did.  However, as I was about to remark,
you have but to name the day and I'll give my daughter a wedding
that will--(FELIX smashes CHARLIE'S hat with stick.  CHARLIE thinks
MAYNARD did it.)

CHARLIE:  Now, see here, Mr. Maynard, I may have straw-colored hair
and wear a number fourteen collar, but I object--I very seriously
object to having anybody crush my hat.

MAYNARD:  I didn't crush your hat.

CHARLIE:  I saw you.

MAYNARD:  (Getting very angry and shaking fist in CHARLIE'S face.)
You say you saw me crush your hat?

CHARLIE:  (Backing water.)  Well, I thought I saw you.

MAYNARD:  (Mollified once more.)  Well, that's different.  However,
it really isn't worth talking about.  You know that all I want in
this world is to see you happy.

CHARLIE:  Then perhaps you can lend me fifty dollars.

MAYNARD:  Lend you fifty dollars?  Why certainly.  Here you are.
(Hands CHARLIE the money.)  No doubt, you'll be able to pay me back
when you receive the money that was left you in the will.

CHARLIE:  What will?

MAYNARD:  Why, the will of your uncle.

CHARLIE:  What uncle?

MAYNARD:  What uncle?  Why, your millionaire uncle who just died
and left you all his money.

CHARLIE:  I never had a millionaire uncle and nobody has left me a

MAYNARD:  (Wiping perspiration off his face.)  What; then you are
not a rich man?

CHARLIE:  Rich; why, that fifty dollars you just gave me is every
penny I've got in this world.

MAYNARD:  (Getting excited.)  Oh you fraud, you deceiver, you
disgraceful beggar; I've a great mind to--(Raises fist as if to
strike CHARLIE.)

CHARLIE:  (Rushing off at right.)  Assistance.  Assistance!

(HARVEY comes in at centre and stands in background ground; FELIX
is still on pedestal.)

MAYNARD:  There is only one way to keep that disgusting dude off
the premises.  I'll get a savage dog if it costs me a thousand
dollars.  (Exits into house.)

HARVEY:  (To FELIX, who steps off pedestal.)  You hear that?

FELIX:  Hear what?

HARVEY:  He wants a savage dog.

FELIX:  Well, suppose he does?

HARVEY:  You're the dog.

FELIX:  What?

HARVEY:  You're the dog.

FELIX:  Say, what's tbe matter with you anyhow?  First I was a
statue and now I'm a dog.  Next I suppose I'll be an automobile
or a bag of peanuts.

HARVEY:  That's all right.  Pass yourself off as the dog and we'll
divide the thousand dollars between us.

FELIX:  Yes, you'll get nine hundred and ninety-nine and I'll get
the balance.

HARVEY:  Nonsense; I'll only take what is right.

FELIX:  And I'll have to take what is left.

HARVEY:  For the love of Mike be reasonable.  This is the chance
of a lifetime.

FELIX:  I'll impersonate the dog if you get me something to eat.

HARVEY:  What do you want to eat for?

FELIX:  I'm starving.

HARVEY:  All right, it's a bargain.  You impersonate the savage dog
and I'll see that you're well fed.  (Both exit at centre.)

(Enter MRS. WILSON, from right.)

MRS. WILSON:  I must force a proposal of marriage out of Mr. Maynard
today yet.  It's true I don't love him, but he's got lots of money,
and money is everything in this world.

(Enter CHLORINDA from house, crying.)

MRS. WILSON:  Why Chlorinda, what's the matter?

CHLORINDA:  I'se just been down to the cemetery.

MRS. WILSON:  Well, you ought to laugh.

CHLORINDA:  Why, why should I laugh?

MRS. WILSON:  It's the people who are in the cemetery and cannot
get out who ought to be crying.

CHLORINDA:  Dat's all very well, Mrs. Wilson, but I jes' copied
some of de inscriptions off de tombstones, and I tells you I feels
awful mournful about it.

MRS. WILSON:  I don't see why you should feel sad, Chlorinda.

CHLORINDA:  You don't?  Well, jes' listen to some of dese.  (Reads
from a stack of cards, one tombstone inscription being written on
each card.)

"Here lies the body of Michael Burke, who lost his life while
dodging work."

"I loved my mother, I hated to leave her, but what can you do with
the typhoid fever? "

"Mamma loves Papa, and Papa loves women; Mamma saw Papa with two
girls in swimmin'."

"Here lies the mother of 28; there might have been more, but now
it's too late."

"Shed a few tears for Matty Mack, a trolley car hit her a slap in
the back."

"Here lies my poor wife much lamented.  She's happy and--well, I
am contented."

"Here lies the body of Martin Brown.  He was blown in the air and
he never came down."

"Willie Greene, sad regrets--aged 9--cigarettes."

(Enter MR. MAYNARD from house.)

MAYNARD:  Won't you step inside the house, Mrs. Wilson--I mean
Alice--and have a glass of birthday punch with the other ladies?

MRS. WILSON:  Delighted, I'm sure.  (Exits into house.)

CHLORINDA:  Won't I get punch, too?

MAYNARD:  Yes, if you don't get back to your work, you'll get a
punch in the jaw in about another minute.

MAYNARD:  I hope some one comes along soon with a savage dog.  I'd
rather go to Charlie Doolittle's funeral than to a picnic.  (Looks
off toward house.)  Ah, there is Mrs. Wilson.  How beautiful she
is.  I think this is my golden chance to propose to her.  (Exits
into house.)

(Enter HARVEY at centre, pulling FELIX in by chain fastened around
his neck.  FELIX now wears a dog's head and body.)

HARVEY:  (Aside to FELIX.)  Now remember, all you have got to do is
to act like a savage dog, and after I collect the money from Mr.
Maynard, you'll get yours.

FELIX:  (Removing dog's head.)  I hope I don't get it where I've got
this collar.

HARVEY:  Oh, you'll get it all right.

FELIX:  (Starting to leave stage.)  I'm going home.

HARVEY:  (Catching him by chain.)  Here, here, where are you going?

FELIX:  I don't like the way you say, "Oh, you'll get it."

HARVEY:  Oh, that's all right.  And now whatever you do, act like
a dog.

(FELIX tries to nip HARVEY'S leg, but he springs aside and says.)
Delighted.  Why, you're commencing to feel like a dog already.

FELIX:  When do I get something to eat?

HARVEY:  Very shortly now.

(Sees MAYNARD coming from house.)  Quick, put on your dog's head,
for here comes Mr. Maynard.

(Enter MAYNARD.)

MAYNARD:  (To HARVEY.)  Well, sir, and what can I do for you?

HARVEY:  Your servant told me you were looking for a ferocious dog
and I think I have an animal that will just suit you.

MAYNARD:  Yes, I do want a savage dog, and if you have such a beast
we can do business together.

FELIX:  (Aside.)  Now, I'm a beast.

(HARVEY kicks at FELIX to get him to shut up.)

HARVEY:  (Pointing to FELIX.)  This animal is so ferocious that if
anyone should come across his path at night when he is unchained
he would tear him limb from limb.

MAYNARD:  (Noticing FELIX.)  Is this the dog?

HARVEY:  (Rubbing his hands.)  Yes, sir, and if you searched the
world over, you couldn't find a more savage high-bred animal.  He
is full of animation.

MAYNARD:  (Scratching himself.)  I think he is full of fleas.  But,
tell me, what do you ask for him?

HARVEY:  One thousand dollars.

MAYNARD:  That's a lot of money.

HARVEY:  Not for this dog.

MAYNARD:  Perhaps I ought to explain to you what I want the dog for.

HARVEY:  I daresay you feel lonely for a companion.

MAYNARD:  No, sir; I want a dog for my daughter, sir, to keep off
a worthless, good-for-nothing dude who comes pestering around here
after her because he knows that her father has a lot of money, and
thinks that if he marries his daughter he can move to Easy Street.

HARVEY:  I see; he is looking for a soft snap.

MAYNARD:  That's it, but I'll fool him.  I want a dog that will
chew him up into pieces if he ever dares to set his foot inside
my garden gate again.

HARVEY:  My dog will suit you exactly.

MAYNARD:  But a thousand dollars is an awful lot of money.

HARVEY:  Not for this animal.  In the first place, you never have
to feed him.

MAYNARD:  What's that!  You mean to say that this dog goes without

HARVEY:  That's the idea exactly.

(FELIX shows signs of disgust.  He can work up some funny business
by taking off his mask whenever HARVEY and MAYNARD are talking
together and quickly slipping it on again when he thinks their
attention is directed towards him.)

MAYNARD:  Why, it's preposterous.  You don't suppose I would keep
a dog around the house and never feed him?

HARVEY:  I tell you this dog never eats.

MAYNARD:  Why, that's cruelty to animals!

HARVEY:  Well, if you feel that way about it, you might go out into
an empty lot and get some rusty tomato cans and a few pieces of
scrap iron and feed those to him.

MAYNARD:  Does he enjoy such things?

HARVEY:  Certainly he does.  In fact, if you were to put a choice
piece of juicy tenderloin steak before him right now that dog
wouldn't touch it.

MAYNARD:  A most remarkable animal.

FELIX:  (Taking off his dog mask, aside.)  I'm going home.

HARVEY:  (Aside, to FELIX.)  Shut up or you'll spoil everything.

(FELIX makes a grab for MAYNARD'S leg.)

MAYNARD:  Help!  Help!  Your dog is killing me.

HARVEY:  Don't get frightened, Mr. Maynard, he is perfectly
domesticated and will eat off your hand.

MAYNARD:  Yes; he'll eat off my leg, too, if I'm not careful.

HARVEY:  (To FELIX.)  Lie down, Otto, lie down, I say.  (Kicks FELIX,
who lets go of MAYNARD'S leg.)

MAYNARD:  (Going quickly out of harm's way, yet delighted.)  Just
the dog I want--a fine animal.  I am sure with him around that
Charlie Doolittle won't dare to show his face on the premises.

HARVEY:  Better buy him while you have the chance.

MAYNARD:  (Taking roll of bills from pocket and counting out the
money.)  I think I will.  Here's the thousand dollars.

HARVEY:  And now the dog is yours.

(MAYNARD fastens dog to exterior of dog-house.)

MAYNARD:  I hope I have better luck with him than I had with my
other dogs.

HARVEY:  Why, what do you mean?

FELIX:  (In back-ground.)  Yes, please explain yourself.

MAYNARD:  (Chuckling.)  Well, you see my neighbors ain't very fond
of dogs and as fast as I get one they either poison him or shoot

FELIX:  (In back-ground.)  I can see my finish.

HARVEY:  Well, it won't make any difference with this dog.  You can
fill him full of bullets and he won't even feel it.

FELIX:  (Aside.)  No, I'll be dead.

HARVEY:  (Continuing.)  And as for poisoned meat, why, he would
rather have Paris green or strychnine on his meat than salt.

MAYNARD:  (Chuckling.)  Certainly a remarkable animal.  And now, if
you will excuse me a minute, I will go into the house and tell my
daughter about the dog.  (He exits into house.)

HARVEY:  (Gleefully.)  The scheme worked beautifully and I am just
a thousand dollars ahead.

FELIX:  (Indignantly.)  What do you mean by telling him that I eat
tin cans and scrap iron?

HARVEY:  Why, that was only a little joke on my part.

FELIX:  Oh, it was a joke, was it?  And suppose the neighbors fire
their pistols at me and riddle me with bullets, what then?

HARVEY:  Why, simply don't notice it.  Anyhow, don't complain to
me, you're the dog, not I, and if the neighbors kill you, that's
not my funeral.

FELIX:  I can see myself in dog heaven already.  And how about my
share of the money?

HARVEY:  The what?

FELIX:  The money.  The dough, the mazuma.

HARVEY:  The money?  Since when do dogs carry money?  Ha, ha!  That's
a good joke.  A very good joke.  (Exits at R. 2.)

MAYNARD:  (Re-enters from house.)  And now to see if I can't make
friends with the dog.

(FELIX barks furiously at MAYNARD as soon as he comes near.)

MAYNARD:  He is just the animal to keep Viola's lover away.  I will
call her out, and show her the dog.  (Calls off to house.)  Oh,
Viola!  (Dog snaps at MAYNARD as latter passes him.)

VIOLA:  (From the doorstep of house.)  What do you want, father?

MAYNARD:  I want to show you the new dog I bought.  (Dog barks
furiously.)  See if you can make friends with him.

(VIOLA approaches FELIX, who leans his head affectionately against
her and puts his arm around her waist.)

VIOLA:  He seems to like me all right, father.

MAYNARD:  I cannot understand it.

VIOLA:  Perhaps he doesn't like men.

FELIX:  (Aside.)  No; I ain't that kind of a dog.

VIOLA:  I wonder if the dog is hungry?

MAYNARD:  I'll go into the house and get him a bone.  (Exits into

(FELIX starts rubbing his dog's head against VIOLA'S hip.  She
screams and exits into house.)

(CHARLIE DOOLITTLE enters from Right.)

CHARLIE:  I haven't seen Viola for half an hour, so I think I'll
serenade her.

(Starts in singing chorus of song, "Only One Girl in This World
for Me.")

(FELIX howls accompaniment.  CHARLIE sees dog, who tries to grab

CHARLIE:  I'll get a pistol and shoot the beast.

FELIX:  Gee, but he's got a nasty disposition!

CHARLIE:  I'll return in two minutes.  (Exits at right.)

FELIX:  (Unfastening catch that holds him to dog-house.)  And I will
be gone in one minute.  (Exits at Centre.)

(MR. MAYNARD and VIOLA enter from house.)

MAYNARD:  Viola, I am worried.

VIOLA:  What's the matter, father?

MAYNARD:  I am afraid that Old Black Joe's mind is beginning to
weaken.  Sometimes he sits for hours babbling about the old
plantation as it existed in the days of '61.

VIOLA:  How strange!

MAYNARD:  Only last week a celebrated doctor assured me that if Old
Black Joe could but gaze once more on the old plantation as it
looked before the War, his mental powers would come back to him
as sharp and clear as ever.

VIOLA:  I have an idea.

CHARLIE:  (Appearing suddenly from Right.)  Well, pickle it, because
it's going to be a hard Winter.

(MAYNARD starts to chase CHARLIE, who quickly exits.)

MAYNARD:  (To VIOLA.)  What is your idea, daughter?

VIOLA:  I propose that all the girls dress themselves as pickaninnies
and indulge in the sports and pastimes of the South before the
War, so that Old Black Joe will think he is once more among the
scenes of his boyhood days.

MAYNARD:  A great idea--and we'll put it into execution at once.

number is over, "Old Black Joe."  ENTIRE COMPANY DRESSES THE STAGE
and forms itself into picturesque groupings.  Selections by a
colored quartette can also be appropriately introduced.)

(Song, "Old Black Joe," by OLD BLACK JOE, company joining in the

JOE:  Bless me, am I dreaming, or do I see once more de old plantation?

MAYNARD:  (Cordially.)  The very same, Joe, the very same.

JOE:  Why, it seems, Massa, as if a heavy load is lifting from mah
mind and de memory of things dat I'se forgotten dese fifty years
am coming back to me.

VIOLA:  Three cheers for Old Black Joe!  (Entire company gives

MAYNARD:  And now, ladies and gentlemen, on the occasion of my
birthday, I also have the honor to announce that Mrs. Wilson has
this day consented to become my wife.

(MRS. WILSON steps forward from house and bows to assembled guests
in a triumphant way, the guests coldly return her bow.)

(EDGAR TREMBLE enters from Centre.)

MAYNARD:  What can I do for you, Mr. Tremble?

TREMBLE:  Just one thing, and that is to give me the money you owe
me.  The mortgage I hold on your plantation for $50,000 is due
today and, unless you hand over the money right away, I'll turn
you out bag and baggage.

MAYNARD:  (Pleadingly.)  Won't you give me a few days longer to try
and raise the money?

TREMBLE:  Not a day, not an hour.  I must have the money at once
or out you go.

MAYNARD:  (Wringing his hands.)  I am a ruined man!  (Turning to MRS.
WILSON.)  But at least I will have the consolation of a true and
loving companion.  (MAYNARD reaches out for her hand, but she draws
it away.)  Why, what does this mean, Alice?

MRS. WILSON:  I fear, Mr. Maynard, that I was never cut out to be
a poor man's wife, so I ask you to release me from my engagement.
(Walks off stage at Right accompanied by the hisses of the guests.)

TREMBLE:  (To MAYNARD.)  As you evidently haven't got the $50,000
to pay the mortgage, the plantation becomes mine and I now order
you all off the premises.

OLD BLACK JOE:  Not so fast.

TREMBLE:  (To Joe.)  What do you mean by butting in, you black devil?
(Sarcastically.)  Perhaps you've got the $50,000 to pay the mortgage?

OLD BLACK JOE:  No, sah, ain't got no money, but somethin' in mah
memory tells me dat I know where some money is hidden.

MAYNARD:  (In surprise.)  Why, what do you mean, Old Black Joe?

VIOLA:  Yes, explain yourself.

OLD BLACK JOE:  Well, sah, jes' after de War broke out your father
went and hid $50,000 where de Union soldiers couldn't find it.

MAYNARD:  (Imploringly.)  Can't you remember where the money was
hid, Joe?

OLD BLACK JOE:  Let me think, Massa, let me think.

VIOLA:  Yes, Joe, try and remember.

OLD BLACK JOE:  (With a sudden burst of light in his eyes.)  I
remembers now.  He hid the money in dat old tree over dere.

(VIOLA rushes over to tree accompanied by several of the guests.)

TREMBLE:  I hope you don't place any faith in the silly fairy stories
of this doddering old nigger.

VIOLA:  (Pulling an old and worn pocketbook from behind the trunk
of the tree.)  Here it is!  Father, here it is!  (She runs to her
father and hands him the pocketbook.  He eagerly takes out
the contents, a big roll of bank bills, and hastily counts them.)

MAYNARD:  It's fifty thousand dollars and the old plantation is
saved, thanks to Old Black Joe!  (To JOE.)  Let me grasp your hand.
(Shakes OLD BLACK JOE by the hand.)

CHARLIE:  (Who has sneaked on the scene from R. 2.  To JOE.)  Yes,
give us your flipper, Joe.

HARVEY:  (Who suddenly appears on the scene and shakes JOE'S hand.)
It's all right, Joe; you wait for me after the show and I'll buy
you some horseradish ice cream and a fried cigarette sandwich.

MAYNARD:  Now that the plantation remains, I invite you one and all
to join me in a Fried 'Possum and Sweet Potato Dinner.

FELIX:  (Who also appears on the scene, carrying his dog's head in
his hand.)  Thank heavens, I'll get something to eat at last.

CHORUS OF VOICES:  Three cheers for Mr. Maynard!

MAYNARD:  And don't forget Old Black Joe, for it was through him
that I have been able to save


(Final Chorus by entire company.)



ACT IN ONE.--An act playing in One (which see).
AD LIB.--Ad libitum--To talk extemporaneously so as to
pad a scene or heighten laughter.
AGENT, VAUDEVILLE.--The business agent for an act.
APRON.--That part of the stage lying between the footlights and
the curtain line.
ARGOT.--Slang; particularly, stage terms.
ASIDE.--A speech spoken within the sight and hearing of other
actors, but which they, as characters in the act, do not "hear."
AUDIENCE-LEFT.--Reverse of stage-left (which see).
AUDIENCE-RIGHT.--Reverse of stage-right (which see).
BACK OF THE HOUSE.--Back stage; the stage back of the curtain.
BACKING.--A drop, wing, or flat used to mask the working stage
when a scenery-door or window is opened.
BACKING, INTERIOR.--Backing that represents an interior.
BACKING, EXTERIOR.--Backing that represents an exterior.
BARE STAGE.--Stage unset with scenery.
BIG-TIME.--Circuits playing two shows a day.
BIT, A.--A successful little stage scene complete in itself.
A small part in an act.
BOOK OF A MUSICAL COMEDY.--The plot, dialogue, etc., to
differentiate these from lyrics and music.
BOOK AN ACT, TO.--To place on a manager's books for playing
contracts; to secure a route.
BOOKING MANAGER.--One who books acts for theatres.
BORDER.--A strip of painted canvas hung above the stage in
front of the border-lights to mask the stage-rigging.
BORDER-LIGHT.--Different colored electric bulbs set in a tin
trough and suspended over the stage to light the stage and scenery.
BOX SET.--A set of scenery made of "flats" (which see) lashed
together to form a room whose fourth wall has been removed.
BREAKING-IN AN ACT.--Playing an act until it runs smoothly.
BUNCH-LIGHT.--Electric bulbs set in a tin box mounted on a
movable standard to cast any light--moonlight, for instance--
through windows or on drops or backings.
BUSINESS, or BUS., or BIZ.--Any movement an actor makes on
the stage, when done to drive the spoken words home, or "get over"
a meaning without words.
CENTRE-DOOR FANCY.--An interior set containing an ornamental
arch and fitted with fine draperies.
CHOOSER.--One who steals some part of another performer's
act for his own use.
CLIMAX.--The highest point of interest in a series of words or
events--the "culmination, height, acme, apex." (Murray.)
CLOSE-IN, TO.--To drop curtain.
COMEDY.--A light and more or less humorous play which ends
happily; laughable and pleasing incidents.
COMPLICATION.--The definite clash of interests which produces
the struggle on the outcome of which the plot hinges.
CRISIS.--The decisive, or turning, point in a play when things
must come to a change, for better or worse.
CUE.--A word or an action regarded as the signal for some other
speech or action by another actor, or for lights to change, or
something to happen during the course of an act.
CURTAIN.--Because the curtain is dropped at the end of an
act--the finish.
DIE.--When a performer or his act fails to win applause, he or
the act is said to "die."
DIMMER.--An electrical apparatus to regulate the degree of light
given by the footlights and the border-lights.
DRAPERY, GRAND.--An unmovable Border just in front of the
Olio and above Working Drapery.
DRAPERY, WORKING.--The first Border; see "BORDER."
DROP.--A curtain of canvas painted with some scene and running
full across the stage opening.
DUMB ACT, or SIGHT ACT.--Acts that do not use words; acrobats
and the like.
EXPOSITION.--That part of the play which conveys the information
necessary for the audience to possess so that they may understand
the foundations of the plot or action.
EXTRA MAN, or WOMAN.--A person used for parts that do not
require speech; not a regular member of the company.
FANCY INTERIOR.--The same as "Centre-door Fancy" (which see).
FARCE.--A play full of extravagantly ludicrous situations.
FIRST ENTRANCE.--Entrance to One (which see).
FLASH-BACK.--When a straight-man turns a laugh which a
comedian has won, into a laugh for himself (see chapter on "The
FLAT.--A wooden frame covered with a canvas painted to match
other flats in a box set.
FLIPPER.--Scenery extension--particularly used to contain curtained
entrance to One, and generally set at right angles to the
proscenium arch (which see).
FLIRTATION ACT.--An act presented by a man and a woman
playing lover-like scenes.
FLY-GALLERY.--The balcony between the stage and the grid
iron, from where the scenery is worked.
FLYMEN.--The men assigned to the fly-gallery.
FOUR.--The stage space six or more feet behind the rear boundaries
of Three.
FRONT OF THE HOUSE.--The auditorium in front of the curtain.
FULL STAGE.--Same as Four.
GAG.--Any joke or pun.  See "POINT."
GENRE.--Kind, style, type.
GET OVER, TO.--To make a speech or entire act a success.
GLASS-CRASH.--A basket filled with broken glass, used to imitate
the noise of breaking a window and the like.
GO BIG.--When a performer, act, song, gag, etc., wins much
applause it is said to "go big."
GRIDIRON.--An iron network above the stage on which is hung
the rigging by which the scenery is worked.
GRIP.--The man who sets scenery or grips it.
HAND, TO GET A.--To receive applause.
HOUSE CURTAIN.--The curtain running flat against the proscenium
arch; it is raised at the beginning and lowered at the end of the
performance; sometimes use to "close-in" on an act.
JOG.--A short flat used to vary a set by being placed between
regulation flats to form angles or corners in a room.
LASH-LINE.--Used on flats to join them tightly together.
LEAD-SHEET.--A musical notation giving a melody of a popular
song; a skeleton of a song.
LEGITIMATE.--Used to designate the stage, actors, theatres, etc.,
that present the full-evening play.
MELODRAMA.--A sensational drama, full of incident and making
a violent appeal to the emotions.
MUGGING.--A contortion of the features to win laughter,
irrespective of its consistency with the lines or actions.
OLIO.--A drop curtain full across the stage, working flat against
the tormentors (which see). It is used as a background for acts in
One, and often to close-in on acts playing in Two, Three and Four.
ONE.--That part of the stage lying between the tormentors and
the line drawn between the bases of the proscenium arch.
OPEN SET.--A scene composed of a rear drop and matching wings,
and not "boxed"--that is, not completely enclosed.  See "BOX SET."
PALACE SET.--Palace scene.
PART.--Noun:  the manuscript of one character's speeches and
business; the character taken by an actor.  Verb:  to take, or play,
a character.
PLAY UP, TO.--To pitch the key of a scene high; to play with
rush and emphasis.
PLUGGER.--A booster, a singer who sings new songs to make
them popular.
POINT.--The laugh-line of a gag (see "GAG"), or the funny
observation of a monologue.
PRODUCE, TO.--To mount a manuscript on the stage.
PRODUCER.--One who produces plays, playlets, and other acts.
PROPERTIES.--Furniture, dishes, telephones, the what-not employed
to lend reality--scenery excepted.  Stage accessories.
PROPERTY-MAN.--The man who takes care of the properties.
PROPS.--Property-man; also short for properties.
PROSCENIUM ARCH.--The arch through which the audience
views the stage.
RIGGING, STAGE.--The ropes, pulleys, etc., by which the scenery
is worked.
RIPPLE-LAMP.--A clock-actuated mechanism fitted with ripple-glass
and attached to the spot-light to cast wave-effects, etc., on or
through the drops.
ROUTE.--A series of playing dates.  To "route" is to "book"
ROUTINE.--Arrangement.  A specific arrangement of the parts of
a state offering, as a "monologue routine," or a "dance routine."
SCENARIO.--The story of the play in outline.
SET.--Noun:  a room or other scene set on the stage.  Verb:  to
erect the wings, drops, and flats to form a scene.
SET OF LINES.--Rigging to be tied to drops and other scenery to
lift them up into the flies.
SINGLE MAN--SINGLE WOMAN.--A man or woman playing
alone; a monologist, solo singer, etc.
SLAP-STICK BUSINESS.--Business that wins laughs by use of
physical methods.
SMALL-TIME, THE.--The circuits playing three or more shows a day.
SOUND-EFFECTS.--The noise of cocoanut shells imitating horses'
hoof-beats, the sound of waves mechanically made, and the like.
SPOT-LIGHT.--An arc-light with lenses to concentrate the light
into a spot to follow the characters around the stage.
STAGE-DRACE.--An implement used with stage-screws to clamp
flats firmly to the floor.
STAGE-CENTRE.--The centre of the stage.
STAGE-LEFT.--The audience's right.
STAGE-MANAGER.--One who manages the "working" of a
show behind the scenes; usually the stage-carpenter.
STAGE-RIGHT.--The audience's left.
STRIKE, TO.--To clear the stage of scenery.
STRIP-LIGHT.--Electric bulbs contained in short tin troughs, hung
behind doors, etc., to illuminate the backings.
TAB.--The contraction of "tabloid," as burlesque tab, musical
comedy tab.
TALKING SINGLE.--A one-person act using stories, gags, etc.
THREE.--The stage space six or more feet behind the rear
boundaries of Two.
TIME.--Playing engagements.  See "BIG-TIME," "SMALL-TIME."
TORMENTORS.--Movable first wings behind which the Olio runs,
fronting the audience.
TRAP.--A section of the stage floor cut for an entrance to the scene
from below.
TRY-OUT.--The first presentation of an act for trial before an
audience with a view to booking.
TWO.--The stage space between the Olio and the set of wings
six or more feet behind the Olio.
TWO-A-DAY.--Stage argot for vaudeville.
WING.--A double frame of wood covered with painted canvas
and used in open sets as a flat is used in box sets; so
constructed that it stands alone as a book will when its covers are
opened at right angles.
WOOD-CRASH.--An appliance so constructed that when the handle
is turned a noise like a man falling downstairs, or the crash of a
fight, is produced.
WOOD-SET.--The scenery used to form a forest or woods.
WORK OPPOSITE ANOTHER, TO.--To play a character whose
speeches are nearly all with the other.

*** End of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Writing for Vaudeville" ***

Doctrine Publishing Corporation provides digitized public domain materials.
Public domain books belong to the public and we are merely their custodians.
This effort is time consuming and expensive, so in order to keep providing
this resource, we have taken steps to prevent abuse by commercial parties,
including placing technical restrictions on automated querying.

We also ask that you:

+ Make non-commercial use of the files We designed Doctrine Publishing
Corporation's ISYS search for use by individuals, and we request that you
use these files for personal, non-commercial purposes.

+ Refrain from automated querying Do not send automated queries of any sort
to Doctrine Publishing's system: If you are conducting research on machine
translation, optical character recognition or other areas where access to a
large amount of text is helpful, please contact us. We encourage the use of
public domain materials for these purposes and may be able to help.

+ Keep it legal -  Whatever your use, remember that you are responsible for
ensuring that what you are doing is legal. Do not assume that just because
we believe a book is in the public domain for users in the United States,
that the work is also in the public domain for users in other countries.
Whether a book is still in copyright varies from country to country, and we
can't offer guidance on whether any specific use of any specific book is
allowed. Please do not assume that a book's appearance in Doctrine Publishing
ISYS search  means it can be used in any manner anywhere in the world.
Copyright infringement liability can be quite severe.

About ISYS® Search Software
Established in 1988, ISYS Search Software is a global supplier of enterprise
search solutions for business and government.  The company's award-winning
software suite offers a broad range of search, navigation and discovery
solutions for desktop search, intranet search, SharePoint search and embedded
search applications.  ISYS has been deployed by thousands of organizations
operating in a variety of industries, including government, legal, law
enforcement, financial services, healthcare and recruitment.