The Silver Shield Part 25

d.i.c.k. (_crosses to NED_) Shan't play your piece? _Your_ piece?

NED. My piece.

d.i.c.k. Yours, after all the alterations I've made!

NED. Well, you _have_ cut it up! (_sits head of sofa_)

d.i.c.k. Do you suppose there's only one piece in the world? My room is full of 'em--chock full--so full I can scarcely get into it!

NED. All rubbish.

d.i.c.k. You haven't read them, sir.

NED. No more have you.

ALMA. You'd better settle, d.i.c.k.

d.i.c.k. (_crosses to C._) Be beaten by a woman? No, by jingo, no! (_puts on hat_) I'll find some other woman. Hang it all! there are plenty of women in the world--too many--hang _them_ all! Good morning everybody; and may I be---- (_runs against SUSAN, who re-enters, L.C., with telegram; he stops_)

SUSAN. Oh! (_recovering herself_) Telegram, miss.

d.i.c.k. Telegram?

ALMA. (_who's opened it_) From Baker of the Colosseum. (_d.i.c.k looks over her while she reads_) "Hear you leave d.i.c.k. Come to me. Forty pounds a week. Wire answer. Reply paid."

d.i.c.k. (_s.n.a.t.c.hing form, crosses to chair where MRS. DOZEY is asleep; puts his knee on elbow; wakes MRS. DOZEY_) Look here, _I'll_ answer that. (_writes_) "Blake does _not_ leave me. _I_ pay forty-five. Mind your own business." (_gives form to SUSAN_)

ALMA. Forty-five.

d.i.c.k. It's settled. (_they shake hands; puts hat down on table with a bang, starting DR. and MRS. DOZEY_)

MRS. D. Dionysius?

DR. After mature deliberation, I have arrived at the conclusion that Mr. d.i.c.k did not intend to say "Antipodes."

MRS. D. I don't believe he did. (_ALMA leaves d.i.c.k and goes to SUSAN, to whom she gives instructions in dumb show, leading her R. TOM approaches d.i.c.k, who's dropped on sofa, wiping his forehead_)

TOM. You got the worst of that, sir?

d.i.c.k. No, I didn't. I never get the worst of anything. If she had played her cards well I'd have given her fifty.

TOM. Fifty?

d.i.c.k. She's worth it.

TOM. Very glad to hear it. (_turns off, L._)

d.i.c.k. (_to himself, half following TOM_) Why is he glad to hear it?

(_aside to SIR HUMPHREY_) I say, who is that?

SIR H. Mrs. Blake's husband.

d.i.c.k. (_drops on to seat, C., at R. back_) He'll tell her! He's telling her. (_TOM and ALMA laugh over it across the sofa_) No matter.

(_coming down, C.; addressing ALMA_) I'll take it out of you. I'll change the bill continually. You shall have rehearsals morning, noon, and night. (_Exit SUSAN, R.C._)

NED. (_down, L._) Oh, no, you won't. You haven't plays enough.

d.i.c.k. Soon get 'em. Sparkle shall set his type-writer to work, and you must set your wits. I'll give you a wholesale order.

NED. I'm a slow worker; I'm afraid I couldn't execute it.

ALMA. Why not? What's the difficulty?

NED. I can't think of a plot.

ALMA. I'll give you one.

SIR H. (_coming down_) You, Miss Blake! (_d.i.c.k laughs_)

ALMA. (_to d.i.c.k_) What are you laughing at?

d.i.c.k. (_sitting down at back, L.C._) Your plot. A nice old hash up it'll be.

ALMA. You haven't heard it.

d.i.c.k. Don't want to hear it. All been done before!

SIR H. It'll be new to us, at any rate.

ALMA. Sir Humphrey, sit down. (_SIR HUMPHREY sits at back of table_) Doctor, you shall be my audience.

DR. (_rising; also MRS. DOZEY_) Pardon me, but it is against my principles.

ALMA. Did I say audience? I meant congregation.

MRS. D. (_sits_) Ah! (_goes to sleep_)

DR. That removes my scruples. There is no evil in an audience, regarded in the aspect of a congregation. (_sits_)

ALMA. Don't make yourself too comfortable, Ned. I shall want you to play a leading part. d.i.c.k, you shall be the front row of the pit.

(_d.i.c.k brings chair down, C. Re-enter SUSAN, R.C._) And here comes Susan, just in time to be the prompter. Ready? (_sits on sofa_) Curtain up. Hero and heroine, a young married couple. They're very fond of one another--very happy. So the play opens brightly.

d.i.c.k. Wife working slippers--husband smoking--embraces--footstool business--the old fake--told you so.

ALMA. The husband is an author, like Mr. Chetwynd; and as the act progresses, his wife grows rather jealous.

d.i.c.k. Quite a new motive, isn't it? Only been done about a thousand times.