The Cantab: TEI edition

SCENE.—A handsomely furnished apartment—Doors, R. and L.—Fireplace, C.—A fire laid but not lighted—window, C. looking on open country—piano, R. open—Breakfast laid for two. Enter Hannah, L. D. carrying two dishes—over her arm hang a brace of pheasants. Han.

There's the birds (placing them on side table) as has just come; and there's the breakfast. (placing dishes) Why, good gracious! where's the 'am? I'm sure I put the 'am upon the table. (she stands before table) Now that's very strange. As sure as love is loss of appetite that 'am this 'and placed upon that table—I'd lay my best new gown on it! When I went into the kitchen for the hot hamlet and the cold grouse-pie, I says to myself, “Master has gone out for his constitution, but missus will be down directly, so hup with the hamlet, cook, my dear, this instant!” and cook turns round from the fire and says to me, “Hannah,” says she—(leaves table open to the sight of the Audience—the pie has disappeared —she screams) The pie's gone! The place is bewitched! Ghosts is in the 'ouse, and I give warning as sure as Dreams and Death-watches. (she sits against table, leaning her head on her hand so as to hide the omelette) I never stirred from the spot. No thief could done it—I see none! The 'am and the pie 'as both gone off together! What will missus say? She won't believe me! She'll think I've give it to Berlinns. I stay in no house which is haunted, and so I'll tell the cook. They was a murder committed in the next county but one only four years ago—and 'ams and pies don't disappear for nothing. (turns round and finds the omelette gone—screams and throws her apron over head)

It is essential that the Audience should not see these things conveyed under the table—they must be taken when Hannah's body and arm hide the articles abstracted. Mrs. Boodle enters in morning dress, R. D. Mrs. B.

Why, Hannah, what's the matter!

Han.

The ghost!

Mrs. B.

What ghost?

Han.

Who got the hamlet!

Mrs. B.

The ghost in Hamlet!

Han.

He's took the pie!

Mrs. B.

The ghost in Hamlet took a pie! Why, you silly girl, you're mad!

Han.

Missus, the 'ouse is 'aunted!

Mrs. B.

Ridiculous!

Han.

And the pie and the 'am has gone the way of all flesh!

Mrs. B.

What do you mean?

Han.

(crying)I lay breakfast this morning—ham— biled eggs—oh, he's got them too! I leave the room to fetch the pie and hamlet—when I comes back the eggs and 'am is gone together. I stops in the room, my eyes fixed on that there table and never took 'em off, no never —not to look about me. The pie goes—vanishes!

Mrs. B.

The grouse-pie?

Han.

“Into thin hare,” as I read in a book the other day. I sit down, and under my eyes, before my very nose, quick! bang!—the hamlet goes, too!

Mrs. B.

Hamlet's ghost—where to?

Han.

Don't joke, missus, please—my nerves shakes like aspens quiver.

Mrs. B.

It's very strange! Wait till your master comes home and tell him all about it. Bring in the coffee.

Han.

It'll go, too, mum.

Mrs. B.

There—go and fetch it. Exit Hannah, L. D. What plagues servants are! Though if she speaks the truth it is very odd.

Hannah enters with coffee, she puts it on table. Han.

Mind it, mum, or the ghost will fetch it.

Mrs. B.

Such nonsense! Mr. Boodle gone out for a walk?

Han.

Yes, m---take care on it. Ah!

Mrs. B.

Make some fresh coffee for him.

Han.

I will, mum, 'cos you'll want it yourself—that'll soon go. Hold it tight, mum—don't let go on it. Exit Hannah, L. watching coffee.

Mrs. B.

Was ever such absurdity! Perhaps some thief has got into the pantry, or this is only an excuse.

(Charles rises from behind the table, and seats himself in the chair opposite Mrs. Boodle. As she fills her cup, he takes it from her. She takes the sugar-tongs —he places remains of omelette on table. Charles.

Sugar, please—two lumps. (Mrs. Boodle rises alarmed at seeing a strange man—Charles's clothes are torn and splashed all over—his boots muddy—his hat smashed—his hair uncombed, and his entire appearance of the most vagabond order.—He follows her as she retreats towards the hall, trying to embrace her—at last he takes her in his arms, and kisses her—She is about to scream, he puts his hand over her mouth) Don't scream, nor pull the bell!

Mrs. B.

(struggling in his arms)How dare you! Man! who are you?

Charles.

Polly, don't you know Charley? (letting her go)

Mrs. B.

(looking at him)What! Charles in such a state! Oh, Charles! (they embrace)

Charles.

My dear sister! I'm so delighted to see you, that with your permission I'll take a cup of coffee. (sits at table, and begins eating and drinking ravenously)

Mrs. B.

(siting opposite him) But, Charley, my own dear, only brother—I didn't see you come in.

Charles.

(eating)I didn't come in, I came up!

Mrs. B.

By rail?

Charles.

Yes, the rail of the chair!

Mrs. B.

From Cambridge?

Charles.

No!

Mrs. B.

From where then?

Charles.

(pointing)Under the table! Bread—thank you! (taking the omelette)

Mrs. B.

Under the table?

Charles.

Yes—been there these two hours!

Mrs. B.

And did you like it?

Charles.

(eating)Capital! always did—take some more—thank you! (helping himself)

Mrs. B.

Oh, Charley! I'm afraid you've been up to some of your tricks again, and have been forced to leave Cambridge.

Charles.

(laying down his knife and fork suddenly)Don't!

Mrs. B.

What? (pouring out coffee)

Charles.

Put too much sugar in. (evading her question)

Mrs. B.

So you have been under the table the last two hours, have you? just like you—always playing tricks; and I suppose you are the ghost that that stupid Hannah has been talking about?

Charles.

Precisely!

Mrs. B.

And you have been conveying all the eatables under the table.

Charles.

And thence under my waistcoat.

Mrs. B.

Your appetite then still continues to be as enormous as ever.

Charles.

Worse, just now! I've eaten nothing these two days.

Mrs. B.

Oh, Charley?

Charles.

Fact! the last meal of which this child partook was breakfast with a St. John's man, the morning before yesterday.

Mrs. B.

You must be very hungry!

Charles.

I was—look here! (pulling table cloth up and showing the remains of what he conveyed under the table— a picked ham bone, &c.) There are the dead men—picked men, I should say—like the crew of our four oar. (putting down cup) There! I've done. I never made a better breakfast! (he rises)

Mrs. B.

I should think not! but, my dear Charley, what an awful figure you look! what a dreadful state your clothes are in!

Charles.

(sinking into his chair)Don't!

Mrs. B.

Don't what?

Charles.

Allude to that again!

Mrs. B.

But I must allude to it! why, your hair is shockingly untidy!

Charles.

I dare say it is!

Mrs. B.

It wants a brush.

Charles.

I should think it did—considering it has never been touched for two days.

Mrs. B.

What?

Charles.

Nor my face washed—nor my hands— (showing them awfully dirty) nor my boots blacked—nor my collar changed.

Mrs. B.

What do you mean?

Charles.

This manly form, and these ungentlemanly habiliments have been guiltless of toilette since Wednesday last at eight o'clock, a.m.

Mrs. B.

I can't understand you! You have never seen my husband—he'll be delighted to be introduced to you.

Charles.

Will he? then I must deprive him of that pleasure. He musn't know that I am here.

Mrs. B.

Not know that—do explain, Charley?

Charles.

Don't! (with excitement)

Mrs. B.

Don't! (imitating him) Don't what? now don't don't any more! what do you mean?

Charles.

Don't ask me!

Mrs. B.

Oh, but I must? what brings you here?

Charles.

Don't ask me, and I'll tell you.

Mrs. B.

Well, then, be quick about it. What brings you here, and in such a plight? you're in some scrape, I'm sure! what is it? Tell me; p'raps I may be able to help you. Is it anything about money?

Charles.

No!

Mrs. B.

What then?

Charles.

Murder!

Mrs. B.

La, Charles!

Charles.

Or manslaughter! It depends upon the view the jury take of it!

Mrs. B.

Now Charles, don't frighten me!

Charles.

It's too much to hope they'll bring it in justifiable homicide.

Mrs. B.

You quite alarm me! do tell me all!

Charles.

I will! and you will then understand why I am here, in such a state, and why my presence must be kept secret from everybody; but most of all, your husband.

Mrs. B.

You terrify me!

Charles.

Listen! (brings her forward after the manner of story tellers in thrilling dramas—she intensely anxious)

Mrs. B.

Yes, Charles!

Charles.

You haven't a drop of Curaçoa or Maraschino you could give a fellow after breakfast, have you?

Mrs. B.

La! (unlocks buffet, and gives him some)

Charles.

Bless you! you are a real good sister! (drinks) One more!

Mrs. B.

Not till you have told your story.

Charles.

Well then, here goes! On Wednesday morning I breakfasted with an old pal of mine of the name of Pluxie—we were at Harrow together, and after breakfast we went down the river for a quiet row.

Mrs. B.

A quiet row, I think you mean.

Charles.

Don't pun, Polly—it's ungentlemanly! let me see, where was I?

Mrs. B.

You were saying—

Charles.

Yes, thank you, I remember! You can recollect that, from a boy, what an enthusiastic admirer I always was of the manly and noble art of self-defence.

Mrs. B.

You mean fighting with fists!

Charles.

Just so! combined with fencing, single stick, rifle and pistol practice, broadsword, wrestling, Cornish, Cumberland and Lancashire, la Savatte, and other gymnastics?

Mrs. B.

Well, but what has all that to do—

Charles.

With my present position and unbrushed pegtops? I'll tell you! let me see, where was I?

Mrs. B.

You were saying—

Charles.

If you'd only give me that other drop of liqueur I should be able to get on like a greased steam engine. (she gives it him—he drinks and smacks his lips) Ah, my dear sister, how good you are to me—how true it is that blood is thicker than—Curaçoa—let me see, where was I?

Mrs. B.

You were saying—

Charles.

I remember—thank you. I was saying that Pluxie was a first rate little fellow—not more than five feet four in height, but the spirit of a lion, and—

Mrs. B.

No, no, Charles—tell me about yourself— you said you went out rowing.

Charles.

Oh, ay—so I did. Well, Pluxie and I rowed about for some time, till I got to feel very thirsty —you know I've a singular pre-disposition that way— so we pulled to shore and went into a pub—

Mrs. B.

A what?

Charles.

A public—a public house, you know, by the river side, just above Chesterton, about four miles from Cambridge. Well, we had some swizzle, and a pipe, and proposed returning—we went down to the boat, and saw it in the middle of the river with a bargee in it.

Mrs. B.

A what?

Charles.

A bargee—a bargeman, lighterman—a boatman amusing himself with our boat, to the intense gratification of some other blackguards, his friends, on the other side the bank. “Hallo!” says Pluxie. “How dare you take that liberty?” Bargee kept on, never minding us. “Come out of that boat this instant!” shouted Pluxie, waxing wrath. Bargee looked at him and said “I'll see you—” But I won't shock your feelings, Polly, by repeating what he said. No! his language is easier imagined than described. The way in which that bargee swore was worthy of the American House of Congress. He was as abusive as a patriot, and ten times dirtier. “You come ashore,” sings out Pluxie, who stands five feet four, “and I'll give you a good licking.” Well, at that the bargee laughs and all his friends—the other blackguards laugh, too. This, of course, rose Pluxie's dander to boiling point, and at last the bargee pulled to land to fight. Bargee stood six feet two, and was broad out of proportion. We adjourned to a meadow. One of bargee's friends did the amiable for him—Pluxie was waited on by yours truly. (warming with the description) The men peeled—It was a grand sight to see little Pluxie square up to the giant as cool and collected as a Don during examination. Talk of chivalry—but never mind that, I'll come to the point, Polly, directly—don't be afraid, Pluxie was in fine condition, but bargee had too much flesh. After some chaff and a little feinting, bargee opened the ball with his left, broke through Pluxie's guard, and Pluxie went grasswards—four to one on bargee —but perhaps you never read Bell's Life?

Mrs. B.

No—what is it? A romance?

Charles.

No, a newspaper, full of fancy, and often dealing in fiction—a modern Homer's Iliad, published in weekly parts, price sixpence—however, as you've not been coached up to be Romany of the King, I'll translate. Pluxie was soon licked—out of time—nowhere—what could a little fellow do against a giant? Now I never could see a row without wanting to be in it myself. I had been second—I now offered my services as principal —bargee accepted. We had some grog together—shook hands, and toed the scratch.

Mrs. B.

You fought the bargeman?

Charles.

I did. In the thirteenth round I hit bargee full butt where he puts his beer, and he fell—time was called—but bargee couldn't come to time. I was declared victor. I borrowed a sov. from Pluxie to give to bargee —he was speechless—we poured grog down his throat —useless—(seizing her hand excitedly) Polly, bargee was dead!

Mrs. B.

Good Heavens! And you—

Charles.

I killed him! In the eye of the law I was —I am a murderer! Conceive my feelings! Bargee's friends behaved like trumps. They said it was in fair fight—but the question was what was to be done? It was agreed that I should bolt—Pluxie was to return to college to evade suspicion, and I was to make across country to the coast. I had presence of mind enough to give Pluxie this address, and he will write to me under cover to you. Bargee's friends picked him up and promised, though they should be compelled to tell the truth to the authorities, to give me all the start they could. I ran as fast as I could eastward, thinking that your house was not out of my route—and here I am!

Mrs. B.

My dear, dear brother! How shocking!

Charles.

If you only knew what I felt! I keep up my spirits by chattering, but—there—we won't talk about it.

Mrs. B.

But it's not much more than twenty miles—

Charles.

I had to double and double for the fear of the rural police. Imagine my being afraid of a policeman! As to the rail, that was quite out of the question. I walked across at night—sleeping in the daytime—the first day in a dry ditch—the second, by way of a change, in a damp dyke. I daren't go near a house to ask or purchase anything to eat. I got here last night, or rather this morning about two o'clock—recognised the house by your description—climbed over the garden—

Mrs. B.

And how did you manage to get into the house?

Charles.

I broke into it. After murder, burglary's a trifle. I found I could open a shutter by the aid of a penknife, àla Jack Sheppard. I wandered about till somehow—how I don't know—I got into this room. The day broke, but I hadn't broke my fast for two days. I heard somebody coming, and crept under the table. When your girl laid breakfast—I couldn't resist the temptation, and when her back was turned I collared what I could. Eggs which I eat, shell and all, without salt, I thought them delicious—but mind I prefer eggs generally, minus the shells, and plus the salt.

Mrs. B.

But what am I to do with you?

Charles.

Hide me for a few days till I can get to Yarmouth, and so to France, Holland, anywhere! Let me see, there is a treaty about criminal extradition, isn't there?

Mrs. B.

But my husband is a J. P.

Charles.

What's that—Fellow of the Royal Society?

Mrs. B.

No, stupid—a Justice of the Peace, and a very active country magistrate.

Charles.

Confound it! Just like my luck!

Mrs. B.

And he has a perfect horror of all fighting with fists. He signalised himself very lately in preventing a prize fight between the Patagonian Piccaninny and the Rough 'un's Tough 'un, and got the thanks of the Lord Lieutenant.

Charles.

What did you go and marry a J. P. for?

Mrs. B.

I don't know what to do with you, I'm sure. My husband musn't see you. He'd give you up to the police directly, and you can't remain in those filthy clothes.

Charles.

Well, I have felt better dressed!

Mrs. B.

I'll go and lay out some things of my husband's for you. You must leave the house, and go down to a little roadside inn, rather more than a mile off, that way—“The Snipe and Snuffer-tray;” till I can think what will be best to be done. (going, returns, and embraces him affectionately) Oh, Charley—Charley! what would mamma say? Exit R. D.

Charles.

What would mamma say? What will everybody say, when I Charles Cheddar, of Trinity College, Cambridge, am publicly denounced as a murderer— arraigned in court, called prisoner at the bar, and have all the newspapers falling foul of me? The Illustrated News will send down their special artist to do my head—the Morning Post will lament my fate, and the want of constitutional stamina of my victim. The organs of the people will denounce me in alliterative adjectives, twenty-two syllables long, as a bloated oligarch, and swear that the Cambridge men are always killing bargees—it's their regular employment. The Saturday Review, hearing I come from Cambridge, and not Oxford, will discover that in my youth I once hit a little boy ten months my junior, and so, evidenced at an early age, symptoms of the sanguinary disposition that my manhood has borne the fruits of. I could bear all but one thing. The reports will describe me as “An interesting young man, evidently suffering from the effects of my long confinement,” and the judge will say he is sorry to see a person of my station in such a position. There will be a cast taken of my skull, and I shall figure in the “Chamber of Horrors” at Madame Tussaud's. Oh, Comte de Lorge—oh, Marat in the bath! I shall join you, and together we shall take—Enter Boodle, L. D.

Boodle.

(entering)Some fresh coffee, and—(seeing Charles) Eh? who's this?

(Charles, awfully embarrassed, bows rustically, not knowing what to do. Boodle.

What's your business here? who are you?

Charles.

I'm your—I—(aside) I mustn't tell him I'm his brother-in-law—it might hurt his dignity.

Boodle.

(sitting at table)Are you deaf, my man? Didn't you hear me speak to you?

Charles.

(aside)Deaf! a good idea! (takes no notice of him)

Boodle.

(getting angry, and walking up to him)What do you want here?

Charles.

Eh?(assuming stupidity and rustic dialect, and putting his hand to his ear after the manner of a deaf person.

Boodle.

Oh, he is deaf! I thought so.

Hannah enters with coffee, &c. L.—looks at Charles, who avoids her gaze. Han.

Well, I didn't see that racapelt come in. Exit, L.

Boodle.

Now, what's your business, my good man? (Charles puts his hand to his ear—shouting) What do you want?

Charles.

Quite well, sur, thank'ee—hope you're the same?

Boodle.

Stupid, deaf dunderhead. (shouting) What brought you here?

Charles.

(wiping his mouth)Beer! ees, thank'ee, sur!

Boodle.

No, no! (shouting violently) What—brings— you—here?

Charles.

(aside)What the devil shall I say? (turns round and sees pheasants on table, takes them up unseen, and offers them to Boodle) Mas'r's comp'ments, sur, and send you them birds, with many happy returns of the day!

Boodle.

(taking them)Oh, very kind, I'm sure—fine birds. Who is your master? (Charles repeats action with the hand—louder) Who—is—your—master?

Charles.

Couldn't come no faster, sur, 'cos missus made me stop to feed pigs.

Boodle.

The fellow will make me break a blood-vessel. (shouting) Who—is—your—master?

Charles.

Thank'ee, sir, she is quite well—sends her kind dooty, sir!

Boodle.

Phew! sit down, my man! (shouting) Sit down! (Boodle seats himself at table—Charley opposite him—Poodle pours out coffee—Charles is about to take it—Boodle sees him in chair) No, no—not sit down to breakfast!

Charles.

You're very kind, sur—had my breckstuff at six, but don't mind if I do have another!

Boodle.

No, no! (rises and places chair for him at a distance, then takes him and puts him in it) Now tell me, (sitting at table and taking coffee) Who is your master?

Charles.

(aside)What shall I say? (to Boodle) No, sir, didn't see him.

Boodle.

(out of patience)Who—sent—these—birds?

Charles.

A gent down the road, sir, don't know his name—at least, can't disactly remember it just now.

Boodle.

A gentleman down the road? what, at the white house?

Charles.

Yes, sir, he had on a white hat. Leastways, it were either a black 'un or a white 'un or some colour, I'm sewer.

Boodle.

Don't you know his name—what people call him?

Charles.

Not a very tall 'un, sir—about your size— about your size.

Boodle.

My size—white hat! Was it Mr. Fosbrooke?

Charles.

Fosbrooke was the name, sir! you've hit it.

Boodle.

At last!

Charles.

Mester Fosbrooke see me in the road, and he says to me, he says, “My man,” says he, he says, “I want you to go a harran' for me,” he says. I pulls off my 'at to a gent as is a gent, and my better, just as you would, you know, sir; and he says to me, “My man,” says he, he says, “do you know Mr. Boodle?” And I says to him, I says, “No, sur, I have not that pleasure,” I says—'cos I didn't then, you know, sir—you hadn't interdooced yourself to me then; “but,” I says, “I always heard that Mr. Boodle were a perfect gent, as would never let a poor man want a drop o' beer if so be he had it in his cellar, which he has,” I says. “Do you know Mr. Boodle's 'ouse,” he says to me—that's Squire Fosbrooke—says, you know, sir. “I do,” says I, as many is the time I've seen that noble gent a sittin' at his parler windy, which I have, sir, and your good missus too, likewise. “Can you take them 'ere birds to him,” he says, says he—that's Squire Fosbrooke, sir. I says, “I can, if so be your honour pays me for it.” With that he whips out a half-a-crown into my 'and, and he says he, “Go it while you're young,” or words to that effect—my hearing being bad, I cannot swear to. “Mind,” he says, says he, “this is for you yourself, and not to count what Squire Boodle himself may give you,” which he is known to be a princely chap with his brass, of which he has heaps, and good luck to him—not that I wish such a thing, sir—far be it from my thoughts, the lucre, sir, of gain—for Squire Fosbrooke—

Boodle.

(who during this has taken breakfast, and is awfully wearied by this long story) There, take that, (gives him money) and I'll write a few lines of thanks to Fosbrooke, which you shall carry, and—

Hannah enters, L. Han.

Please, sir, Sergeant Berlinns wants to see you.

Boodle.

Who?

Han.

Sergeant Berlinns, of the police, sir! (Charles, frightened, drops his money, &c.

Boodle.

Berlinns! what does he want?

Han.

Don't know, sir!

Boodle.

Say I'll be with him directly.

Han.

Yes, sir. Exit. L. D.

Boodle.

Wait here for a few minutes, my man. I want you to take back a note to Mr. Fosbrooke.

Charles.

(touches his hair, and holds out his hand)I'll take back anything, sir, as you gives me.

Boodle.

This deaf peason is mercenary. Exit, L. D.

Charles.

Boodle's brother-in-law doesn't appear to have made an agreeable impression on him.

Enter Mrs. Boodle, R. D. Mrs. B.

Oh, Charley, I heard it all.

Charles.

How?

Mrs. B.

Through the keyhole. You must get away as soon as possible. I've laid out one of my husband's evening suits—he'll miss that least, and a little overcoat. Go and put them on—I'm frightened to death.

Charles.

But your husband told me to stay to—

Mrs. B.

For heaven's sake, don't risk it. The Fosbrookes might call. Go and get dressed.

Charles.

But if—

Boodle.

(heard outside)How very dreadful! a murder! Charles bolts rapidly by door, R. D.

Mrs. B.

(sitting down)Oh, dear, dear, dear! This is the first secret I ever kept from my husband, and I feel it an awful weight upon my mind. I suppose I shall get used to it, though, as I get older. I never kept a secret in my life before, and this is a dreadful one, that—Oh, dear, my poor brother!

Enter Boodle, L. D. Boodle.

(speaking as he enters)I'll ride with you to the station, and—My dear, (to Mrs. Boodle) I shall be compelled to leave you this morning. Business—

Mrs. B.

What business?

Boodle.

County business, my dear—my business as a magistrate. An awful murder has been committed.

Mrs. B.

A murder—where?

Boodle.

Somewhere near Cambridge. (Mrs. Boodle starts) What's the matter, dear?

Mrs. B.

Nothing, love—only—a murder—in my throat!

Boodle.

A murder!

Mrs. B.

No, I mean—a—you know what I mean.

Boodle.

Not precisely. (looking round) But where is Fosbrooke's man?

Mrs. B.

Whose man?

Boodle.

Fosbrooke's. He brought these birds. (shows them) I told him to wait here.

Mrs. B.

Did you? I don't know. Perhaps he has gone down stairs.

Boodle.

But I told him to—

Mrs. B.

Do tell me about this murder. You know how fond I am of murderers!

Boodle.

Eh?

Mrs. B.

I mean of hearing about murders. Where was it?

Boodle.

Near Cambridge. A bargeman was found in a field by some other bargemen, dead. His death is supposed to have been caused by the effects of a violent blow, received, perhaps, in a fight. The coroner's jury have returned a verdict of “Wilful murder against some person or persons unknown.”

Mrs. B.

Unknown!

Boodle.

At present! but we shall soon find 'em out.

Mrs. B.

Shall you, dear?

Boodle.

I hope so, don't you, love?

Mrs. B.

Oh, certainly I do!

Boodle.

We have a clue already!

Mrs. B.

Have you? What is it?

Boodle.

Well, I don't know if I'm justified in telling you, but (laughing) I don't see why not. You are not likely to help the ruffian to escape.

Mrs. B.

How do you know that? Perhaps I am.

Boodle.

Ha, ha, ha, ha! Not you! Ha, ha! I should like to see you aiding in the escape of a felon—that would be funny. I, your husband, a magistrate, and you—

Mrs. B.

Worming into your confidence for the purpose of betraying it.

Boodle.

Ha, ha! very good!

Mrs. B.

But suppose the criminal to be a friend—or say a relative of mine.

Boodle.

Which is also very unlikely. Ha, ha, ha!

Mrs. B.

But what is this clue?

Boodle.

(in a half whisper)It has come to the knowledge of the Cambridge police, that on the day of his death the bargeman was seen fighting with one or more of the students—undergraduates, I suppose, of the college.

Mrs. B.

Oh, how funny! (with great wretchedness)

Boodle.

One of them—a man of the name of Porkleton or Pickleton, or Pixie, or some such appellation, is now being watched.

Mrs. B.

Indeed! (yawns)

Boodle.

(half offended)I'm afraid, my dear, that these details don't interest you.

Mrs. B.

(with apparent unconcern)Oh yes, they do, powerfully. Go on, dear!

Boodle.

Pumpkinleg is known to have been seen rowing in a boat with some other undergrads, and—

Mrs. B.

I beg pardon, dear, under where was he rowing?

Boodle.

Grad—undergraduate, you know, near to the place where the body was found.

Mrs. B.

Was it found in the water, then?

Boodle.

No, but by the river side. You see, it's not easy to get over the county magistracy and the police.

Mrs. B.

No, it would take a cleverer head than mine to do that, wouldn't it, dear? (smoothing his hair)

Boodle.

Iss, my darling! (playing pretty)

Mrs. B.

But the other man—the man who—

Boodle.

My dear, we are on his track. (cautiously)

Mrs. B.

Are you?

Boodle.

We suppose he is not very far from us. What is the matter, Mary?

Mrs. B.

A—coroner's jury—in my side.

Boodle.

A what?

Mrs. B.

I mean a—you know what I mean! Have you got a description of his person—I mean of his appearance, and—

Boodle.

No, but—(a knock heard at L. D.—Mrs. Boodle starts) Good gracious! come in! Mary, what is the matter?

L. D. opens, Sergeant Berlinns stands on the threshold. Mrs. B.

A—a policeman—in—my—door, eh?

Boodle.

A what?

Mrs. B.

It's my nerves—you know what I mean?

Boodle.

Well, Berlinns, have you taken some refreshment?

Serg.

I am, your worship!

Boodle.

Shall we go down to the station, together?

Serg.

If your worship pleases.

Boodle.

It looks like rain. I'll put on my other coat. (going towards R. D.

Mrs. B.

No, I'll fetch it for you, dear!

Boodle.

You're very kind, my love.

Mrs. B.

Nonsense, my dear!

Boodle.

To take all this trouble for me!

Mrs. B.

Perhaps I don't take it all for you.

Boodle.

Yes you do, I'm sure of that.

Mrs. B.

What clever creatures you men are! Exit R. D.

Boodle.

Berlinns!

Serg.

Your worship?

Boodle.

Did Major Griggs say he would meet me at the station?

Serg.

No, your worship!

Boodle.

Then I don't see why I should—never mind!

Enter Mrs. Boodle, R. with coat, which he puts on.

I shan't be gone long, dear!

Mrs. B.

Don't hurry back on my account.

Boodle.

You needn't be sarcastic, dear!

Mrs. B.

I'm not, love.

Boodle.

Good bye. Now, Berlinns!

Exeunt Boodle and Sergeant, L. D. Mrs. B.

(sinking in chair)How easy deception becomes, when you once begin it. I'm afraid I've a great talent for wickedness. A week of this would kill me!

Enter Charles, in evening dress, R.—a light overcoat of drab or pearl, or some such colour—hat in his hand, his face clean, his hair brushed, presenting altogether a faultless get up, and the most complete alteration from his former appearance. Mrs. B.

Oh, my Charley! Boodle has heard the news of your fatal fight, and is positively going to assist in discovering you.

Charles.

No!

Mrs. B.

Yes! the policeman's been here, and—

Charles.

But does he know I'm your brother?

Mrs. B.

No: the name of the assassin—

Charles.

Polly!

Mrs. B.

I mean the murderer—

Charles.

Polly!

Mrs. B.

I mean—the—the—delinquent, is not yet known.

Charles.

Thank goodness!

Mrs. B.

Boodle has gone to the station to telegraph to the police office at Cambridge.

Charles.

How kind of him! It seems I've run into the lion's jaws!

Mrs. B.

So, my dear brother, you must get away from this place at once. Go now while my husband is away. Stay! I have a few sovereigns—you shall have them—they will assist you; and I've a ring or two, and some other trinkets, and—(bursting into tears, and embracing him) Oh, Charley—Charley!

Charles.

Don't, Polly! don't give way—you—you— demoralise my nerves.

Mrs. B.

I won't be a minute. You must leave me directly. Exit R. D.

Charles.

To think that my sister should ever be aiding and abetting in the escape of a sentenced felon—no, not sentenced. I haven't been tried yet—I must be caught before I'm tried. I wonder if that poor fellow had a wife and children. Of course he had. What bargee was ever without? And I've robbed a wife of her husband, and a dozen children of their father. It's horrible to contemplate! I wish I couldn't think of it! I wish I couldn't think at all! I wish—

Re-enter Mrs. Boodle with portmonnie, &c. R. Mrs. B.

Here, Charley—there's twelve pounds ten, and some silver, and these. (giving him small parcel) Now, dear boy—go, go, at once!

Charles.

Bless you, Polly. I'll cross the country to Yarmouth, and—

Mrs. B.

Don't delay an instant. Every moment is precious—there! (hugs him) Bless you, and good-bye!

Charles.

Good-bye, Polly! (affected) Good-bye!

He is going off, L. D.—as he opens it, Boodle appears— he does not see Mrs. Boodle, who hides behind the door —Charles confused. Boodle.

(seing a stranger)Good morning, Mr.—

Charles.

Good—(aside) Trapped again!(Boodle advances—Mrs. Boodle indicates that she has lost all hope, and goes off, unseen by Boodle, L. D.

Boodle.

I've sent Berlinns with the telegram. No use my going down to the station with it. (to Charles) Did you wish to see me, sir?

Charles.

(aside)No, indeed, I did not. How ever shall I get out of this?

(backs, bowing to Boodle, till he sits on the piano, which is open. Boodle.

Mind the piano! May I inquire in what way I can be of service to you?

Charles.

(seizing the idea, and assuming an Italian accent)I—I—signor—I—a—come—to—toon—a—the— p—i—ano!

Boodle.

Tune the piano! why, I wasn't aware that it was out of tune!

Charles.

Ah—si—I—the belle dame—the signora— madame send for me. (sounds notes)

Boodle.

Mrs. Boodle—did she? I wasn't aware of it. What may your name be, sir?

Charles.

My name—ah! (aside) What is my name? My name—Signor Grisi Mario Tagliafico Ronconi. (sounds notes, &c.

Boodle.

I suppose you come from the neighbouring town?

Charles.

Yes, signor, I come from—from—(aside) what's the name of the neighbouring town?—si, signor, I come from there—ah! parlate Italiano, signor—you speak —a—Italiano?

Boodle.

No, I do not!

Charles.

(aside) That's lucky! (to him) Ah, pity! Volti subito, diminuendo e crescendo!

Boodle.

I say I don't speak Italian. (aside) This is rather odd. (aloud) I wasn't aware that there was a piano-forte tuner at Peddlethorpe!

Charles.

No, I only just arrive there—I have only just set up in the business. Animato con spirito e sostenuto andantino. (strikes chords, &c.)

Boodle.

I repeat, sir, I don't understand Italian! but there's the instrument, put it to rights, since it appears it wants it—though Mrs. Boodle said nothing to me about sending for you. How did she know you were in Peddlethorpe?

Charles.

I not know! (aside) True, I dont! Colla voce rallentando ma mon e troppo.

Boodle.

(aside)It's my opinion that this fellow is an impostor—I'll try him. (aloud) I observe, signor, that you have a new system of tuning.

Charles.

Ah, yes, very—moderato, ritardimento, mezzo soprano.

Boodle.

Quite superior to the old one.

Charles.

Oh—si—ah! Che la morte! cosi fan tutti. Fra poco, largo al factotum!

Boodle.

Folks used to tune a piano with a key.

Charles.

(aside)Ah, I forgot the key.

Boodle.

But you don't use one!

Charles.

Ah, non, I adop the latest improvements! Ah non giunge! suoni la troubi, bravo, bravo Dulcamara— I see you not understand music—a?

Boodle.

What note's that? (pointing to one)

Charles.

That?

Boodle.

A? why that's E.

Charles.

E, oh yes, E—that is E in a general way, but not in ze bass cliff. Puritani, I Martyri! Nozze de Figaro, Parigi, o cara! I see you not understan music, a? (turns round and thrums at piano—Boodle looks at the coat, and recognizes it)

Boodle.

Why hang me if he hasn't got my coat on— yes, it is my coat! (takes up hat which Charles has left on chair, and looks inside it, unseen by Charles, who is occupied with the piano) And my hat! (puts it on) It is my hat. He's one of the swell mob. Berlinns can't be far down the road—I'll catch this spark. (going up to Charles, and tapping him on the shoulder—Charles frightened, rises and advances) Sir, a word with you!

(Charles bows, and takes out pocket handkerchief from his coat pocket, with it the portmonnie and paper full of rings, which Charles crammed into his coat pocket when Boodle appeared, drop on to the floor) Boodle.

Eh? (picking them up)

Charles.

Mine, signor—pardon! (taking them) La cia darem la meno—una voce poca fa—non pia mesta.

Boodle.

(aside)My wife's portmonnie and rings—ah, there's no doubt—perhaps he has a revolver in his pocket —I must be cautious—I' gllallop after Berlinus. (to Charles with great politeness) Signor—

Charles.

Rubini Gardoni Piccolomini Giuglini.

Boodle.

(aside) Another name—there's no doubt of it. (aloud) May I offer you some luncheon?

Charles.

Ah, tank you, Signor, mooch oblige—molto obligato, Azucena, Trovatore, Leonora.

Boodle.

Excuse me for a moment, and (aside) I'll give you in custody. They bow very politely—Boodle exits, L. D.

Charles.

Ha, ha! I've humbugged my respected brother-in-law finely. 'Pon my word my versatility at polyphony, beats Mr. Woodin! He actually thinks I am a veritable pianoforte tuner—that was an unlucky hit about the key though—but I found a hole—a keyhole to creep out of. (door L. is heard to lock outside) Eh? why he's locked the door! what does that mean? (looking from window) It's not usual to lock the door during luncheon! Eh? why there he goes galloping down the road! what the deuce—I don't feel comfortable. Why should he lock up an Italian in this singular way? does he think he's at Naples? (Mrs. Boodle shakes door L., from outside)

Mrs. B.

Charley, Charley!

Charles.

Yes, dear!

Mrs. B.

My husband's locked the door!

Charles.

Well, I know that!

Mrs. B.

He says you're a thief!

Charles.

What?

Mrs. B.

He recognised his coat and my portmonnaie, and things, and has gone for a policeman.

Charles.

Go on, go on, go on! Here's a climax! My brother-in-law's a Justice of Peace and arrests me. I've an uncle a judge, p'raps he'll try me—his brother's a barrister, p'raps he'll prosecute me—if the jury were composed of cousins, it would be all in the family. (looking from window) Here comes my amiable kinsman and a policeman, both on the same horse, like Knight-Templars.

Mrs. B.

(outside)Charley, Charley, they're coming!

Charles.

Where shall I go? What shall I do?

Mrs. B.

Hide, hide—for Heaven's sake!

Charles.

Where—in your room?

Mrs. B.

They're sure to look there!

Charles.

Shall I get out of the window?

Mrs. B.

They'll see you! Ah! they're at the door! I must go! My poor brother! (her voice is heard to die away)

Charles.

(listening at keyhole)They're mounting the stairs—my amiable brother-in-law and a policeman— there's no mistaking a policeman's tread—It's sui generis. Where shall I go—eh? (sees chimney—runs, gets up it— his legs disappearing as the door L. is heard to unlock, and Boodle and Berlinns rush in)

Boodle.

Seize him! seize him!

Serg.

(looking round, under table, &c.)I don't sees him, your worship!

Boodle.

Where is he gone? Berlinns, you are an active and intelligent officer—where is he gone?

Serg.

(after reflection) Somewhere, your worship.

Boodle.

What course had we best adopt?

Serg.

Well, sir, I think I had better surround the house, and see that he don't get out of none of the windows.

Boodle.

Berlinus, you are an active and intelligent officer, and I'll take care that your conduct is properly represented in the proper quarter. Go and surround the house immediately.

Serg.

And take the prisoner into custody?

Boodle.

If you catch him—but if you don't catch him—

Serg.

Don't take him into custody—I won't your worship. Exit Sergeant Berlinns, L. D.

Boodle.

Phew! I declare I'm quite hot. I haven't been so excited since the day that I put down the prize fight between the Patagonian Picaninny and the Rough 'un Tough 'un. If I catch cold upon this extreme heat I shall have the rheumatism, I know I shall. (rings bell) One cannot be too careful.

Enter Hannah, L.

Hannah, bring me my dressing jacket. Stop—first light the fire.

(Boodle sits down—Hannah lights a match and is about to light the fire, when Charley screams out “Don't light the fire!” and falls down the chimney, his back towards the Audience—Boodle rises and Hannah screams, and runs off, L. D. leaving it open —Charles has a hankerchief over his face, which has preserved it from the soot, but the rest of him is quite black—his hair, his overcoat, &c. (This should be effected by having a shirt front, collar, &c., and a coat made of the same pattern of black linen or calico, black wig, &c.)—the handkerchief is quite black outside. Boodle.

Who are you?

Charles.

(assuming the tone)Sweep! Sw-e-e-e-e-p!

Boodle.

Sweep! Why, 'twas only last month we had the sweeps. (seeing Charles's face) Ah! the Italian convict! (shouting from window) Berlinns! Berlinns! he's here! (standing before door, L.) You don't leave this room!

Charles.

There's no help for it! I began by murder, and I must finish with fratricide. (swings Boodle to R. who falls, calling out loudly for “Police”—Charles is rushing off L. D. when Mrs. Boodle prevents him—she has a telegram in her hand)

Mrs. B.

Charley dear, Charley, you're all right— read!

Charles.

(takes telegram and reads)“Happy to say bargee recovered—curious case of suspended animation— doing well—expected to be out of bed in a week.” Huzza! huzza! my dear Polly! (embraces her—she turns to Audience and her dress appears much blackened from the soot—some pieces of glaze calico have been affixed before her entrance.)

Boodle.

(on ground)Hollo! hollo! the Italian convict kissing Mrs. Boodle! (rising) Hold sir! (seizing Charles) Are you a musician, or a libertine? (solemnly)

Charles.

'Pon my word I don't know—I've been so many things lately, that I'm not quite clear what I am.

Mrs. B.

But as I know who you are, allow me to introduce him; my dear—this is my brother Charley of whom you have so often heard me speak. Charles—Mr. Boodle.

Charles.

Most happy to—(shaking hands) Never mind the soot, it's from your own chimney.

Boodle.

Your brother? Dear me! but why—

Mrs. B.

He ran here to escape from the consequences of killing a bargeman in a fight at Cambridge.

Boodle.

What, is he the—

Charles.

Yes, sir, I am the—

Boodle.

My dear brother-in-law, I am delighted to be introduced to you, (shaking his hand) for it now becomes my painful duty to arrest you for wilful murder!

Charles.

My dear sir, I'm delighted to make your acquaintance under such auspicious circumstances. There sir, I have just received that—sent by my friend Pluxie to my sister here. You see the man I assassinated is living. It's a case of singular tenacity in the life of a bargee. (giving telegram)

Boodle.

But I can't accept this as evidence.

Enter Hannah with telegram, L. D. Han.

(looking at Charles with awful alarm)The little boy, sir, from the telescope. Charles looks round—she runs off, L. D.

Boodle.

(after reading)My dear Charles, your hand— the man breathes again.

Charles.

And so do I!

Enter Sergeant Berlinns hurriedly, L. D. Serg.

Where is he, sir? Where is he? Oh, I've got you here! I take you into custody! (seizes Charles) I've got him, sir—I've got him!

Boodle.

(assuming an air of wonder)Got who?

Serg.

The thief, sir—the—

Boodle.

Why, this gentleman is my brother-in-law, and most particular friend. What thief do you mean, Berlinns?—you're drunk.

Serg.

(chapfallen) Your worship!

Boodle.

Berlinns, I thought you an active and intelligent officer, above all a sober one—a credit to the useful and efficient force to which you belong—I am sorry to say I have been deceived in you.

Serg.

Your worship!

Boodle.

You're very drunk!

Hannah enters L. D. Charles.

So early in the morning, too! I'm ashamed of you!

Serg.

Why, your worship told me that a thief as had—

Boodle.

Berlinns, I will not bandy words with you in the state that you are in at present. To-morrow when you are sober I will talk to you. Now go into the kitchen!

Serg.

The kitch—(very indignant)

(Hannah touches his elbow, and smiles at him—his features relax—Hannah exits coquetishly, L. D.— Berlinns follows her, his face beaming with satisfaction. Charles.

Huzza! Virtue is trumphant, and villany defeated!

Boodle.

Can I do anything for you?

Charles.

Yes, order me a bath. Stop, there's your handkerchief. (returning it, black with soot)

Mrs. B.

A bath? Shall you want nothing else?

Charles.

Now that bargee's ghost no longer haunts me, nothing. (remembering) Oh, yes—one thing, your kind indulgence (to Audience) for the Cantab.

R. Boodle. Charles. Mrs. Boodle. L.