Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays - LightNovelsOnl.com
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BUFFE [_to Bolling_]. Come over to the table; we are going to have wine.
[_Bolling stands up. They move his chair to the table. He sits again._]
HANSEN. Why are you so quiet, Bolling?
BOLLING. Everything there is to say has been said.
JOHNSTON. He's a smart man. [_Nods admiringly._]
HANSEN. Ha, ha, ha!
BOLLING [_suddenly to Krakau_]. What's that you are pouring?
KRAKAU. Sherry.
BOLLING [_angrily_]. I can't stand port wine.
KRAKAU. Yes, but this is sherry.
BOLLING. Port wine is poison.
HAMMER. But this is sherry.
BOLLING. Port wine is poison.
BUFFE. Yes, Bolling; but this is sherry; it won't hurt you.
BOLLING. Poison--port wine is.
JOHNSTON [_raising his gla.s.s._] Many happy returns!
HAMMER. Many future birthdays!
HANSEN. Happy ones!
BUFFE. Bolling, we are drinking to Helms.
BOLLING. It isn't port wine, is it?
BUFFE. No, indeed,--sherry.
BOLLING. I da'sn't drink port.
BUFFE. It's a toast to Helms.
BOLLING. Why?
BUFFE. He's eighty years old to-day.
BOLLING. I am ninety-two. That's nothing to be glad about.
[_All except Bolling raise their gla.s.ses. They utter cheery exclamations and drink._]
HELMS. Thanks; thank you!
BOLLING [_raising his gla.s.s_]. Congratulations, Helms. I hope you never get as old as me.
HAMMER [_angrily_]. That's no way to talk, Bolling.
HANSEN. He's spoiling the whole party.
BUFFE [_apologetically_]. Bolling's tired of living.
JOHNSTON. You're joking.
BUFFE. No; really he is. He wants to die.
JOHNSTON. Nonsense! How can any one _want_ to die? It's against human nature.
KRAKAU [_who has taken cigars from the cupboard_]. Who wants to smoke?
HANSEN [_with delight._] Cigars too!
[_Krakau pa.s.ses the cigars. Hansen, Hammer and Johnston each take one. The sun now s.h.i.+nes on the table and men._]
BUFFE. The sun is as red as wine.
HANSEN [_with a sigh_]. Autumn is coming.
HANSEN. We've had Autumn weather for two weeks past.
HELMS. Unseasonable weather! I hate it. [_During the entire scene he has been ill at ease, casting frequent apprehensive glances at Krakau, who avoids his gaze._]
BUFFE. It isn't like it used to be.
HAMMER. No. When the calendar said _Summer_ we _had_ Summer.
BOLLING [_apropos of nothing_]. I am ninety-two.
BUFFE [_explaining apologetically_]. He always says that. It's on his mind.
KRAKAU. I hear that the nurse downstairs is engaged to be married.
HANSEN. Yes, with the doctor.
JOHNSTON. The hospital doctor?
KRAKAU. Yes; he's a sick man himself.
