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When this letter reaches you I will be on the high seas, and I am never coming back. So write 'Finis' in the big old ledger of miseries, and shut up shop, for the Exchange is closed--forever.
Yours in disgust, THE JUDGE."
[_They all stand dazed a moment. The_ VAIN WOMAN, _sensing that something terrible has happened, rushes from one to the other, saying: "What is it? What has happened?"_ IMP _gives her the letter to read_.
FORMER POOR MAN. [_In a perfect frenzy._] My G.o.d! Indigestion all the rest of my days.
VAIN WOMAN. [_After reading letter collapses in a chair, hysterically sobbing out._] Deaf, always deaf! Oh, what shall I do!
FORMER RICH CITIZEN. [_Leaning heavily on his crutch and shaking his free hand, clenched in anger._] This is an outrage. I am rich and have influence, and I shall take steps to--to----
[IMP _laughs mockingly. The man looks down at his milk-spattered clothes, his bandaged foot, and, letting his crutch fall to the floor, sinks dejectedly into a chair, burying his face in his hands._
[IMP _dangles his keys and opens the street-door, as an invitation for them to go. The_ FORMER POOR MAN _is the first to start, moving dazedly and breathing hard_. IMP _offers him the bottle of indigestion tablets; the man grasps them, eagerly, tipping_ IMP, _who chuckles as he pockets the money. The_ FORMER POOR MAN _takes a tablet as he exits. The_ VAIN WOMAN, _bowed with sorrow, moves slowly toward the door_. IMP _touches her arm and offers the ear-trumpet. She accepts it, with a wild sob, tipping_ IMP, _who again chuckles as he pockets the money. The last we see of the_ VAIN WOMAN, _she is trying to hold the ear-trumpet to her ear, and exits, sobbing. The_ FORMER RICH CITIZEN _still sits in his chair, his head in his hands_. IMP _picks up the milk-can, and, tapping the man not too gently on the shoulder, thrusts the milk-can at him and makes a significant gesture, indicative of_--THIS WAY OUT. _The man rises dejectedly, picks up his crutch, takes the milk-can, and hobbles painfully toward the door._ IMP _doubles himself up in wild Mephistophelian glee as the_
CURTAIN FALLS
SAM AVERAGE
BY
PERCY MACKAYE
_Sam Average_ is reprinted by special permission of Percy Mackaye. This play first appeared in _Yankee Fantasies_, Duffield & Company, New York.
_Special Notice_
No public or private performance of this play--professional or amateur--and no public reading of it for money may be given without the written permission of the author and the payment of royalty. Persons who desire to obtain such permission should communicate direct with the author at his address, Harvard Club, 27 West 44th Street, New York City.
PERCY MACKAYE
Percy Mackaye, who was born in New York City in 1875, is one of the few Americans whose interest has been almost wholly in the theatre. As a lecturer, writer, and champion of real art in drama, he has had few if any equals. He inherited his interest in drama from his father, Steele Mackaye, author of _Hazel Kirke_. He was educated at Harvard, where he studied under Professor George Pierce Baker, and at Leipzig. He has travelled extensively in Europe and at various times has resided in Rome, Switzerland, and London. In 1914 Dartmouth conferred upon him the honorary Master of Arts degree. At present he holds a fellows.h.i.+p in dramatic literature in Miami University, Oxford, Ohio.
Mr. Mackaye's efforts in the dramatic field have been varied. Masques, pageants, operas, and plays are to his credit. _The Canterbury Pilgrims_, _The Scarecrow_, _Jeanne D'Arc_, _Mater_, _Anti-Matrimony_, _Sanctuary_, _Saint Louis Masque_, and _Caliban_ are among his better-known works.
In 1912 appeared his Yankee Fantasies, of which _Sam Average_ and _Gettysburg_ are the more noteworthy.
In all of Mr. Mackaye's work he possesses what many dramatists lack--a definite ideal. He aims at an artistic and literary effect. His _Sam Average_ is a real contribution to American patriotic drama.
CHARACTERS
ANDREW JOEL ELLEN SAM AVERAGE
SAM AVERAGE[D]
_An intrenchment in Canada, near Niagara Falls, in the year 1814.
Night, shortly before dawn._
_On the right, the dull glow of a smouldering wood fire ruddies the earthen embankment, the low-stretched outline of which forms, with darkness, the scenic background._
_Near the centre, left, against the dark, a flag with stars floats from its standard._
_Beside the fire_, ANDREW, _reclined, gazes at a small frame in his hand; near him is a knapsack, with contents emptied beside it_.
_On the embankment_, JOEL, _with a gun, paces back and forth, a blanket thrown about his shoulders_.
JOEL. [_With a singing call._] Four o'clock!--All's well!
[_Jumping down from the embankment, he approaches the fire._
ANDREW. By G.o.d, Joel, it's bitter.
JOEL. [_Rubbing his hands over the coals._] A mite sharpish.
ANDREW. [_Looks up eagerly._] What?
JOEL. Cuts sharp, for Thanksgivin'.
ANDREW. [_Sinks back, gloomily._] Oh! [_A pause._] I wondered you should agree with me. You meant the weather. I meant--[_A pause again._
JOEL. Well, Andy, what'd you mean?
ANDREW. Life.
JOEL. Shucks!
ANDREW. [_To himself._] Living!
JOEL. [_Sauntering over left, listens._] Hear a rooster crow?
ANDREW. No. What are you doing?
JOEL. Tiltin' the flag over crooked in the dirt. That's our signal.
ANDREW. Nothing could be more appropriate, unless we buried it--buried it in the dirt!
JOEL. She's to find us where the flag's turned down. I fixed that with the sergeant all right. The rooster crowin' 's _her_ watchword for us.
ANDREW. An eagle screaming, Joel: that would have been better.
[_Rising._] Ah! [_He laughs painfully._
