SCENE.—Any plain interior will serve. Entrances R.
and L. Table up C. May be furnished, if preferred, as
a country hotel office, with table C., counter up L., with
ink-bottle and pen, and bell. Posters on walls advertising
county fairs and circuses, sales of stock, etc. A few old
wooden armchairs scattered about.
(Curtain rises on empty stage. After a slight pause enter
Miss Calcium, R.)
Miss C. Well, this place is well named. It’s the Quiet
Hotel, all right. It ought to be a fine rest cure for my
tired nerves. (Calls musically.) Hello! (Listens.) My,
just hear that echo! (Calls again.) Hello! Hello! No
answer. I never before saw a house so completely full of
emptiness. (Calls.) Landlord! Clerk! Bell-boy! Telephone
operator! Waiter! Chambermaid!
(Each time she calls she raps on counter or floor with
umbrella.)
(Enter Susan, L., leisurely, with hands in apron pockets.)
Susan. Oh, good-morning! Er—were you looking for
any one?
Miss C. (loudly). Looking for—— Say, is this really
a hotel?
Susan. Certainly. A little less noise, please. We’re
not used to it.
Miss C. Oh, indeed. And who are you, please?
Susan. Who, me? Oh, I’m it.
Miss C. It?
Susan. Sure. The main squeeze, the high guy, the
whole works; in fact, I’m the hotel.
Miss C. I don’t understand. You——
Susan. Why, I’m understudy for the landlord, that’s
all, and incidentally I’m clerk, bookkeeper, chambermaid,
manicure, stenographer, head cook and bottle washer. In
fact, I’m the whole force, except the porter.
Miss C. (dazed). Oh, except the porter. I see. So
you are in full charge of the hotel?
Susan. Am I! If I quit the place it will have to close
up and move to (name near-by town).
Miss C. You must be a very important person in this
hotel.
Susan (calmly). I am. I own it.
Miss C. (surprised). You own it?
(Enter Rubber-Neck, R. He sneaks with exaggerated
quietness toward the suit-case which is behind Miss C.
She does not see him. As he is about to snatch it Susan
frowns and shakes her head at him, and he hastily retreats
to door R. His head, however, remains in sight,
and he keeps his eye on the suit-case.)
Susan. Yes. You see they owed me so much in wages
it was cheaper to just give me the hotel than to pay up in
cash.
Miss C. Well, you’re lucky. (Looks about.) It looks
like a fine place.
Susan. Best in the country. You get three meals a day
here, and at each meal four kinds of meat—ram, lamb,
sheep and mutton.
Miss C. But I don’t like mutton.
Susan (firmly). Now don’t tell me what you like or
what you don’t like. You like meals, don’t you?
Miss C. Certainly, but——
Susan. Well, that’s what you get here—meals, just
plain meals.
Miss C. I don’t think I’ll like it here. When is the
next train?
Susan. The next train just left.
(Rubber makes another quiet dive for the bag, but Susan
shakes her head and he scrambles back to door R.)
Miss C. What were you doing when I came in?
Susan. Oh, just sweeping down the halls and stairs,
making the beds, checking up the accounts, doing up my
hair, shifting two bureaus, setting the dining-room tables,
and making an apple pie.
Miss C. Oh, is that all?
Susan. Yep—nothing to do till to-morrow. This is a
very quiet, restful place.
Miss C. Well, I guess I’ll try it. The doctor has
ordered me to take a rest for a week.
Susan. A week, eh? I suppose you have lots of
money?
Miss C. Well, no. You see, I’m an actress, and I’ve
just closed one engagement and am waiting now for another.
Susan. Humph! Then you’re out of a job?
Miss C. Er—yes, temporarily. What are your rates?
Won’t you call the porter and have him take my bag to a
room?
(Rubber starts toward bag again hopefully, but Susan
checks him with a gesture.)
Susan. Well, I—— What have you got in the bag?
Miss C. That bag contains my wardrobe.
(Rubber disappears.)
Susan. Well, I guess you can stay one day on that
baggage if you pay in advance. (Taps bell and calls off
R. and L.) Porter! Porter! Ain’t the help something
awful nowadays? You can’t never depend on them.
Porter!
Rubber (rushing in R. all out of breath). Yas’m, yas’m.
Here I is.
Susan (severely). Where were you? What do you
mean by keeping this lady waiting?
Rubber. Well, I was jest out to the gay-rage, fixin’ up
the limousine, an’——
Susan (loftily). Well, you know I prefer the electric
runabout in the afternoons. Show the lady up to Room 948.
Rubber. Yas’m. (Scratches head doubtfully.) You
said Room 948?
Susan. Yes, and be quick about it.
(Rubber starts L. with bag, but returns.)
Rubber. Yas’m. Excuse me—but is that de back room
or de front room?
Miss C. Oh, any room will suit me. We actresses have
to get used to all sorts of accommodations.
Rubber (setting bag down L.) Oh, is you an actress?
Susan. Certainly she’s an actress. She’s played in
Uncle Tom’s Cabin, haven’t you, Miss—Miss——
Miss C. Miss Calcium. I’d better sign the register.
(Goes to counter and writes in book.) Yes, I’ve played
Topsy and Little Eva. And I’ve supported John Drew.
Rubber. Oh, my, oh, my, she supported John Drew.
I’m goin’ to tell his wife.
Susan. She means on the stage, stupid. You’re a
blockhead.
Rubber. Guess I is. Every time I brush my hair I gets
my fingers full of splinters. So you is an actress?
(Walks around her admiringly.)
Miss C. Certainly.
Rubber. Well, I’m certainly pleased to meet you. I
was on the stage once.
Miss C. Oh, were you? Then we are fellow Thespians.
Rubber (uncertainly). Yas’m, I guess so. What secret
society is dat?
Miss C. Thespians—actors, you know. How long were
you on the stage?
Rubber. About twelve hours a day.
Miss C. Twelve hours a day! You ought to belong to
the Actors’ Union. Where was it?
Rubber. Oh, right heah, right heah. I drove the stage
from heah to (name small town).
Miss C. (laughing). Oh, I see.
Rubber. My, it’s certainly been de dream of my life to
meet an actress. (Poses.) I’ve always thought I’d be an
actor.
Susan. You’d be a bad actor. You couldn’t do it.
You need talent to be an actor.
Rubber. No, all you need is cheek. I got lots of
cheek. And then, look at my shape. (Poses.) I’m goin’
to join a show de first chance I get.
Susan. No you don’t, Rubber; no you don’t. I need
you right here in the hotel.
Rubber. Well, I made up my mind I’m goin’ to do it.
Susan. Well, then, I’ll have to confess. I’m an actress
myself. I’ve been taking a course in the Theatrical Correspondence
School.
Miss C. (laughing). Oh, dear! What could you do
on the stage?
Susan. Walk on and make a bluff at it—the way I see
lots of them do at (name local theatre).
Rubber. And put on lots of paint.
Miss C. I never paint.
Susan. Neither do I. I belong to the Kalsominers’
Union. If you paint you can’t fool a woman for half a
minute, but you can fool almost any man for nearly two
minutes.
Miss C. Well, I’m thankful to say there’s nothing false
about me.
Susan. Is that your own hair?
Miss C. Yes, every curl and puff.
Susan. How much did you pay for it?
Miss C. Nature gave it to me. I have only to pull out
a few hairpins and it falls down to my knees.
Rubber. If you’d pull ’em all out it would fall down to
the floor.
Miss C. You’re a rude person. But we actresses have
to meet all kinds.
Rubber. Oh, my! I guess I better apologize. If I said
anything I should be sorry for I’m glad of it.
Susan. You must excuse him. He never had any
bringing up. Where was your father born?
Rubber. In San Francisco.
Susan. And your mother?
Rubber. In Boston.
Susan. Well, that accounts for it.
Rubber. For what?
Susan. Your Chicago accent.
Rubber. Now, don’t go springing jokes like that
on me.
Miss C. Oh, you’ll hear jokes a good deal worse than
that when you get on the stage. So you both want to act,
do you?
Susan. I’m crazy about it.
Rubber (strutting around). Just try me, dat’s all. I’m
willin’ to play anythin’ from Hamlet to pinochle.
Miss C. (thoughtfully). Well, I have been thinking lately
of forming a little vaudeville company.
Susan (edging up close to her, ecstatically). Yes, yes—go
on.
Rubber (edging up on the other side). Uh-huh! Go
on, gal, I’m a-listenin’.
Miss C. And you’re sure you’d like acting?
(Slight pause. Miss C. slowly walks R. The others
stand L.)
Miss C. (suddenly). Ah, ha! There he stands—(pointing
to Rubber) the man who murdered my father——
Rubber (scared). Go ’way, woman, I don’t know your
father.
Miss C. (continuing rapidly and tragically). Then forced
open the safe and took the jewels and the money.
Rubber (dodging behind table badly scared). Now listen
at dat woman lyin’ about me. You can’t prove it.
Miss C. (turning on Susan). And you—you helped him
in his dastardly work. (Goes L.) You poisoned the child—muh—muh
poor little che-ild.
(She weeps. Susan retreats around table, but Rubber
pushes her away.)
Rubber. Go on away. Don’t you touch me. You
poisoned a kid. I always knew you was that kind of a
woman. My, ain’t you ashamed of yourself?
Miss C. (to both). Then you destroyed the will and set
fire to the house.
Susan. The woman’s crazy!
Rubber. Oh, let me out of here! Police! Fire!
Murder!
Miss C. (making a sudden movement toward Rubber).
Villain! Your time has come. Scoundrel—you cannot escape me.
(Makes a rush for the table. Rubber and Susan both dive
under it.)
Susan (under table). Oh, dear, I’m sorry I let her
stay.
Rubber (under table). She’s crazy as a June-bug—that’s
what she is. She’s sufferin’ with the heat.
Miss C. (laughing silently—then continuing in tragic
tone). I have tracked you at last. I am that old man’s
daughter.
Rubber. Say, lady, all the money I got’s in the pocket
of my other pants out in the stable. Won’t you take it and
leave here?
Miss C. Money! What do I care for money now!
The law could not reach you—but I will.
(She seizes Rubber and drags him from under the table,
and throws him L.; then pulls out Susan, crying, “You,
too,” and throws her R. They sit on floor, frightened.
Miss C. sits on table C., fanning herself.)
Rubber. Honest, lady, I never done it.
Susan (crying). Oh, please go—please go.
Miss C. (laughing). Well, how do you like acting
now?
Rubber (rising). Was that acting?
Susan (rising). You don’t mean it?
Miss C. Certainly. That is a scene from my great part
in “A Woman’s Secret; or, Foiled by Fate.”
Susan. And people paid real money to see that?
Miss C. Of course. We played to capacity houses for
weeks.
Rubber. Gee! (He picks up suit-case and runs out R.)
Susan. Well, if people are as easy as that I guess I can
get their money. What do you have to learn first?
Miss C. Well, the first thing is the voice. You must
have a good, strong voice to be an actor.
(Enter Rubber, R., swinging a lantern.)
Rubber (in a loud singsong voice mostly in one note).
Train—goin’ west! Buffalo—Cleveland—Chicago—Omaha—Denver—Salt Lake—Yellowstone
Park—Seattle—Tacoma—Alaska—and
all way stations!—Train—goin’—west!
Al-l-l-l aboard!
Miss C. (putting hands over ears). Mercy, his voice is
strong enough.
Rubber. I can do it louder. (Begins again, more
loudly.) Train goin’—east—Chicago——
Miss C. (hands over ears). That will do! I thought
this was a quiet hotel.
Susan (grabbing Rubber and stopping him). Cut it
out. We know you can do it.
Miss C. So you liked that acting, did you?
Susan. Show us how to do it and you can board here
for nothing.
Miss C. Well, that’s very bad acting. I’m not going to
do any more of it.
Rubber. Not on me, you won’t.
Miss C. But I’ll show you how to do the real thing.
When you’ve once begun, stick to it, and you’ll win. Persistent
effort—that’s the key to success.
Rubber. That’s me. Hard work’s my middle name.
Yas’m, I kin stick to it all right.
Miss C. Very well. I see—I see you both have talent,
and can stand hard knocks. (To Susan.) We’ll go into
vaudeville. You and I will do a sister act.
Rubber. Oh, won’t you let me be a sister to you?
Miss C. I’ll think about it. I’ll arrange a part for you
in a melodramatic sketch I have written. I call it “The
Special Train.”
Rubber (starting across stage calling as before). Train—goin’—north!
Nottingham—Newbury—Newport—Noblestown—Norwood—Nux
Vomica, and New York! All-l-l
aboard!
(Susan and Miss C. try to stop him.)
Miss C. Don’t do that again; do you hear?
Rubber. Yes’m. Tell me about dis “Special Train.”
Miss C. All the managers are crazy about it.
Rubber. If you stay here much longer I’ll be as crazy
as they are.
Miss C. Now this sketch is very simple and easily rehearsed.
Here are the railroad tracks.
(Points to floor. Rubber peers at floor, then taps his head.)
Rubber. She’s seeing things again!
Miss C. There is the ticket office! (Points R.)
Susan. That’s the barber shop.
Miss C. And I am—the villain!
Rubber. We know that.
Miss C. (to Rubber). I take you and tie you to the
railroad track.
Rubber. Good-night! (Starts R.)
Miss C. Wait a moment!
Rubber. No, ma’am! You are too dangerous for me.
Miss C. But no harm comes to you; for as the special
train comes dashing along——
Rubber (interrupting). Wait a minute! Wait a minute!
Maybe dat train don’t stop at dis station—then it’s
good-bye nigger for me!
Susan. Don’t be a coward! You can die but once.
Rubber. Well—once is enough for me! I don’t know
how to die. I ain’t had no practice.
Miss C. Then I will not call upon you to lie upon the
track—I will lie there myself.
Susan (heroically). And I will save you.
Rubber. And I’ll get the reward.
Miss C. Now, then, to business. I am tied to the track.
(To Rubber.) You’ll be the train. You go and get a
locomotive!
Rubber. Say! I done told you that woman ain’t
right. Where am I going to steal a locomotive?
Miss C. Oh, get a train of cars! Now don’t stand
there talking. Do as I tell you. Get the train! Get the
special train!
Susan (imitating). Get the train—get the special train.
Ask Willie for a train of cars.
Miss C. (pushing Rubber L.). Go on. Get the train.
Get the special train!
(Susan and Miss C. push Rubber off L. 2 E., as he protests.)
Susan (laughing). The idea! He doesn’t know where
to steal a little thing like a locomotive!
Miss C. Now to business! I lie here upon the tracks.
(Lies with head toward footlights.) When I scream for
help, you come and pull me off the tracks. Remember your
cue.
Susan. All right! (Runs up R. C.) What’s my cue?
Miss C. Save me—some one—save me!
Susan. All right. Save me—some one—save me!
Miss C. Ah! The train is coming at the rate of sixty
miles a second.
Susan (shouting). Save me—some one—save me!
Miss C. (sitting up). Wait until I say it. The special
train is coming at the rate of sixty miles a second. (Music
hurry. Whistle of train is heard in distance with noise of
train. See properties. The noise grows louder and nearer.
Miss C. screams.) Save me! Save me! Who will save
me? (Susan is hopping about, not knowing what to do,
and Miss C. repeats the cue several times, and then shouts
over the din.) Come on and save me! That’s your cue!
(Just as Susan is about to drag Miss C. from the supposed
tracks Rubber prances on from L. 2 E., with a small tin or
toy locomotive and cars to which a string is attached. He
is ringing a dinner-bell and blowing a whistle, which he
holds between his teeth. He goes across the stage making a
detour to avoid running over the others. At R. he pauses
and looks back at them, still ringing bell. Miss C. rises.)
Oh, dramatic art! What crimes are committed in thy
name! (To Rubber.) Stop ringing that bell. (She stands
C., Susan L. Rubber stops ringing and begins to blow
whistle.) Stop that whistling!
(Miss C. snatches whistle from Rubber.)
Rubber (grieved and surprised). Didn’t you done tole
me to stick to it, when I once begun?
Susan. Certainly she did.
Miss C. (laughing). Yes, I did, but——
Rubber. Well, I’m a-stickin’. (Rings bell.) And you
said this is the special train, didn’t you?
Miss C. Yes, but this is a quiet hotel, and——
Rubber (firmly). It’s goin’ to be still quieter. If you’re
goin’ you better git on. Al-l-l aboard—special way train
for the subway, the Great White Way and Broadway.
(Blows whistle.) Al-l-l aboard!
Susan. That’s it—that’s the way I’m going. No more
hotel for mine! (Dramatic gesture.) It’s me for the footlights.
Miss C. (C., with others either side of her). You’re
both all right. Hereafter we’re the Calcium Comedy Company,
Unlimited! We’ll take the Quiet Hotel to Broadway
and make a noise with it they can hear half-way to
San Francisco!—All-l-l aboard!
(The sketch may be ended with a song or other specialty if
preferred.)
CURTAIN
