Delphi Complete Works of Stephen Leacock, page 183
And I think I begin to see, too, more in that Nut than I did at first. After all he has his points about him. Did you notice, in the movies the reckless way in which he left that pocketbook full of money on the leather seat? I wouldn’t do that. And did you observe how he gave the twenty dollar gold piece to the doorkeeper, and the way in which, on the steamer, even after they had him drugged, he tried to fight the three thugs all at once? That little Nut has a size to him that you and I haven’t got. And he and the Vampires are primitive elemental types and we aren’t and haven’t been for two thousand years. But there’s a faint survival in us of what we were that makes us admire them.
In anything that I have said I shouldn’t wish to disparage for a moment the splendid types of women that we see about us. It is fine to think of the progress that women have made in this last generation. Everywhere now we have women who vote. We have even women who are fit to hold office and take a seat upon a board. In fact I know a lot of them that I would be pleased to put on a board and leave there for years.
Oh no, I have nothing to say against the new women’s movement. I only mean that when it started I got left behind. I imagine that quite a lot of other men did, too.
The Raft: An Interlude
(THE KIND OF interlude that is sandwiched in for fifteen minutes between the dances in a musical revue.)
The curtain rises and the light comes on the stage slowly, gradually revealing a raft in the middle of the sea. The dawn is breaking. The raft has the stub of a mast sticking up on it and there is a chair on it and a litter of boxes and things.
On the raft is a man. He has on white flannel trousers, and a sky-blue flannel shirt, but no collar and tie.
He stands up and looks all around the horizon, his hand shading his eyes. He speaks in a sepulchral voice.
“Lost! Lost! Alone on the Caribbean Sea.” (In a more commonplace voice) “at least I think it’s the Caribbean. It looks Caribbean to me. Lost! And not a woman in sight. . . . I thought that in this kind of thing there is always a woman. Ha! Wait! There’s one!”
(He is much excited and gets a long spy-glass and shoots it in and out at different lengths searching the sea.)
“No! — it’s only seaweed. . . . Ba!”
(He goes and sits down on a chair and yawns.)
“I call this kind of thing dull! There’s really nothing to do.”
(He gets a box of shoe polish and starts to polish his shoes with a rag. Presently — )
“I think I’ll look around for a woman again. It really is the only thing to do, on a raft — or anywhere else.”
(He takes his spy-glass and looks again.)
“By Jove! Yes! yes! There’s one floating in the sea right there. Quick! Quick!”
(In great excitement he runs over to the mast, where a little looking-glass hangs and starts putting on a collar and tie, and brushing his hair in terrible haste. . . . He can’t find his collar-stud, etc., etc., and keeps muttering — )
“I must keep calm — a woman’s life depends on my getting this collar on.”
(He looks over his shoulder.)
“She’s floating nearer—”
(In the light of the rising sun the girl is now seen floating nearer and nearer.)
“ — and nearer — and she’s a peach. . . . I must save her! I must plunge in after her.”
(He stands in the attitude of a person about to dive into the sea, swinging his arms and counting.)
“One — two — three—” (nearly dives but checks himself and goes on) “four — five — SIX. . . . Ah, I forgot! I’ve no swimming costume. . . . Wait a bit, though!”
(He picks up off the raft a long, long pole with a hook on the end.)
“Ha!”
(The girl is quite near now. He hooks her on the pole and hauls her on to the raft. . . . She sinks down flat on it, inanimate, her eyes closed, her face to the audience.) (Note: the girl of course is not wet: that would only mess the act up.)
“What next? Ah, one moment.”
(He runs over to a little bookshelf that is stuck up on the top of the mast, takes out a book, sits down in a chair, and reads aloud very deliberately.)
“ ’Rules for re — for, re-sus — for resuscitating the Damned, — the Drowned: In resuscitating the drowned it must be remembered that not a moment must be lost.’ ”
(He settles himself more comfortably in his chair to get a better light to read by.)
“ ’Every minute is of vital — of vital’ — humph, I must get my eye glass.”
(He goes and hunts it up, polishes it and continues — )
“ ’Of vital importance. First, it is necessary to ascertain whether the heart is still beating.’ — Ah!”
(He gets of his chair and on to the floor of the raft on his toes and hands, makes the motions of attempting to put his ear close down on the girl’s heart, but keeps withdrawing it with sudden shyness.)
“Stop a bit.”
(He goes and gets a cardboard box and takes out a stethoscope so long that, still standing up, he fixes it to his ears and it reaches the girl’s body. He listens and counts, his head on one side and with an air of great absorption.)
“One.”
(A long pause.)
“One and a half.”
(Another pause.)
“One — eighty-five — right! She’s alive!”
(He gets his book again and reads.)
“ ’The strength of the circulation being different in the male and the female sex, the first thing to do if the victim is a woman is to rub her — to rub her—’ ”
(He finds it difficult to read, and says conclusively — )
“The first thing to do is to rubber. Oh, yes I see: Now where shall I begin? I’ll rub her hands.”
(He takes one of her hands and strokes it very slowly in long loving strokes. After a moment he plucks at the lace cuff at her wrist.)
“Ah, a laundry mark! her name! I must read. Her life hangs on it. ‘Edith Croydon!’ What a beautiful name!”
(He goes on stroking her hand.)
“It doesn’t seem to revive her. Oh, very well, there’s nothing for it.”
(He stands up with an air of great determination, and rolls hack his cuffs.)
“I must rub her legs.”
(The girl starts up.)
“Don’t you dare! You’re no gentleman!”
“Miss Croydon, you misunderstand my motives!”
(He walks away in a huff to the extreme end of the raft and stands with his back turned. The girl meantime runs to the mirror and starts doing her hair, etc.)
“And for the matter of that, I am a gentleman. You’ll find my card hanging there beside the mirror.”
(The girl picks down a large card that hangs beside the mirror and reads aloud.)
“HAROLD BORUS
Story Tale Adventurer
Rafts, Rescues and Other Specialities
Hairbreadth Escapes Shaved to Order.”
“Oh, Mr. Borus, I’m so sorry! Of course I know all about you — everybody does! I must apologize. Do come back on this part of the raft. Forgive me.”
(Borus, coming back, and taking her hand with emotion.)
“Miss Croydon, there is nothing to forgive! If I have saved your life, forget it. Let us never speak of it. Think of me not as a hero, but only as a man!”
“I will!”
“And meantime, please make yourself comfortable. Do take this chair. The entire raft, I need hardly say, is at your disposition. You’ll find the view from the east side most interesting.”
“Thank you so much.”
(They make themselves comfortable and intimate, she on the chair, he on the soapbox, with elaborate gestures of politeness.)
“And do tell me, Mr. Borus, how did you get here?”
“Very gladly. You won’t mind if I begin at the beginning?”
“Must you?”
“It’s usual. . . .”
“Oh, all right.”
“Well then—” (striking an attitude of recitation.)
“Little did I think—”
“No, I suppose not.”
“ — when I left Havana in a packet—”
“Oh, Mr. Borus, who put you in a packet?”
“ — in a packet-boat, that I should be wrecked on the dry Tortugas.”
(The Girl, clasping her hands with agitation.)
“The Dry Tortugas!! Oh, Mr. Borus, have the Tortugas gone dry?”
“We had hardly left when a great storm arose. . . . A monstrous wave carried away the bridge.”
“Good heavens!”
“We struggled on. A second wave carried away the rudder, the propeller, the wireless apparatus and the stethescope!!”
“Great heavens!”
“We struggled on. A third wave carried away the bar. It was at once decided to abandon the ship and lower the boats.”
(The Girl, perplexed.)
“But why?”
“To look for the bar. . . . In the confusion I was left behind. The storm subsided. I continued to make a raft out of a few loose iron beams fastened together by nuts.”
“Fastened by nuts, Mr. Borus, but I thought you were the only one left in the ship?”
“ — by nuts. This raft, Miss Croydon, cannot sink, it is all made of iron.”
“How splendid! And now let me tell you my adventures.”
“No, no, don’t trouble, please. You’re exhausted! Don’t — you might faint!”
“Looking back,” (The Girl goes on very dramatically) “it all seems a blank.”
(Borus very hurriedly.)
“All right, it’s a blank. It’s a blank. Let it go at that.”
“Mr. Borus, I think you’re terribly rude. You might let me tell my adventures!”
“Miss Croydon” (very seriously) “how many heroes are there in any story of adventure?”
“Only one.”
“Well, I’m it. You must be something else.”
(Miss Croydon pettishly.)
“I don’t want to be. All I know is that I’m cold and I’m hungry, and I don’t think that I’ll stay!”
“Cold! Hungry!!”
(He gets up and starts running round with animation, making preparations.)
“Cold! Ha! ha! I’ll soon have a fire for you!”
“A fire, Mr. Borus, how can you possibly start a fire?”
(Borus laughs.)
“A very simple matter, Miss Croydon, to a trained hero like myself.”
(He has picked up an empty pan and set it on a box.)
“I do it simply with sticks rubbed together.”
“By rubbing dry sticks together! Like the Indians I’ve read about? How wonderful you are.”
“I am.”
(He picks up two or three very little dry twigs.)
“I take the dry sticks, so—”
“Yes! Yes!”
“And first rub them together, so—”
“Yes! Yes!”
“With a sort of twisting motion.”
“Yes! Yes!”
“Then I put them in the pan with a bit of paper, so—” (he takes out a match-box as he speaks) “and strike a match and light them.”
(He lights the paper and the twigs and they blaze up in a little flame. Edith Croydon and Borus warm their hands at it; she speaks.)
“How really wonderful!”
“Yes. It’s the Peruvian method! And now for food and drink.”
(The little fire presently flickers out, and has nothing more to do with the act.)
“Have you food and drink on the raft, Mr. Borus? I think you are simply superb.”
“I am. Now let me see.” (He starts taking things out of a box.) “What have we here? Tinned paté de foie gras.”
“Lovely!”
“Canned asparagus. Do you like canned asparagus?”
“Oh, I worship it.”
“Tin of boneless pheasant.”
“Oh, Mr. Borus, I’m just mad over boneless pheasant!”
(Borus, taking out the cans and reading the labels, with exclamations from The Girl — )
“Boneless pheasant — finless fish — spineless sardines — tongueless tongue — now what shall it be first?”
(Borus with great empressement has just laid a little white cloth on a soap-box, and quickly spread out glasses and dishes and knives and forks till it has the appearance of an appetizing preparation. They both accompany it with exclamations of interest and delight. Miss Croydon says)
“Let me see. I think I’d like first, paté de foie gras and finless fish, and just a teeny bit of shelless lobster, — and — and—”
(When suddenly Borus has sprung to his feet with a sort of howl.)
“Oh, Mr. Borus, what is it?”
(Borus casting his hands to heaven — )
“I haven’t got — I haven’t got—”
“Yes — yes—”
“I forgot—”
“Yes — yes — you forgot—”
“The can opener! Great heavens, we have no can opener!!”
(The Girl exclaims — )
“No can opener!” (and falls forward on the table.)
(Borus): “Stop! Wake up! I can open them!”
(He makes a wild attack on the tins, beating them, and stamping on them, and biting them, etc., etc. Presently he subsides in despair and collapses on the soap-box.)
“It’s no good, Miss Croydon. We must eat the tins. You eat first. You are a woman.”
“No, Mr. Borus, not yet. We can at least” (she speaks with tragedy)— “we can at least drink. Let us drink before we die.”
“You are right. We can drink before we die. It is more than a lot of people can do.”
(He recovers something of his animation and begins taking out bottles and setting them on the table.)
“There! Bottled ale. Bass’s bottled ale!”
“Oh, Mr. Borus, how divine! I just worship Bass’s bottled ale.”
“Now then, get your glass ready.”
“Right.”
(Then he leaps up again with a howl.)
“What is it, Mr. Borus, — Oh, what is it?”
“The thing — the thing you open it with!! I haven’t got one!”
(They both collapse. Borus slightly recovering, but gloomily):
“There’s a way of opening these bottles with a fifty-cent piece. . . .” (feeling in his pocket) “but I haven’t got a fifty-cent piece.”
(Miss Croydon, brightly)
“Oh, never mind, I think I have a dollar bill in my purse.”
(Business here of trying to open the bottle by holding a dollar bill over it. At last Borus says):
“It’s no good, Miss Croydon. We must resign ourselves to our fate. If we must die” (he takes a noble attitude)— “you are a woman. Die first!”
(There is a sadness and then Miss Croydon says):
“Mr. Borus, it’s getting dark.”
(Borus looks up at the sky.)
“Yes, the sun will soon set.”
“Already, Mr. Borus?”
“Yes, Miss Croydon. Night comes quickly in the tropics. Look, the sun is setting.”
(The sun, seen as a round, red disk at the back of the stage, begins to set in jumps, about a yard at a time. When it has got near the bottom it takes a long whirl up again and then goes under. The stage is half dark.)
(Borus): “It is night!”
“Night! Here on the raft? Oh, I mustn’t stay.”
“Miss Croydon, I intend to treat you with the chivalry of a hero. One moment.”
(Borus takes an oar and sticks it up, and takes a big gray blanket and fastens it across the raft like a partition, so as to divide the raft in two.)
“Miss Croydon” (says Borus, looking over the top of the blanket) “that end of the raft is absolutely yours.”
“How chivalrous you are!”
“Not at all. I shall not intrude upon you in any way. Good-night.”
“Good-night, Mr. Borus.”
(They each begin making preparations for sleep, one each side of the curtain. Borus stands up and puts his head over again.)
“You’ll find a candle and matches near your bed.”
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Borus, how noble you are.”
“Not at all.”
(After another little interlude Borus puts his head over the top again.)
“I am now putting my head over this blanket for the last time. If there is anything you want, say so now. And remember if you want anything in the night do not hesitate to call me. I shall be here — at any moment. I promise it. Good-night.”
“Good-night, Mr. Borus.”
(They settle down in the growing darkness for a few minutes as if falling asleep. Then all of a sudden a bright light, a searchlight; comes shining over the sea, full on the raft. They both start up.)
“Oh, Mr. Borus, look, look, a light — a ship!!”
(Borus): “A light — a ship! They may have a corkscrew! We’re saved. Look — it’s a large yacht — a pleasure yacht.”
(There are voices heard.)
“Raft, Ahoy!” — (and shouts.)
(Miss Croydon): “A pleasure yacht! Oh, then I recognize it!”
“You recognize it?”
“It’s the yacht I fell out of this morning.”
“Fell out of—”
“Yes. You wouldn’t let me tell you. . . .”
(There is a call across the water.)
“Raft ahoy! Stand by! We’re lowering a boat.”
(Borus): “Saved! Saved! But there is just one thing I want to say before we go aboard . . . Miss Croydon — Edith — since I’ve been on this raft I’ve learned to love you as I never could have anywhere else. Edith, will you be my wife?”
(Miss Croydon, falling into his arms):
“Will I? Oh, Harold, that’s what I fell out of the yacht for!”
(Curtain)
It is to be noticed that this piece is all ready to put on the stage. Actors anxious for dramatic rights may apply by telegraph or on foot.
OTHER FANCIES
First Call for Spring. — or — . Oh, Listen to the Birds
I GATHER THAT spring is approaching. I am not an observant man, but as the days go by, the signs begin to multiply. Even for me that means that spring is at hand.
