CHARACTERS.
| Mr. Smith. |
| Mrs. Smith. |
| Sheriff Bailey. |
| Bridget. |
Scene I.—In the parlor. Mr. Smith reclining on the sofa. He has a newspaper in his hand, but is not reading. Mrs. S. enters L., wearing a plain dress.
Mr. Smith. Seems to me, Amanda, that for one who runs up such a bill as I paid yesterday, you don’t appear remarkably well dressed. What have you done with all the gay garments Madame Dubois has lately made for you?
Mrs. Smith. I haven’t run up any bill, and I don’t patronize Madame Dubois. She is too high in her charges for people in our circumstances.
Mr. S. But why should she send her bill here? It was directed in full, to John Smith, Taylor’s Block, Central Street.
Mrs. S. I’m sure I don’t know. All I can say is, there must be some mistake. She never made any garments whatever for me. By the way, have you the bill with you?
Mr. S. Yes, here it is. (Takes bill from his pocket, unfolds it, and shows it to his wife.)
Mrs. S. What is the amount?
Mr. S. One hundred and twenty-five dollars and forty-seven cents.
Mrs. S. (surprised). And you paid it?
Mr. S. Certainly; I supposed it was all right.
Mrs. S. Well, I don’t know what can be done about it. I never had any of the articles mentioned.
Mr. S. Do you suppose there is another person of the same name on this street?
Mrs. S. Yes, Bridget told me, last evening, there were three other John Smiths on this street, two of whom live in this block.
Mr. S. Then there’ll be no end of mistakes.
Mrs. S. None as serious as this, I hope.
(Enter Bridget, R., bearing a letter, which she passes to Mr. S.)
Bridget. An’ here’s a letther the postman brought, sir.
Mr. S. (examines superscription, which he reads aloud). “Mr. John Smith, Taylor’s Block, Central Street, B——.”
(Exit Bridget, R.)
Mrs. S. Where is it from?
Mr. S. It is postmarked Ramsey, Minnesota.
Mrs. S. Have you acquaintances there?
Mr. S. It seems so, though I wasn’t aware of it.
Mrs. S. Do open the letter. I’m really curious to know whom it is from.
Mr. S. Ah, yes, woman’s curiosity! How do you know but it may be privacy?
Mrs. S. I am satisfied that it is not. At all events, I’m willing to run the risk.
Mr. S. Courageous woman! Then I will venture to open it. (Cuts off edge of envelope and draws out a small, square piece of paper which he begins to read aloud.)
“You thief, you! You villain, you! So you’ve basely gone off and taken my best dress and bonnet, and all the silver my father gave me when I was married! I suppose you intended to adorn your wife with the clothes you stole! But you shan’t do it, as sure as my name is Dorothy Ann. I’ve got track of you, and just as quick as I can get money enough, I’m coming right along after you. You’re a mean, shiftless, lazy, good-for-nothing villain, and if you don’t send all back within a week, I’ll send the police after you.”
Mr. S. (turns towards his wife, smiling). There’s quite an inducement for John Smith. What do you think of that for a character? I’d better not have read the letter aloud. Perhaps you will begin to repent having married me.
Mrs. S. I ought to, certainly, if this letter is true. But you haven’t given me the dress and bonnet yet.
Mr. S. No, I never thought of it. I wonder if it was the wife of this John Smith whose bill I paid.
Mrs. S. Don’t know. I think it’s doubtful if you ever find the one to whom it rightfully belongs.
Mr. S. I must try, at all events. I don’t feel like losing so much money, or paying other people’s dressmaker’s bills.
(Curtain falls.)
Scene II.—Mrs. S. is seated, R., sewing. Mr. S. enters, L.
Mr. S. What vile odor is that I smell? What have you for dinner, Amanda?
Mrs. S. (complacently). What you sent, of course.
Mr. S. And that is—
Mrs. S. Corned beef and cabbage.
Mr. S. I knew it. I thought I could not be deceived. Such a villanous smell!
Mrs. S. (surprised). Of course you knew it. Did you not send it to me this morning?
Mr. S. (excited). Never! I sent you a pair of the plumpest wild-fowl to be found in the market. My mouth fairly watered for a taste of them as I entered the door, when I was saluted by the scent of that odious cabbage.
Mrs. S. What do you suppose has become of them?
Mr. S. (indignantly). Some other John Smith is doubtless regaling himself on them.
Mrs. S. Wouldn’t it be a good plan to send Bridget to see?
Mr. S. Yes, and let her go at once.
(Exit Mrs. S., R.)
Mr. S. (soliloquizing). Some one asks, “What’s in a name?” If his name happened to be John Smith, he wouldn’t have to inquire. Why couldn’t my parents have called me Hezekiah, Ezekiel, or any other heathenish name rather than plain John? Then I should not have been victimized in this way.
(Enter Mrs. S., R., followed by a stranger.)
Mrs. S. This gentleman wishes to see you, John.
Stranger (inquiringly). Your name is Smith, sir? (Mr. S. nods.) John Smith, I believe.
Mr. S. That is my name, though I wish to goodness it wasn’t.
Str. No wonder, sir, no wonder. When I call on professional business, people almost always wish they were somebody else.
Mr. S. And what is your business, if I may be allowed to inquire?
Str. Certainly you may, though there’s no doubt you’d soon learn it without inquiring. I am Sheriff Bailey, and I came to levy an execution on your furniture.
Mr. S. And what is that for?
Str. Because it is not paid for. Messrs. Phillips & Hoffman sold you, some time since, a quantity of furniture amounting to two hundred and fifty dollars, which was to be paid for in thirty days. Here is the bill of it. (Passes to Mr. S.) This was three months ago, and though they have repeatedly sent letters calling your attention to it, no notice has been taken of them. Have you anything to say in regard to this matter?
Mr. S. (dryly). I think I have. In the first place, I haven’t bought any furniture for a year. In the second place, I never heard of Messrs. Phillips & Hoffman, and therefore, of course, never bought anything from them (sighing). The fact is, sir, you’ve got hold of the wrong John Smith.
Str. You can’t come that dodge on me. The John Smith that I was looking for lived in Taylor’s Block, and as this is the place, you must be the man I am seeking.
Mr. S. (indignantly). Do you doubt my word, sir? Let me inform you that there are two other John Smiths living in this block, as I know to my sorrow. Besides, if you’ll take the trouble to look at the furniture, you’ll see that it has been used a much longer time. I notice by the bill (glancing at it) that it was a suite of parlor furniture that was bought, and this is the only furniture of that description which we possess.
Str. (looking around him). This is not a new style of furniture, certainly. It is possible that I may be mistaken in the person. If so, I beg your pardon. I will make inquiries before proceeding further in this matter.
Mr. S. (with an injured air). You need make no apologies, sir. I’m getting used to this sort of thing.
(Exit Sheriff, L., and enter Bridget, R.)
B. It was to number seven that the fowls went, sir.
Mr. S. (eagerly). Did you bring them back with you?
B. No, sir, they’ve eaten ’em up. Ann McKay said Mrs. Smith thought somebody sent ’em as a present. But she told me privately that they had dinner an hour earlier than usual.
Mr. S. A present indeed! They knew very well it was a mistake, and took occasion to eat their dinner earlier, in order to have a nice meal before the mistake could be rectified. Bridget, take the corned beef and cabbage over, and tell them we have no use for it. Then come back and open all the windows, and see if we cannot get rid of this intolerable smell.
Mrs. S. But what are we to have for dinner?
Mr. S. Boiled eggs—some of yesterday’s roast—or anything you may happen to have in the house. For my part, I haven’t any appetite now.
(Exit Bridget, R. Curtain falls.)
Scene III.—Mrs. Smith’s sitting-room. Mrs. S. present, C.
Mrs. S. (soliloquizing). I don’t see where Mr. Smith can be. It is seldom he is out so late. (Calls the servant, who is passing the door.) Bridget!
B. (enters, R.). Yes, mum.
Mrs. S. Did Mr. Smith say where he was going when he left home?
B. No, mum. He axed me “was you out,” and I told him you had gone into Mrs. Clarke’s for a few minutes. He said it was no matter; he only wanted to know had you mended the pocket of his weskit.
Mrs. S. I entirety forgot it. Just pass it from the hall-closet, Bridget, and I will mend it at once. It will serve to pass the time away.
(Exit B., R.)
B. (enters, R.). Here it is, mum (passes vest to Mrs. S.). An’ I think I’ll be goin’ upstairs, if ye don’t want me any more. It’s gettin’ late.
Mrs. S. Very well, Bridget. I believe that is all I need.
(Exit Bridget, R.)
Mrs. S. I think it was the pocket on the right side that needed mending. (Turns pocket inside out.) What is this? (Picks up a letter in a small envelope, directed in a lady’s hand.) It cannot be a letter from his sister. I must open it. (Unfolds the letter and reads):—
“Dearest John,—It is a long time since the sight of your face has gladdened my heart. Cannot you call on me this, evening? I will refuse myself to every one else. Remember I have not seen you for a whole week. Notwithstanding your protestations of devotion to me, I fear you are too attentive to your wife, and you know she does not appreciate your love as I do. Do not fail to come. If it is necessary to make any excuses, say that you are obliged to be away on business. I count the moments till we meet.
“Lillian Percival.”
Mrs. S. (bitterly). Is it possible that John has deceived me, and is carrying on an intrigue with such a woman as that?—I cannot believe it,—and yet it must be so. (Hears sound of a latch-key,—listens.) That is his step now. (Puts letter back in another pocket of vest, and begins to sew.)
Mr. S. (enters, L.). What? Amanda—up yet. I expected to find you asleep. Don’t trouble yourself with mending that vest to-night. I have several others.
Mrs. S. (coldly). Where have you been to-night, John?
Mr. S. I was out on business.
Mrs. S. It must have been important business to keep you out till this hour.
Mr. S. To tell the truth it was so. But it isn’t a matter you would be likely to understand.
Mrs. S. I understand it only too well. (Passes letter to him.) Who wrote that letter? (Eyes him sharply.)
Mr. S. (bursting into a laugh). I understand it all now,—you’ve read that letter, and are jealous. Confess, now, that that’s the case. But I didn’t suppose you’d be so ridiculous.
Mrs. S. (bridling). Ridiculous indeed! When one’s husband receives such letters as that, it’s about time for his wife to inquire into the matter.
Mr. S. I received the letter this morning, but, satisfied that it was written to some other John Smith, I thrust it hastily into my pocket, not dreaming that it would stir up such a breeze as this.
Mrs. S. I wish, John, that you would have your name changed.
Mr. S. That is what I am intending to do. At the next session of the Legislature, I have determined to apply for a change of name. I believe there are more rascals by the name of Smith than any other one name in the world. And if there is any villain who is brought before the police, he is sure to give his name as John Smith. I don’t care what the new name is,—Snooks, Jenkins, or Tubbs,—there isn’t one of them that would bring a man into trouble half as soon, as to be called plain John Smith.
(Curtain falls.)