THE SCOTTISH REEL THING AT LAST.
Now that Sir J. M. Barrie has shown us the Transatlantic kinema man's idea of the perfect Macbeth, it is up to the purveyor of American films to retaliate by presenting one of his plots for ordinary stage performance in the Kirriemuir manner. Here and there an inadvertent touch of Western colour may be anticipated.
Scene.—Kensington Gardens. The Heroine—oh, the little love!—is taking a dander round the "Keep off the Grass" boards. Her feet are bare, and this is probably the reason why from time to time she dances among the trees. In the background the Hero, wearing a divided kilt, rides about on a horse. Having thus given the audience time to settle, the play starts.
Heroine (perceiving Hero). Gee! there's that rube I met up North. Sic a bonny lad too! (sighing sadly). But he hasna much siller, I'm sair misdootin'. Guess there's no twelve-pound look about him.
Hero (dashing up and dismounting). Wal, I wanter know. Say, ain't you the peach I useter see from my window in Thrums?
Heroine (coyly). Havers!
Hero (not to be outdone), Dagont!
[She strolls away with her chin in the air, her shoes and stockings in her hands, and the famous red light in her eye. She goes behind a tree, and the Hero, thinking she has retired there to greet sadly, follows to console her. However, he discovers that she is merely resuming her footgear, and he retreats modestly.]
Hero (rolling his eyes wildly to denote love). A snod bit lassie, that. I mean to say—I—ay! Juist so! Ay, ou ay!
Heroine (returning with her shoes on). For the love of Mike—I mean Losh keep's!—are you still here?
Hero. That's so. I wanter put you wise about me. I ain't no boob, as you seemter think. You can bet your rubbers on that. Maybe you're thinkin' that I'm but a puir laddie. Wal, let me tell you you're guessin' wrong. I'm an author—I do writin' stunts. And if I don't swell around in new pants all afternoon it's only because I have to keep all my cheques among the crumbs in my tobacco pouch. I have to do it. All the best Scots writers do it. We call it Arcadian Mixture.
Heroine. Guess that rollers out the course of true love some. But let me tell you there's another feller after me—a puir feckless body of a villain. And, Losh preserve us, here he comes!
[The Villain enters. He looks rather like a revue-producer who has seen better nights. The Hero, overcome by bashfulness at being discovered in conversation with a female, conceals himself behind his accent.]
Villain. See here, gal, you just gotter marry me.
Heroine. Shucks! I should say, Dinna blether, ma mannie.
[The Hero creeps cautiously out of ambush.]
Villain (caressingly). I have always loved my little Mary.
Hero (subtly ironic). Imphm! Imphm! Ou ay, imphm!
Villain (surprised but finding a way). Oh, the dears! oh, the darlings!
Hero (bewildered). What's all that blatherskite, any old way?
Villain (privily drawing bludgeon). It was Sneeky Hobart who never went to kirk again after they substituted tin plates for the usual cloth collecting-bags.
Hero (perplexed and off his guard). Guess you've gone bughouse, sonny. I mean, I'm no quick in the uptak'——
Villain. Are ye no? (brandishing bludgeon). Well, I am! (He fells the Hero senseless to the ground.) And noo, lassie, I can sorter concentrate on you.
Heroine (in the most ladylike way). Help! oh, help!
Villain. Say, you don't seemter freeze on to me, somehow. But you must and shall be mine! Come awa', lassie.
[He seizes her and she resists. Meanwhile the Hero, who fell on to a clump of genuine thistles, makes a superbly-rapid recovery from his unconsciousness.]
Villain (pausing to mop his brow). Say, you'll got my goat for sure if you kick up like this, lassie.
Heroine. Gee! That's a great idea. If only Peter Pan's goat——
[The Hero, inspired, crawls away unnoticed.]
Villain (preparing to renew the struggle). Lassie, I'm quite sweered o' you. There's an awesome look in your eye. And can ye no be more ladylike in your fechting? Remember whose heroine you are.
[He again strives to bear her off. The Hero, having broken off a couple of branches and affixed them to his head—a little trick he learned from the Admirable Crichton—now returns disguised as a goat. He rushes at Villain, who flees and scales the park railings. But his overcoat collar catches in the spikes, and he hangs suspended and helpless. In that position he slowly starves, and dies inconspicuously as the Hero and Heroine finish the play.]
Hero (extending his arms). Say, is it a deal? I mean, will ye ha'e us, lassie?
Heroine (with little wells of gladness in her eyes). It's a cinch. Guess you're Mr. Smart from Smartville. Ay, I'm thinkin' I'll tak' you. But you men are fickle callants—that's what every woman knows. Come awa' and let's find a little meenister at once.
Hero. Oh, joy! oh, rapture! oh, rosy rapture! [They embrace and exeunt.]
The Audience. Hoots!
Curtain.