Perkins. Where’ll I put ’em?
Yardsley. Put them on the stepladder.
Perkins (impatiently). And where shall I put the stepladder—on the piano?
Mrs. Perkins (coming to the rescue). I’ll take care of these things, Thaddeus, dear.
Bradley. That’s right; put everything off on your wife. What shirks some men are!
Yardsley. Now, then, Perkins, lend us your shoulder, and—one, two, three—push! Ah! She starts; she moves; she seems to feel the thrill of life along her keel. We must have gained an inch. Once more, now. My, but this is a heavy piano!
Bradley. Must be full of Wagnerian music. Why don’t you get a piano of lighter quality, Perkins? This isn’t any kind of an instrument for amateur stage-hands to manage.
Perkins. I’ll know better next time. But is it where you want it now?
Yardsley. Not a bit of it. We need one more push. Get her rolling, and keep her rolling until she stands over there in that corner; and be careful to stop her in time, I should hate to push a piano through one of my host’s parlor walls just for the want of a little care. (They push until the piano stands against the wall on the other side of the room, keyboard in.) There! That’s first-rate. You can put a camp-chair on top of it for the prompter to sit on; there’s nothing like having the prompter up high, because amateur actors when they forget their lines, always look up in the air. Perkins, go sit out in the hall and imagine yourself an enthusiastic audience—will you?—and tell us if you can see the piano. If you can see it, we’ll have to put it somewhere else.
Perkins. Do you mean it?