Drawing Rooms, Second Floor, and Attics: A Farce, in One Act

by John Maddison Morton

TRIPTOLE. (imitating the mewing of a cat) Miow, miow!

PHŒBE. There he is. (turning and seeing TRIPTOLEMUS) No—mercy on us! it isn’t a cat—it’s a man! Help! thieves! police, police! (screaming)

TRIPTOLE. Hush! don’t make a noise! Phœbe, don’t you know me? I’m Triptolemus—your own Triptolemus, just arrived from Cambridge to see you, by the flue—I mean the train.

PHŒBE. Triptolemus! how did you get here?

TRIPTOLE. I’ll tell you another time. Phœbe, if you love me, tell me the address of the nearest magistrate, or show me his chimney pot, that’ll do as well.

PHŒBE. What do you mean?

TRIPTOLE. That my life is in jeopardy—that I’m in danger of being torn to pieces, or swallowed whole—one or the other, perhaps both, if you don’t save me.—Ah, a door! (about to run to small door, L. C.)

PHŒBE. No, no! you’ll be sure to meet uncle Jonathan, and he has sworn to murder you if he catches you here.

TRIPTOLE. Goodness gracious! I’ve only spoken to three of the male population of London since I’ve been in it, and two of them seem bent on my immediate destruction!