F. H. (solus). Well—aw—there’s no help from that quarter. I don’t see but I’ve got to come to it, for if I don’t wear these clothes—aw—what shall I wear? There isn’t any shop that sells ready-made clothing that I’d be willing to wear—aw—and if there was I haven’t money enough to spare to buy another suit. (Groaning.) I don’t see but I must wear it. (Puts on vest and coat—looks in mirror.) Oh, dear! Aw—what a fright! And I was going to call on Arabella Meade this morning. (Puts on hat, which, being a little too large for him, settles down on the back side of his head. He paces back and forth, looking down.) But there’s no use in my going there to-day. The servants would take me—aw—for a ragamuffin, and thrust me out of the house—aw—if I attempted to enter it. I suppose I shall have to go down in this costume—aw—and see if I cannot find some clue to my own clothes—aw.
(Exit, L. Curtain falls.)
Scene IV.—Parlor of the hotel. Deacon Robinson, C., looking over morning paper. Enter Dr. Cummings, L., who does not recognize the occupant of the room. Deacon Robinson advances to meet him warmly.
Dea. R. (cordially). How do you do, Dr. Cummings?
Dr. C. (distantly). Really, sir, you have the advantage of me!
Dea. R. What, don’t you recognize me? You’ve known me for the last twenty-five years. I’m Deacon Jonathan Robinson, of Morristown.
Dr. C. Why, bless my soul, so you are! But, good gracious, deacon, what possessed you to dress in this strange way?
Dea. R. Strange?
Dr. C. (sternly). Yes. I consider it discreditable to one of your years, sobriety, and position in the community, to make such a popinjay of yourself.
Dea. R. (uncomfortably). But it isn’t my doings.