Mary. O Jack!
Jack. No, Mary, I don’t. I wish the durned ol’ Waterbury ‘d never been born.
Mary. The boys meant well, Jack; I wouldn’t send back their present.
Jack. All right, Mary, if you say so, I’ll take her. There’s one thing sure, every time I wind her up she’ll put me in mind how durn near I come to losin’ the best little wife in the whole world.
This play brought me to know Mr. and Mrs. Herne. It needed but an hour’s talk to convince me that I had met two of the most intellectual artists in the dramatic profession, and also to learn how great were the obstacles which lay in the way of producing a real play, each year adding to the insuperableness of the barriers. Mr. Herne was at that time (two years ago) working upon a new play, in some respects, notably in its theme, finer than Drifting Apart. It was the result of several summers spent on the coast of Maine, and is called Shore-Acres. The story is mainly that of two brothers, Nathaniel and Martin Berry, who own a fine “shore-acre” tract near a booming summer resort. An enterprising grocer in the little village gets Martin interested in booms and suggests that they form a company and cut the shore-acre tract up into lots and sell to summer residents.
Martin comes with the scheme to Nathaniel.
Martin. I’d like t’ talk to yeh, an’ I d’ know’s I’ll hev a better chance.
Uncle Nat. I d’ know’s yeh will.
Martin. (Hesitates, picks up a stick and whittles.) Mr. Blake’s ben here.
Uncle Nat. (Picks up a straw and chews it.) Hez ‘e?