It Pays To Advertise

A FARCICAL FACT IN THREE ACTS

BY
Roi Cooper Megrue and Walter Hackett

Copyright, 1914, By Roi Cooper Megrue and Walter Hackett
Copyright in Great Britain and Canada
Copyright, 1917, By Samuel French

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

CAUTION: Professionals and amateurs are hereby warned that “IT PAYS TO ADVERTISE,” being fully protected under the copyright laws of the United States, is subject to a royalty, and any one presenting the play without the consent of the owner or his authorized agents will be liable to the penalties by law provided. Application for amateur acting rights must be made to Samuel French, 28-30 West 38th Street, New York. Applications for the professional acting rights must be made to the American Play Company, 33 West 42d Street, New York.

NEW YORK
SAMUEL FRENCH
PUBLISHER
28-30 WEST 38th STREET

LONDON
SAMUEL FRENCH, Ltd.
26 SOUTHAMPTON STREET
STRAND

Especial notice should be taken that the possession of this book without a valid contract for production first having been obtained from the publisher, confers no right or license to professionals or amateurs to produce the play publicly or in private for gain or charity.

In its present form this play is dedicated to the reading public only, and no performance of it may be given except by special arrangement with Samuel French, 28-30 West 38th Street, New York.

Section 28—That any person who wilfully or for profit shall infringe any copyright secured by this act, or who shall knowingly and wilfully aid or abet such infringement shall be deemed guilty of a misdemeanor, and upon conviction thereof shall be punished by imprisonment for not exceeding one year, or by a fine of not less than one hundred nor more than one thousand dollars, or both, in the discretion of the court.

Act of March 4, 1909.

GEORGE M. COHAN THEATRE, NEW YORK CITY,

September 8th, 1914

COHAN & HARRIS

IT PAYS TO ADVERTISE

A FARCICAL FACT IN THREE ACTS BY

Roi Cooper Megrue and Walter Hackett

Staged under the direction of Sam Forrest

The characters appear in the order in which they are named

SYNOPSIS OF SCENES

IT PAYS TO ADVERTISE

THE CAST

(In the order of their appearance.)

AUTHOR’S NOTE: The advertising statistics used in the play are facts, not farce.

ACT I

Scene: The library of Cyrus Martin’s home in New York City: a very handsome room, in tapestry and dark oak. Doors up left, down left, and down right. Books, chairs, divans, as necessary. Down left is an oak typewriting table with a typewriter on it. It is obviously out of place in the room, and is evidently only a temporary arrangement. Handsome walnut furniture. Mantel set on mantel. Fire dogs and irons in fireplace. All-over carpet. Handsome busts on bookcases. Chandelier and four brackets. Curtains on windows at back. It is seven o’clock in the evening—early September.

At Rise: Mary Grayson is seated at typewriter; she strums the keys idly and indifferently with one finger. She might hum a turkey-trot, keeping time with a one-finger accompaniment. In a moment Johnson, a typical English butler, enters from door upper L.

Johnson. I beg pardon, Miss Grayson.

Mary. (Whirling about eagerly) What is it, Johnson? Has young Mr. Martin come in yet?

Johnson. No, Miss.

Mary. But I told you not to interrupt me until he did.

Johnson. I know, Miss, but it’s that Mr. Ambrose Peale again; he’s called four times.

Mary. Say that Mr. Martin will be back at eight o’clock.

Johnson. Yes, Miss. There’s a lady waiting, too, Miss, to see Mr. Martin Senior. Here’s her card.

Mary. Mme. la Comtesse de Beaurien. Tell her that Mr. Martin Senior can see no one.

Johnson. I can’t make her comprehend anything I say. She just sits and waits.

Mary. Oh, bring her in, then. I’ll make her understand somehow, but, Johnson, don’t fail to let me know the minute young Mr. Martin gets home.

Johnson. (Going to door up L.) Yes, Miss.

(Mary rises from typewriter, takes off her sleeve-protectors and smoothes out her skirt.)

Johnson. (Announcing) Countess dee Beauree-en——

(The Countess enters from door upper L. She is a very smart-looking girl of about twenty-six or twenty-seven, typically French in manner and does not speak a word of English. He exits.)

Mary. (To Countess) How do you do?

Countess. (Advancing to her) Mam’selle Martin?

Mary. Oh, no, I’m Miss Grayson, Mr. Martin’s secretary.

Countess. (Blankly) Sec-ree-taree?

Mary. I’m sorry, but it’s quite impossible for you to see Mr. Martin. He is confined to the house with a severe attack of gout. If you will write him I will see that he gets your letter. You can address him here instead of the office; while he is ill I come here every day for the mail.

Countess. Pardon, mais je ne comprends pas—je ne parle pas l’anglais. Vous parlez Français peut-être?

Mary. (Blankly) You see, Mr. Martin is ill....

Countess. Je répète que je ne parle pas anglais. Mr. Martin est-il ici?

Mary. It’s quite useless for you to talk: I don’t understand French.

Countess. Un moment, Mam’selle—peut-être je parle trop vite.... (More slowly) Je désire parler à M. Martin àpropos des affaires. Je suis riche. Mais on peut toujours être plus riche. Si je pouvais obtenir l’agence du savon Martin pour la France ça serait une belle affaire. Je donnerais cinquante mille francs pour cette agence. Répéter cela à M. Martin et je suis sûre qu’il me recevra immédiatement. Vous comprenez maintenant——

Mary. But I really don’t understand French. (Slowly and loudly) Mr. Martin is ill—sick! He can see no one—you’ll have to go—please do——

Countess. Mon Dieu! Vous êtes stupide.... (Sitting down in chair L. of table) J’attendrai M. Martin.

Mary. There’s no use your sitting down. (She goes to her) Mr. Martin doesn’t understand French, either.

Countess. C’est bien, c’est bien, mam’selle; je ne suis pas pressée.

Mary. I don’t understand. Please go—(She waves her hands)

Countess. Ah, laissez-moi donc tranquille—vous m’embêtez.

Mary. Oh, dear!

(Johnson enters.)

Johnson. Young Mr. Martin’s come in; he’ll be here directly.

Mary. Good Heavens! (She goes over and makes a wild sweeping gesture) Mr. Martin is out—out.

Countess. (With marked accent) Out?

Mary. (Nodding her head) Oui——

Countess. (Rapidly) Oui? Ah vous parlez Français? Je voudrais savoir si Mr. Martin est ici. Je voudrais lui parler tout de suite.

Mary. Heavens! She’s off again; let’s act it for her. Let’s see—(She points to Johnson) That is Mr. Martin.

Countess. Eh?

Mary. We’re pretending that is Mr. Martin.

Countess. (Shaking her head) Ah, non, ça ce n’est pas M. Martin.

Mary. We’re pretending—see, pretending? Now, you see—Mr. Martin is out—see?

(Johnson exits and enters immediately.)

Countess. (Suddenly) Ah, Mr. Martin n’est pas ici! Je comprends.

Mary. Heavens, she understands, Johnson! Take her by the arm and lead her out. (Crosses L.)

Johnson. (Starting to do so as Countess rises to go out) Yes, Miss.

Countess. Attendez! A quelle heure M. Martin rentrera-t-il? (She sits again)

Johnson. Now what’s the matter? You’d better come quietly, Miss—(He takes her by the arm)

Countess. (Shaking him off) A quelle heure rentrera-t-il? (There is a blank pause. To Mary) Maintenant—faites attention à votre tour. Regardez-moi: je suis M. Martin, vous comprenez? Moi je suis M. Martin——

Mary. (Nodding) Mr. Martin.

Countess. (Going to door) Mr. Martin n’est pas ici; il est sorti—il est au bureau. Enfin s’il n’est pas au bureau c’est pas mon affaire. Maintenant je voudrais savoir à quelle heure rentrera-t-il?

Mary. (As Countess goes) Heavens, she’s going. (She turns at door) She’s coming back.

Countess. (Returning to Mary) A quelle heure M. Martin rentrera-t-il? (There is another pause. Suddenly the Countess takes out her watch)

Mary. (Eagerly) Oh, she wants to know when he’ll be in! (She runs over and points to clock) Eight o’clock—eight—o’clock.

Countess. Oui—Oui, huit heures—je comprends. Merci bien—je m’en vais maintenant, mais je reviendrai. Au revoir.

Mary. I can understand that! Au revoir—au revoir—good night.

Countess. (Going) Merci—merci—à huit heures—bonsoir—bonsoir—(She exits)

Mary. Don’t let her in here again unless you have an interpreter.

Johnson. Very good, Miss. (He exits door upper L.)

(Mary primps, and sits at typewriter again, and idly touches the keys with one finger, maintaining an eager watch on the door. She hears someone coming and hastily and busily bangs away at the typewriter. Rodney Martin enters door L. He is a young man of twenty-four with a certain quaint frank charm, in spite of his funny little mustache, English morning coat, spats and white carnation. He is by no means brainless, but simply undeveloped by reason of the kind of life he has led under appallingly frictionless conditions.)

Rodney. Miss Grayson!

(Mary’s previous business-like air has entirely disappeared, and she assumes the fluttering airs of a timid ingenue, overdoing it for anyone except a boy madly in love with her.)

Mary. What a surprise! (Rodney goes and locks both doors L.) Why, Mr. Martin ... what are you doing?

Rodney. (Coming to her and facing her over back of chair) I want to talk with you. Mary, will you marry me?

Mary. Why, really——

Rodney. You love me, don’t you?

Mary. I—I don’t know what to say——

Rodney. Say Yes.

Mary. (Shyly) Yes.

Rodney. (Trying to grab her) You angel!

Mary. (Eluding him) Wait!

Rodney. We’ll be married right away.

Mary. But suppose your father disapproves?

Rodney. He won’t know anything about it until we’re married, and then what could he do?

Mary. He might cut you off.

Rodney. Would you care?

Mary. (Hastily) I? No, no, indeed. I was thinking of you, dear.

Rodney. Don’t you bother about me. We’ll be married to-morrow, and then come home for the parental blessing.

Mary. Oh, I couldn’t do that. It wouldn’t be square. I’m his private secretary: he trusts me. To bring me here to his home and then to find I’d married his son on the sly—we couldn’t do that.

Rodney. You do make it sound rather bad. I wouldn’t want us to give father the worst of it; we’ve always been pretty good friends, he and I. I guess I’d better tell him—in a week or so.

Mary. Why, Rodney, if you love me, we must get this awful suspense over.

Rodney. But suppose he does object?

Mary. Even then I wouldn’t give you up.

Rodney. Mary!

Mary. You could go into business, make a big man of yourself, make me proud of you——

Rodney. You talk just like the heroine in a play I saw last night. She wanted the hero to go to work, and he did, and then for four acts everybody suffered.

Mary. Don’t you want to work?

Rodney. (Seriously) I should say not. Imagine going to bed every night, knowing you’ve got to get up in the morning and go to business.

Mary. You’d be happier, wouldn’t you, if you had a job?

Rodney. Please don’t talk like father; he’s preached a job at me ever since I left college. Why should I work? Father made millions out of soap and is forever complaining that he’s always had his nose to the grindstone, that he’s worked fourteen hours a day for thirty years, that he’s never known what fun was, that it’s all made him old before his time. I can’t see the sense of following an example like that—I really can’t. He’s got enough for you, and me, and our children. Yes, and our children’s grandchildren. I’ve explained all this to him but I can’t seem to make him understand. But it’s simple: why work when there’s millions in the family? And why even talk of money when you and I are in love? Come, kiss me. (He leans towards her; she moves away to L. He crosses R.)

Mary. No, you mustn’t—not till you’ve spoken to your father.

Rodney. You won’t kiss me till I tell him?

Mary. No.

Rodney. And you will when I do?

Mary. Yes.

Rodney. Then I’ll tell him right away. (He goes toward door L. She crosses R.)

Mary. Oh, Rodney, you’re splendid! And don’t be afraid.

Rodney. Afraid! (Pausing) You don’t think I’d better wait till the morning?

(Cyrus Martin knocks at the door violently, and says “ouch” in a loud tone.)

Martin. (Off-stage) Why is this door locked? What the devil does this mean?

Mary. If you don’t ask him now, I’ll never marry you.

Martin. (Off-stage) Open the door.

Rodney. Coming, father, coming. (He goes and unlocks both doors)

Martin. (Loudly) Ouch, ouch! The devil! (He enters) Why was that door locked?

Rodney. Was it locked?

Martin. You young fool, didn’t you just unlock it? (Crosses to R.)

Rodney. (Nervously) So I did!

(Mary has gone to her typewriter and now begins typing.)

Martin. Stop that noise! (She does so. Rodney looks at her, discouraged. She motions to him to go on. Meanwhile Martin has painfully limped to a chair down-stage by table and sinks into it. His foot gives him another twinge.) Ouch! Oh, my poor foot!

(Rodney hastily picks up footstool and comes with it to his father.)

Rodney. I’m afraid your foot hurts.

Martin. Not at all—I just pretend that it does!

Rodney. (Fervently) I hoped you were better.

Martin. Well, I’m not. What have you got there?

Rodney. A footstool—I thought it might make you more comfortable.

Martin. How much do you want?

Rodney. Why, nothing, father.

Martin. Well anyhow, the answer is not a nickel——

Rodney. You do me an injustice. I’m just sorry to see you in pain.

Martin. Well, you want something, that’s certain.

Rodney. Why do you say that?

Martin. I know you—and whatever it is, you can’t have it.

(Rodney turns appealingly to Mary. She ignores him. He turns back to his father and tries to muster up his courage.)

Rodney. (Clearing his throat) Well, as a matter of fact, I did want——

Martin. Now we’re getting to it.

Rodney. I wanted to have a talk with you—an important talk——

Martin. Curious! That’s just what I wanted with you—I’ve wanted it all day ... and now we’ll have it—Miss Grayson!

Mary. Yes, sir? (Rises)

Martin. Get out. (She exits through door upper L., without noticing Rodney, who stands looking after her dejectedly. As he hears the door close) Now, what do you mean by overdrawing your allowance again?

Rodney. (Innocently) What it simply proves is that I was right when I told you my allowance was too small.

Martin. (Aghast) What!

Rodney. And if my allowance is too small for one, it’s much too small for two.

Martin. For two?

Rodney. Father, has it ever occurred to you that I might marry?

Martin. Of course it has! You’re fool enough for anything.

Rodney. I don’t consider a man a fool because he’s married.

Martin. That’s because you’ve never tried it.

Rodney. I intend to try it.

Martin. Who is the girl?

Rodney. (Nervously) The girl?

Martin. Yes, girl—you’re not going to marry an automobile or a polo pony—you’re going to marry a girl, aren’t you? Some blue-eyed, doll-faced, gurgling, fluttering little fool. Oh, why doesn’t God give young men some sense about women?

Rodney. I object very strongly to your speaking in that way of Miss Grayson.

Martin. Miss Grayson? Miss Grayson? You’re not going to marry a typewriter?

Rodney. Yes, sir.

Martin. Does she know it?

Rodney. Yes, sir.

Martin. Of course she knows a good thing like you when she sees it!

Rodney. I won’t listen to you talk of Miss Grayson in that way.

Martin. You’ve got to listen. I won’t permit any such absurd, ridiculous marriage! Thank Heaven, you had sense enough not to elope——

Rodney. I wanted to, but she wouldn’t. She insisted on your being told, so you see what an injustice——

Martin. Injustice? Can’t you see that she wished me to know, so that if I disapproved and cut you off, she’d not be stuck with you on her hands.

Rodney. Please, father—it’s quite useless. (He starts to go)

Martin. No, my boy, wait a minute. Remember, I’m your friend even if I am your father. (Rises, goes to door R. to ring bell) Don’t you believe it’s only your money she wants?

Rodney. I know it isn’t.

Martin. (Pushing bell) I’ll prove it is.

Rodney. What are you going to do?

Martin. Send for Miss Grayson.

Rodney. You shan’t humiliate her.

Johnson. (Entering from door upper L.) Yes, sir?

Martin. Ask Miss Grayson to come here at once.

Johnson. Yes, sir. (He exits)

Martin. I’ll tell that scheming secretary that if you persist in this marriage, I’ll disinherit you! Then watch her throw you over.

Rodney. Even if you are my father, you shan’t insult the girl I love.

Martin. Poppycock! You’re afraid to put her to the test: you’re afraid she will chuck you.

Rodney. (Quickly) I am not afraid.

Mary. (Entering from door upper L.) You wanted me, Mr. Martin?

Rodney. (Going to her, she crosses to C.) Mary!

Martin. Wait a minute. My precious son informs me that you and he intend to marry.

Mary. (Timidly) Oh, sir——

Martin. And I wish to tell you that if he marries you, he doesn’t get one penny of my money, and that means he’ll starve.

Mary. Then at least we can starve together. (They hold hands)

Rodney. Mary!

Martin. Making a grand-stand play, eh? You think I’m too fond of him not to relent? Well, you’re wrong. Neither of you can get a nickel from me: you can both starve together.

Rodney. We won’t starve.

Martin. What can you do? You’re not a producer—you never will be. (Crosses to L.) You’re just an idler. You couldn’t earn five dollars a week, but you’ll have a chance to try. You’ll get out of my house to-night or I’ll have you thrown out.

Rodney. Now, father——

Martin. Not another word, sir, not another word! (He kicks chair, and stamps out angrily, thru lower L. door)

Rodney. (To Mary) It’s getting more like that play every minute.

Mary. (Half crying) Oh, Rodney, Rodney, what have I done? I’m so—so sorry.

Rodney. You haven’t done anything—neither of us has. Father didn’t seem to give us a chance to. He did it all——

Mary. Oh, Rodney——

Rodney. You were bully the way you stuck up for me. When you said we’d starve together, I just choked all up.

Mary. (Genuinely) Please don’t, Rodney.

Rodney. Just because he’s got a lot of money he seems to think there isn’t any left, but I’ll show him. I may not have much at the start, but watch my finish.

Mary. What are you going to do?

Rodney. I’m going to work.

Mary. (Excited) You are—really? (Rises)

Rodney. Yes, indeed—father couldn’t make me do it, but you have. I’ll work for you.

Mary. Oh, you are splendid. Will you get a position?

Rodney. I should say not! Work for someone else? No, sir—I’m going in business for myself—for you. I’m going to show the stuff that’s in me. Of course, we can’t get married till I’ve made good. Will you wait?

Mary. (Shyly) Yes, dear.

Rodney. You’re a dandy.

Mary. What business are you going in?

Rodney. I don’t know yet. I’m going upstairs to pack a suit-case and think. (Crosses to R.) I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. (He grabs her and kisses her hastily but heartily)

Mary. Oh, oh—please——

Rodney. Don’t mind, Mary. You’ll get used to ’em. (Exits door lower R.)

(She goes over and raps three times on the door through which Martin left, and backs away from it. She stands there expectantly. In a moment Martin tiptoes in with no trace of a limp. She puts her fingers to her lips to indicate silence, and points off-stage R. to indicate where Rodney has gone. Martin tiptoes nearer, nodding his head, questioning and eager. Mary smilingly nods her head in reply.)

Martin. (In stage-whisper) You mean our scheme worked?

Mary. (Delighted) Yes, yes.

Martin. You really have got him to go to work?

Mary. I have!

Martin. (Gleefully) By George, that’s great!

Mary. Isn’t it!

Martin. You’re sure he wasn’t just talking?

Mary. No, he’s gone upstairs to pack and go out and make a name for himself.

Martin. You’re a wise girl. Isn’t it wonderful?

Mary. And you said I couldn’t do it.

Martin. I said I didn’t think you could, but you have, and I owe you $2,500. (Crosses to chair L. of table to make out check)

Mary. Oh, there’s no hurry.

Martin. Never put off till to-morrow the money you can get to-day.

Mary. Aren’t you proud I’ve been so successful?

Martin. Proud? I’m so doggone happy I’m making this out for $5,000.

Mary. Oh, Mr. Martin!

Martin. And it’s worth $50,000 to me to have my boy really want to work, not just to do it to please me. What a difference an incentive makes! (Hands her the check)

Mary. (Smiling at check) Doesn’t it?

Martin. (Crosses to L.) Especially if it’s a girl. And to think I begged and threatened Rodney for months, and then you plan this scheme, you invent my gout, you rehearse me, you come up here for six short weeks and—Bing, you get him so he’s in love with you.

Mary. Or thinks he is.

Martin. But, say, what about your marriage? (Sits in chair L. of table)

Mary. He said he wouldn’t marry me till he’d made good—if I’d just wait. (Sits in chair R. of table)

Martin. (Anxiously) Do you think perhaps he may really love you?

Mary. Of course not.

Martin. It’s the first time he’s actually wanted to marry anybody.

Mary. Oh, it’s just that I’ve been very blue-eyed and baby-faced.

Martin. I guess you’re right!

Mary. Of course I am. When I break our engagement he may feel sort of lonely for a while and give up women forever, but pretty soon some charming girl of his world will come along—some limousine lady, and they’ll live happy ever after.

Martin. I sort of begin to wish this marriage were going to be on the level.

Mary. It wouldn’t work out. I’m a business woman. Even if your son did love me—really love—I wouldn’t marry him. Just now he’s twenty-four with an India-rubber heart that is easy to stretch and easier to snap back. All boys at twenty-four are like that.

Martin. (Reminiscently) I guess so. I remember when I was a young man, there was a girl ... my heart was broken for a week—perhaps ten days. I went down to the club one night and got spifflicated—however, however—(Abruptly changing the subject) What’s my son going to work at?

Mary. I don’t know yet.

Martin. Do you think he’ll make good?

Mary. He will if he keeps at it. (Rises and goes R.)

Martin. Well, you’ll keep him at it? (Rises and goes R.)

Mary. That wasn’t our agreement. I only undertook to get him to start to work.

Martin. Hum.

Mary. (Quickly) Isn’t that true?

Martin. Quite—quite. I was just thinking we might make some new agreement to have you keep him on the job.

Mary. (Rubbing her fingers as if handling money) I’m a business woman.

Martin. What strikes you as fair?

Mary. I’d rather the proposition came from you.

Martin. What do you say to your present salary, and at the end of the year I will personally give you a check for twenty-five per cent of what Rodney has made.

Mary. Oh, that wouldn’t interest me at all.

Martin. What’s your proposition, then?

Mary. (Promptly) My present salary doubled.

Martin. Um—that’s pretty steep.

Mary. You told me what I’d done already was worth $50,000 to you.

Martin. Merely a figure of speech, my dear. Let’s see, you’re getting $40 a week, and....

Mary. $50, and I want $100.

Martin. Sounds like a hold-up. (Crosses R.)

Mary. Then let’s drop it. This new contract was your idea, not mine. Good-evening. (She starts to go, gets to door, which she bangs as if she had gone. She remains however in the room)

Martin. Hold on—hold on—(He turns and sees her, and then chuckles at her joke on him. She laughs, too) I was simply figuring. Tell you what I’ll do: $75 a week and 10 per cent of what Rodney makes.

Mary. Seventy-five a week and 10 per cent of what he makes? All right, I’ll go you.