It pays to advertise
Author: Roi Cooper Megrue; Walter Hackett
Date: 2025-01-29T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Man-woman relationships -- Drama; Wealth -- Drama; American drama (Comedy) -- 20th century; Fathers and sons -- Drama

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Title: It pays to advertise

A farcical fact in three acts

Author: Roi Cooper Megrue

Walter Hackett

Release date: January 29, 2025 [eBook #75246]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Samuel French, 1914

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/75246

Credits: Tim Lindell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IT PAYS TO ADVERTISE ***

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

| ORIGINAL CAST
Mary Grayson | Ruth Shepley
Johnson | George Schaeffer
Comtesse de Beaurien | Louise Drew
Rodney Martin | Grant Mitchell
Cyrus Martin | John Cope
Ambrose Peale | Will Deming
Marie | Cecile Bretone
William Smith | Harry Driscole
Donald McChesney | W. J. Brady
Miss Burke | Vivian Rogers
Ellery Clark | Kenneth Hill
George Bronson | Sydney Seaward

SYNOPSIS OF SCENES

Act | I. | Library at Cyrus Martin’s.
Act | II. | The office of The 13 Soap Company
Act | III. | Same as Act I.

IT PAYS TO ADVERTISE

THE CAST

(In the order of their appearance.)

Mary Grayson |
Johnson | Butler at the Martins’
Comtesse de Beaurien |
Rodney Martin |
Cyrus Martin |
Ambrose Peale |
Marie | Maid at the Martins’
William Smith |
Miss Burke | Clerk
George McChesney |
Charles Bronson |
Ellery |

Act | I. | The library at Cyrus Martin’s.
Act | II. | Rodney Martin’s Office.
Act | III. | Same as Act I.

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.

Martin. Good.

Mary. (Goes to desk, takes note-book) Will you just write me a note stating the facts and the consideration?

Martin. You want it in writing? (Crosses to table R. and sits)

Mary. Certainly, it’s always safer that way. (He writes. As he writes) As soon as you see Rodney, you’ll have to discharge me.

Martin. I will, violently. I make a pretty good actor under your direction. How did you like that irate father stuff?

Mary. Great! You needn’t make the note long. Just a memorandum.

Martin. (Holding up paper) How’s that?

Mary. (Reading) I think that covers it—if you’ll sign it.

Martin. (Confused) Didn’t I sign it?

Mary. (Smiling) No, and never put off till to-morrow what you can sign to-day.

Martin. (Signing) There you are. (Hands Mary paper)

Mary. (Sits on table) Thanks. Now, Mr. Martin, there’s just one question I’d like to ask.

Martin. Go ahead, I’ll answer you anything.

Mary. Why is it, when Rodney’s been out of college for two years, that it’s only the last three months you’ve been so persistent about getting him to work?

Martin. It’s like this. You know old John Clark?

Mary. The man you dine with so often?

Martin. Yes, friends and rivals for thirty years.

Mary. He’s in Ivory Soap, isn’t he?

Martin. (Emphatically) I should say he is—one of the big men there. We’ve fought all our lives over soap, but he’s never been able to lick me, and—well, I haven’t been able to lick him, either.

Mary. Perhaps that’s why you’re such good friends.

Martin. Perhaps it is. Anyhow, as it’s fifty-fifty in business, we’ve lately narrowed the fight down to a family matter. You know old John Clark has a son, too: Ellery—nasty, egotistical, self-satisfied young puppy.

Mary. I know, I’ve talked to him.

Martin. Well, old Clark thinks Ellery is the prince of all modern business, and he kept pitying me so much about Rodney’s being an idler—a rich man’s son—it got on my nerves, so lately I made a bet with him.

Mary. A bet!

Martin. I bet him thirty thousand dollars my son could make more in a year than his son could. So I had to get Rodney busy, and he’s got to make good. He can’t be such a pin-head as he looks! If there’s anything in heredity there must be something of me in him, and we’ve got to find it—we’ve got to develop Rodney, dig deep, maybe blast. If he doesn’t win out——

Mary. But he will, I’m sure he will.

Martin. It isn’t just the money. I guess I’m a sentimental old fool, but I’m proud. I want my boy to be Rodney Martin, not just Cyrus Martin’s son, and I want to show old Clark that as a judge of character he’s a bigger fool than I am. If I don’t get that bet——

Mary. But you’re going to, I’m sure you are.

Martin. By George, Miss Grayson, if I weren’t a bit old and on the shelf, I’d marry you myself. You and I could clean up all the loose change in America. (Rodney enters R. Martin, seeing him, changes his whole attitude. Rises) I don’t care to discuss the matter further, Miss Grayson: consider yourself discharged. Good evening. (Crosses to L.)

Rodney. It’s all right, Mary. You can have a job in my office. (Crosses to C.)

Martin. (Scornfully) Your office, ha! (Suddenly) Oh, my foot, my poor foot! (He limps painfully towards door) Your office! It’s a joke, young man!

Rodney. Oh, you needn’t laugh! I’ll show you. (Crosses L. C.)

Martin. (Winking at Mary) Silence, you young puppy. Oh, my poor foot! (He exits)

Mary. Oh, Rodney! (Sits on sofa)

(Rodney goes up-stage, and passes behind sofa so that he is at the R. end of sofa.)

Rodney. Gout’s an awful thing, isn’t it? (Sits on sofa)

Mary. Oh, Rodney, I’m afraid I’ve spoiled everything for you—your future——

Rodney. Nonsense, you’ve made my future. Without you, I’d never have got the idea, the big idea.

Mary. Idea for what?

Rodney. The idea to make money out of; that’s all you need. And, just think, I found it in this book.

Mary. What idea? What book?

Rodney. It’s a cook-book.

Mary. What on earth——?

Rodney. Well, you see, when I was packing I stumbled across this book; it fell open at this page—fate was on the job—it was a hunch. Look!

Mary. (Looking) But what is it?

Rodney. It’s an old family recipe for making cheap soap. It says it’s the cheapest soap in the world. Cheaper even than the manufacturers make it. I’m going into the soap business.

Mary. (Amazed) What?

Rodney. Sure. Father did; look at the money he made. Why shouldn’t I?

Mary. (Rises, goes L.) You’re joking.

Rodney. I’m in dead earnest. I’m going to buck the trust. (Rises)

Mary. But how can you?

Rodney. I don’t know, but I will. You see, I’ll have all the popular sympathy: independent young son of soap-king fights father; don’t buy from the trust.

Mary. But is that very nice to your father?

Rodney. Has he been nice to me? It’s great! Down with monopoly! Hurrah for the people! I’ve heard political speeches like that. Hurrah for the people’s soap! That isn’t a bad name, either. The People’s Soap. (Lays book on table)

Mary. But you haven’t any capital.

Rodney. (Dejected) I never thought of that.

Mary. You’d need a lot of money.

Rodney. (Bracing up) Well, I’ll just have to get it, that’s all, and you’ll be my secretary. Of course, till I make big money I wouldn’t ordinarily have thought of taking you away from father—but as long as he discharged you—well, you work for me now. What does father pay you?

Mary. Fifty dollars a week.

Rodney. I’ll pay you a hundred and fifty.

Mary. But you haven’t any money.

(Johnson enters from door upper L.)

Johnson. Beg pardon, Mr. Rodney, but Mr. Ambrose Peale is here to see you.

Mary. For the fifth time——

Rodney. (Puzzled) Ambrose Peale? Oh, yes, I remember. Ask him to come in.

Johnson. Yes, sir. (He exits door upper L.)

Mary. Who is he?

Rodney. He’s got something to do with the theater. When I was in Harvard two years ago I met him one night in the lobby of the theater. I haven’t seen him since—it was the night we had our egg fight.

Mary. You and Mr. Peale?

Rodney. No, no, the fellows threw eggs at the people on the stage. You see, it was a college play——

Mary. Did you throw eggs?

Rodney. I forgot to bring any. Peale was the manager of the show and was mighty decent to me—kept me out of jail.

(Peale enters from door upper L.)

Peale. Well, well, Rodney Martin, how are you? (To Mary) How are you, dear lady?

Rodney. How do you do? Miss Grayson—Mr. Ambrose Peale.

Peale. Ambrose Peale—that’s me absolutely. Well, I’m still in the show business. (To Mary) Ever see “The Belle of Broadway”? Great show, great girls, great cast.

Mary. Oh, are you an actor?

Peale. (Scornfully) An actor? I should say not. I’m a press-agent.

Mary. Oh!

Peale. But, say, be sure to catch that show; it may leave the city soon—out-of-town bookings, you know—but remember the name: “The Belle of Broadway.” And now if you’ll excuse me, Miss, I came to talk business with Mr. Martin.

Rodney. Business? Surely—surely. (Winking at Mary) I’m a business man—now.

Mary. I’ll be back in a few minutes.

Rodney. Thank you, Miss Grayson. (She exits door lower R.)

Peale. Now, I’m not much on handing myself flowers across the footlights, but do you happen to remember what I did for you the night of the egg fight?

Rodney. You fixed things with the chief of police and kept me from being expelled.

Peale. By George, you do remember. And you said any time you could do anything for me——

Rodney. That’s still true.

Peale. You’re immense, son. Now, it’s this way—have a chair. (He sits. Rodney does likewise) Between you and me, “The Belle of Broadway” is an awful thing—business gone to pot. Something’s got to be done. Some great stuff pulled off to give it a boost, and that’s where you come in.

Rodney. I?

Peale. You’ve got an aeroplane, haven’t you?

Rodney. Yes, but——

Peale. Then everything’s all right. Now you abduct the leading lady, Julia Clark, to-morrow night, in your aeroplane—elope with her——

Rodney. What?

Peale. Sure—some stunt, too—never been done. Julia’ll stand for it—she’s game for any press gag——

Rodney. But I couldn’t do that.

Peale. Certainly you can. I’m telling you Julia’ll stand for it—a bird of a story—no performance. Why? You’re up in the air with the leading lady. The next night standing room only to catch a look at the girl you’re stuck on. I can see the headlines now: Soap King’s Son Takes New Star Among the Stars—with flashlights.

Rodney. But it’s out of the question. (Rises, takes chair to table)

Peale. What’s the matter with it?

Rodney. I wouldn’t do it, that’s all.

Peale. Gee, that’s tough!

Rodney. I’m not backing down—anything in reason, but you see, there’s someone who might object.

Peale. A girl? (Rodney nods) Her? (Pointing to where Mary exited)

Rodney. Yes.

Peale. (Rises and puts chair back) I guess it’s cold: girls are funny about their beaux doing a little innocent thing like eloping with some other girl.

Rodney. Why don’t you try somebody else?

Peale. I have! You were my last card. Well, I’m fired!

Rodney. Fired?

Peale. Sure, that stunt would have kept us going, but now, on the level—well, the show’s so bad, people won’t even go see it on a pass. We’ll close Saturday and I’m out——

Rodney. A fake story like that would really have helped?

Peale. Helped a whole lot: given us a fresh start, and then I’d have pulled off some new stunts and saved my job.

Rodney. Oh, nonsense. If that were true, I’d feel mighty uncomfortable at not being able to oblige you, but an obvious trumped-up lie like that can’t be any good.

Peale. It can’t, eh?

Rodney. Oh, I know it’s advertising——

Peale. You bet it’s advertising. What made Anna Held? Milk baths. What made Gaby Deslys? A dago king.

Rodney. But that kind of advertising can’t be of real value. (Sits)

Peale. Oh, you’re one of those guys who don’t believe in advertising, are you? Now, don’t get me talking advertising. That’s where I live, where I have my town house and country estate, my yacht and motors. That’s my home. Maybe you think love is important? Piffle. Advertising, my boy, the power of suggestion, the psychology of print; say a thing often enough and hard enough and the other chap’ll not only believe you, he’ll think it’s his own idea, and he’ll fight for it. Some old gink, a professor of psychology, showed forty Vassar girls the other day two samples of satin, one blue, one pink, same grade, same value, same artistic worth. One he described as a delicate warm old rose, the other a faded blue. He asked them to choose their favorite. Thirty-nine out of the forty picked the old rose. Why? Because they’d been told it was warm and delicate; no faded blue for theirs! What did it? The power of suggestion—advertising!

Rodney. (Amused) You seem to know something about it——

Peale. I not only seem to, I do. You heard me tell that girl of yours a few minutes ago that “The Belle of Broadway” was the biggest hit in town. Ask her to go to the theater. Give her her choice and I’ll bet you four dollars to a fried egg she picks “The Belle of Broadway.” Advertising!

Rodney. I don’t believe it.

Peale. Well, try it—and say, what makes you go to the theater yourself? I’ll tell you—it’s what you’ve read about the play or what some fellows told you.

Rodney. (Beginning to be convinced) Why, I suppose that’s true.

Peale. And what he tells you, some other guy has told him. Ninety-seven per cent of the public believe what they’re told, and what they’re told is what the other chap’s been told—and the fellow who told him read it somewhere. When you see a thing in print about something you don’t really know anything about, you come pretty near believing it. And all the advertiser has to do is to tell you right and you’ll fall.

Rodney. But I never read advertisements.

Peale. Oh, you don’t, eh? I guess you do. If I say His Master’s Voice, you know that advertises a phonograph. You’re on to what soap “It Floats” refers to. There’s a Reason—Uneeda—Quaker Oats—Phoebe Show—Children Cry For it—Sapolio—Grape Nuts—Peruna—The Road of Anthracite—Spearmint—Pierce Arrow—57 Varieties—Kodak—White Seal—Gold Dust Twins—He Won’t Be Happy Till He Gets It—Bull Durham—Pianola—Cuticura—Melachrino—Clysmic—Goodyear—Steinway—Thermos—Coca-Cola—The Watch that Made The Dollar Famous. I suppose you don’t know what any of them mean?

Rodney. (Amused) Why, I know what they all mean.

Peale. You bet you do. What kind of garters do you wear?

Rodney. Why, let me see: Boston.

Peale. Exactly. What do you know about ’em? Nothing. Are they any better than any other garter? You don’t know—I don’t know—but all my life, every magazine I’ve ever looked into has had a picture of a man’s leg with a certain kind of garter on it—Boston—so when I go into a store to buy a pair of garters I just naturally say Boston; so do you. What do you know about Mennen’s Talcum Powder? Nothing, except that it has the picture of the homeliest man in the world on the box and it’s so impressed your imagination, you just mechanically order Mennen’s. If I say to you, E. & W., you don’t think it’s a corset, do you? If I say C. B., you don’t think it’s a collar, and what about the well-known and justly famous B. V. D.’s? You don’t read advertisement? Rot!

Rodney. But——

Peale. No ‘but’ about it: advertising’s responsible for everything. When a department store advertises a seven-dollar shirt-waist for four dollars, you don’t believe it’s on the level, do you?

Rodney. No, I don’t.

Peale. Neither do I, but there’s a hell of a lot of women who do. When Bryan advertised the Grape Juice Highball, do you know that its sale went up 652 gallons a day?

Rodney. How do you know it was 652?

Peale. I’ll let you into a little secret: I don’t know. I don’t know a damned thing about grape juice, and as long as my health and strength keep up, I hope I never will, but if I said I’d read in a newspaper that the sale had gone up 652 gallons, you wouldn’t have doubted it, would you?

Rodney. No, I suppose I wouldn’t.

Peale. And you’d have told somebody else and he’d have believed you, too. Say, do you drink much?

Rodney. No.

Peale. Can you tell the difference between a vintage wine and last year’s champagne? Sure, you can: it costs more. Son, the world is full of bunk. Ninety-seven per cent of the people are sheep, and you can get ’em all by advertising.

Rodney. You are gradually making me come to the conclusion that you believe in publicity.

Peale. Believe in it! It’s my life. What kind of eggs do you eat?

Rodney. Why, hen’s eggs, of course.

Peale. Why “of course”? Did you ever eat a duck’s egg?

Rodney. Why, no.

Peale. Do you know anything against the duck?

Rodney. No.

Peale. Exactly. When a duck lays an egg it’s a damn fool and keeps quiet about it, but when a hen does, my boy—cluck-cluck all over the place! She’s advertising. So you eat hen’s eggs.

Rodney. You’re beginning to convince me.

Peale. If I’m beginning to convince you, that’s advertising, too. Say, are you for Roosevelt or against him?

Rodney. I’m for him strong.

Peale. I’m against him. I read one paper, you read another. I think he’s a faker, you think he’s a great man. But does either of us really know anything about him except what we’ve read? Have you ever met Roosevelt or talked to him or known anybody who did know him? I haven’t, but the point is, whatever we may think, good or bad, we’ve heard a lot about him, because he’s the best advertiser in the world. And that, my son, is the whole secret of it: get ’em talking about you, get ’em praisin’ if you can, or get ’em cussin’, but for the love of Heaven, don’t let ’em be quiet. Mention your name—have ’em argue about you—boost or knock—be a hero or a villain, but don’t be a dub. Why, give me the money, a little time, a few pages of advertising, and I can sell you shares in the Atlantic Ocean!

Rodney. (Excited) You really believe that with proper advertising you could build up a great business?

Peale. Believe! Look around you: everything’s doing it.

Rodney. And you are out of a job.

Peale. Unless you do the aero-elopement.

Rodney. (Rises) Then you’re out of it. Do you want to work for me?

Peale. Sure.

Rodney. When can you begin?

Peale. Now.

Rodney. What’s your salary?

Peale. I’ve been getting $60, but I’m worth $75.

Rodney. I’ll give you a hundred.

Peale. What is your business? Counterfeiting?

Rodney. No, it’s——

Peale. Don’t tell me. As long as it don’t send me to state’s prison or the chair, it’s all right. Could I have about $25 advance on my salary now?

Rodney. Is that customary?

Peale. It is with me.

Rodney. Oh, all right. (He gives him the money)

Peale. Just as an evidence of good faith. (He counts money) Well, now I’m working for you, what business are you in?

Rodney. The soap business.

Peale. (Grinning) Nice clean business. With father?

Rodney. Against him!

Peale. Oh!

Rodney. My father and I have had a quarrel.

Peale. I know, I know: fathers are very unreasonable these days.

Rodney. I’m going to fight the soap trust.

Peale. Well, you’re no piker. You’ve picked out a nice refined job. How long have you been at it?

Rodney. Twenty minutes.

Peale. How’s it going?

Rodney. Fine, since I got an idea from you.

Peale. They grow all over me—help yourself.

Rodney. I’m going to get a factory, advertise like the very dickens: Soap King’s son fights father—and licks him, too, by George!

Peale. Wait a minute, wait a minute, do you know why your father is the soap king?

Rodney. I suppose because he controls all the soap business in the country except Ivory.

Peale. Exactly, and the way he keeps control of it is by buying out all his live competitors. Now, here’s a blue-ribbon champion of the world scheme. Why don’t we make good and sell out to father?

Rodney. No, I don’t care to do that. I want to make good myself.

Peale. Well, if father is forced to buy you out, isn’t that enough? What do you want?

Rodney. I’ve got to be a success on my own. I’ve got to show father, and—Miss Grayson.

Peale. (Comprehending) Oh! Making good with the dame, eh?

Rodney. You see, father says I can’t earn five dollars a week.

Peale. He isn’t right, is he?

Rodney. No, sir, you’ll see.

Peale. I hope so. Pretty tough if you couldn’t. Some job trying to sell soap if father’s against us.

Rodney. I suppose it is.

Peale. I tell you: why not make such a hit with the soap, advertise it so strong, he’ll just have to back you?

Rodney. Now that’s settled, we’re going to lick father.

Peale. Yes, that’s settled. What do I do?

Rodney. You write the ads that make us.

Peale. It’s my chance. Think, I’ll never have to see “The Belle of Broadway” again! I’ll write ads, I’ll conduct a campaign that’ll keep your father awake, and in three months at the most he’ll be begging for a chance to back us.

Rodney. I believe we’ll do it.

Peale. Come on, come on. Let’s get busy. What’s the name of the soap?

Rodney. It hasn’t been named.

Peale. Well, what is there about it that makes it different from any other soap?

Rodney. I don’t know.

Peale. Well, what could there be about some soap that was different from some other soap?

Rodney. Well, let’s see.

Peale. Where did you get it from?

Rodney. From this cook-book.

Peale. Are you kidding me?

Rodney. No. Half an hour ago I decided to go in to business, and I happened to find this recipe for soap in a cook-book—it’s the cheapest soap in the world. (Reflecting) That’s not a bad title: the cheapest soap in the world. (A pause. They reflect)

Peale. You’re wrong, son. There’s an awful bunch of people that buy a lot of expensive stuff, not because it’s better, but because it costs more—and the poor nuts think it ought to be better—so can that cheap stuff.

Rodney. Well, how about The Most Expensive Soap in the World?

Peale. My boy, I could kiss you. A pupil after my own heart—fifty cents a cake.

Rodney. A dollar, and we’ll make it a warm delicate old rose.

Peale. Each cake in a separate box with a paper rose on the lid.

Rodney. Great.

Peale. But what’ll we call it?

Rodney. Old Rose.

Peale. Rotten—doesn’t mean anything.

Rodney. Let’s think.

Peale. I am thinking. I never stop.

Rodney. The Soap that Made Pittsburg Clean.

Peale. Too long, and no good anyway, because Pittsburg isn’t clean. You need something catchy.

Rodney. I had an idea a while ago: The People’s Soap.

Peale. Not if you’re going to catch the rich boobs.

Rodney. That’s true.

Peale. We need something that’s universally appealing. What is it? What is it?

Rodney. (Looking off-stage toward where Mary went) Love.

Peale. Slush.

Rodney. Money.

Peale. (Suddenly) I’ve got it: Superstition—everybody’s superstitious.

Rodney. Rot! I’m not.

Peale. I say, there’s a bit of luck for us right at the start—a pin with the head toward you. (Rodney stoops to pick it up) See, you were going to pick it up! Everybody is superstitious. Oh, they say they’re not, just as you did, but did you ever meet a guy who, if he didn’t mind walking under a ladder, didn’t hate to spill salt, or else he wanted to see the moon over his right shoulder—or he picked up pins, or carried a lucky coin, wouldn’t do things on Friday? Why, the whole world’s superstitious. Get something on that and you hit everybody. I’ve got eighty-six horseshoes home myself. I never saw a gink that would sit thirteen at table. We’re all crazy. (They pause and think. They both sit on end of table)

Rodney. Could we—?

Peale. What?

Rodney. No. (They pause)

Peale. Suppose we—?

Rodney. What?

Peale. No—(Pause)

Rodney. Wait! Wait—listen! The Thirteen Soap—Unlucky for Dirt.

Peale. (Coming over and kissing Rodney on the brow) Son, it’s all over: the old man’ll be on his knees in a month.

Rodney. We open the office Monday.

Peale. Where’s the office?

Rodney. Let’s get one.

Peale. With furniture and everything. Say—(Mary enters from door lower R. Seeing her) There’s the dame; ask her to go to the theater, just to prove what I say. See for yourself. (He goes up-stage)

Rodney. (Turning to her) Oh, Mary, to celebrate, let’s go to the theater to-morrow night?

Mary. I’d love to.

Rodney. What do you want to see?

Mary. I hear “The Belle of Broadway” is very good.

(Peale yawns and stretches out his arms complacently.)

Peale. (To Rodney) I guess I don’t know about advertising, eh? (To Mary) My last official act is giving you a box for to-morrow night. (He writes)

Mary. Oh, yes, you’re with that play, aren’t you?

Peale. I am. (Handing her pass) Er—I was.

Mary. But isn’t it an imposition?

Peale. Not on us, it isn’t.

Mary. Thank you. (Crosses to Rodney. To Rodney) I didn’t mean to bother you, but I’m so interested: I thought, regarding Mr. Peale’s business, I’d like to hear——

Rodney. It’s all settled, Mary. Mr. Peale, my general manager. Mr. Peale, my secretary. Mary, here it is: The Thirteen Soap—Unlucky for Dirt: The Most Expensive Soap in the World.

Mary. (Genuinely) Why, that’s perfectly wonderful—who thought of it? (Looking at Peale)

Rodney. I did.

Mary. (Turning to him) You did, really? Why, you’re splendid.

Peale. Youth, brains, efficiency—that’s our motto.

Rodney. We’ll make a hundred thousand dollars the first year—sure.

Mary. (Reflectively) And ten per cent of that is——

Rodney. What?

Mary. (Quickly) Oh nothing, nothing—I was just figuring.

Rodney. We’re going to make our soap famous by advertising, and then force father to back us.

Mary. That sounds bully, and at the start you won’t need much capital.

Rodney. Capital?

Peale. With fifty thousand dollars I can make the Great American People have hysterics for the Thirteen Soap.

Rodney. Fifty thousand dollars, and I’ve got only a thousand. Oh! (Sits on chair R. of desk)

Mary. Oh! (Sitting on sofa)

Peale. (Sitting in arm-chair L. of table) But can’t you raise it?

Rodney. (To Peale) How?

Peale. Don’t ask me. Raising money is the only thing I never got on to——

Rodney. Peale, you’re fired.

Peale. Well, it was a good job while it lasted.

Rodney. (Rises) Gimme back that $25.

Peale. (Rises, take out money and returns it to Rodney) Good-bye, old pal.

Mary. (Rises, and comes down-stage between Rodney and Peale) But couldn’t you start with less?

Rodney. Of course we could. Couldn’t we, Peale?

Peale. Not and do it right. No use wasting money piking when you advertise. Splurge, my lad, splurge or let it remain dormant.

Rodney. I’ve got a thousand in the bank; the aeroplane’s worth four—it cost eight.

Peale. Then if you’re lucky it might sell for two.

Rodney. The motors ought to bring another four. That’d be seven, isn’t that something?

Peale. Seven thousand is not to be spoken of venomously, but in advertising—well, going easy, it might last you a week.

Mary. I have a——

Peale. Some money?

Rodney. We couldn’t take money from you.

Mary. No, I know a—a man that might put in five thousand.

Rodney. That’s twelve.

Peale. (Suddenly) Does your father advertise much?

Rodney. I don’t think so; does he, Mary?

Mary. Not very much: he’s conservative. He doesn’t believe in reckless advertising.

Peale. Nothing sensational or exciting?

Mary. No.

Peale. Why, he’s licked now, and I’ll tell you why. We can advertise just for your father’s benefit alone.

Rodney. I don’t quite understand your plan?

Peale. Why, plaster this neighborhood with Thirteen Soap advertisements. Do the same around your father’s office so that every time he went out or came in he’d see Thirteen Soap. We could advertise only in the newspapers he reads. We’d send him circulars every mail. I could make a splurge just for him that would look like we were giving up $10,000 a day. Within a month he’d think that Thirteen Soap was the only soap in the world.

Rodney. How much would it take?

Peale. Five thousand a week.

Rodney. And you could land him in a month.

Peale. My boy!

Rodney. And we’ve got one thousand—all cash, and eleven thousand in prospects. Go ahead.

Peale. You mean I’m hired again?

Rodney. Sure you are.

Peale. Gimme back that $25.

Rodney. (Giving it back) Certainly.

Peale. The best thing you ever did was to engage me.

Rodney. Peale, we’ll be rich men.

Peale. With your money and my ideas, I’ll be a millionaire.

Rodney. Well, I hope I will, too.

Mary. Me, too.

Johnson. (Entering from door upper L.) Countess de Beou—ree—enn.

Mary. Oh, that dreadful woman again.

Countess. (Entering and coming over to Rodney. To Rodney) Vous êtes M. Martin?

Rodney. (Nods) Yes.

Countess. Ah, cher M. Martin—je suis enchantée de vous voir.

Peale. The dame’s looney.

Mary. No, she’s French.

Peale. Same thing.

Rodney. What’s all this, anyhow?

Mary. She wanted to see your father, and she doesn’t speak English.

Rodney. Well, let her speak to me. Fire ahead.

Peale. Say, can you speak French?

Mary. (Surprised) Can you?

Rodney. No, but I can understand it. (Going to Countess) Fire ahead.

Countess. Eh?

Rodney. Let me see—oh, yes. Parlez.

Countess. Ah, mon Dieu—enfin, quelqu’un qui comprend Français.

Rodney. Oui.

Countess. Puis-je vous parler pour cinq minutes?

Rodney. Oui.

Countess. Merci bien.

Rodney. Oui——

Peale. You’re immense, kid.

Countess. (Quickly) Je suis madame la comtesse de Beaurien. Je désire parler à M. Martin àpropos des affaires du savon. Je voudrais obtenir l’agence du Savon Martin pour la France.

Rodney. Wait a minute—wait a minute.

Mary. What did she say?

Peale. She’s a speedy spieler all right.

Rodney. (To Countess) Would you mind saying that over and say it slow?

Countess. Comment?

Rodney. Oh.... Répétez ça s’il vous plait—pas vite.

Countess. Je suis madame la comtesse de Beaurien. Je désire obtenir l’agence du Savon Martin pour la France. Je peux donner cinquante mille francs pour cette agence. Et enfin, voulez-vous arranger cette affaire pour moi? Je suis riche, j’ai beaucoup de recommendations—je suis bien connue à Paris.

Rodney. Wait a minute. Wait a minute. (To Peale) She wants the agency for father’s soap for France and is willing to pay 50,000 francs for the concession.

Peale. How much is that in money?

Rodney. Ten thousand dollars.

Mary. Had I better tell your father? (Goes to door lower L.)

Rodney. (Inspired. Crosses to Mary) No, no, why not keep father out of this? We’ll sell her the agency for the Thirteen Soap—that’d be another $10,000 for us. Peale, she’s a gift from the gods! (Goes to Countess)

Peale. She is. Go to it.

Mary. But how can you sell her your agency?

Rodney. I don’t know—how can I?

Peale. A pipe. Ask her if she’s superstitious?

Rodney. Oh, if I only knew how to talk French!—Madame—êtes-vous superstitious?

Countess. Eh?

Rodney. I mean—superstitieuse? (Countess looks blank)

Peale. She doesn’t get you.

Rodney. No.

Peale. (He goes and takes the Countess’ parasol) Pardon me.... (Starts to raise it. With a cry of protest: “Faites pas ça”, she stops him) She’s superstitious, all right—(To her) It ought to be a pipe to land you.

Rodney. Listen: je suis le fils de Museer Martin—vous savez?

Countess. (Delightedly) Oui, oui.

Rodney. (Slowly) Nous manfacturons, I mean manufacturong—un nouveau savon—see? Savon Treize—(He holds up his fingers to indicate thirteen)

Countess. Oui, oui.

Peale. (Impressed) It must be great to have a college education.

Rodney. Savon Treize—pas—bon—pour—what the deuce is dirt?

Mary. I don’t know.

Rodney. Oh, yes—sal—pas bon pour sal——

Countess. (Laughing) Savon Treize—pas bon pour sal—c’est bien—c’est bien.

Peale. (Gleefully) She likes it—she likes it.

Rodney. Je start—je begin—je commence—un nouveau compagnie—le très grande compagnie de la universe—je suis le president.

Peale. Je suis le advertising agent. (After laugh, Johnson enters from door upper L. with a letter, and exits door lower L.)

Rodney. I’m the whole thing, see—and if we can do business with you for the French agency——

(Marie enters.)

Countess. Mais non, mais non, mais non, monsieur, je ne comprends pas.

Marie. I beg pardon.

Mary. What is it, Marie?

Marie. (In French dialect) Where is M. Martin?

Rodney. Marie! Another gift from Heaven.

Marie. Mr. Smith to see your father.

Rodney. That’s a man I might get money from. (Johnson enters from door lower L.) He’s a great friend of the family. Used to dangle me on his knee, and all that sort of thing. (He sees Johnson) Oh, Johnson.

Johnson. Yes, sir?

Rodney. Mr. Smith is downstairs—in one minute bring him up here.

Johnson. Yes, sir. (He exits door upper L.)

Rodney. Now, Marie, tell the countess you speak French.

Marie. Je parle Français, Madame.

Countess. Mon Dieu—enfin quelqu’un qui parle Français! Je suis Madame la Comtesse de Beaurien—et je désire parler avec monsieur àpropos des affaires du Savon Treize.

Marie. (Back at her quickly) Ah mais oui—je comprends parfaitement. Je dirai à monsieur ce que vous avez dit. Ah je suis ravie d’avoir trouvé aux Etats Unis une compatriote avec laquelle je pourrai parler ma belle langue de France. (They talk together violently in French, and at the end of the speech, the Countess kisses Marie)

Rodney. Mary, take them away—take them into the library. Explain to Marie about the agency—Mary can translate your slang to Marie and she can turn it into French.

Mary. I’ll do my best. Come, Marie. (Crosses to door lower R., and opens it) Bring the Countess.

Marie. Madame la comtesse, je vous montrerai le chemin——

Countess. Bien.

(Marie and Countess, chattering volubly in French, followed by Mary, exit door lower R.)

Peale. (Looking after them) Paris must be a hell of a place.

Rodney. I’ll tackle Smith for a loan of $10,000.

Peale. Will he fall?

Rodney. (Grandly) My father’s oldest friend. Why, the way I’ll handle him, ten thousand ought to be easy.

Peale. Good luck.

(Enter Mr. Smith from door upper L.)

Rodney. Hello, Mr. Smith. That’s all now, Mr. Peale.

Peale. Yes, sir, I understand. (Winking) He takes 50,000 shares at par.

Rodney. Quite right.

(Peale exits door lower R.)

Smith. Who the deuce is that, Rod?

Rodney. One of my staff.

Smith. (Amazed) One of your what?

Rodney. Staff—I’ve gone into business.

Smith. (Laughing uproariously) You’ve done what?

Rodney. I’m a business man.

Smith. That’s the funniest thing I ever heard of.

Rodney. What’s funny about it?

Smith. You in business! (He laughs again)

Rodney. And as a business man I’d like to talk to you regarding a very interesting business proposition in which I am now interested.

Smith. Nothing doing.

Rodney. (Gulping) I thought I’d like to borrow ten—say a few thousand dollars.

Smith. No.

Rodney. Perhaps five thousand.

Smith. If it was a new club or some tomfoolery, in a minute—but to put money into your business—it’d be just throwing it away. Why don’t you get your father to back you?

Rodney. Father and I don’t agree on the value of advertising.

Smith. Oh, that’s it, and you expect me to do what your father won’t?

Rodney. Well, I thought as a friend of the family——

Smith. You were wrong. Where is your father?

Rodney. In there, I guess. (Indicating door lower L.)

Smith. I’ll bet he’ll think this as funny as I do. (He exits L. Rodney sinks down dejectedly into a chair. Peale enters with contracts)

Peale. Well?

Rodney. (Rises) He wouldn’t give me a cent.

Peale. He wouldn’t? Well, he sounds like your father’s oldest friend.

Rodney. What about the Countess?

Peale. (Proudly) I got her.

Rodney. You did? $10,000?

Peale. Fifteen thousand.

Rodney. Holy jumping Jupiter.

Peale. Pretty good, what?

Rodney. Good? Why—why—I’ll have to raise your salary.

Peale. Thanks, I supposed you would.

Rodney. Where’s the money?

Peale. Oh, we don’t get it till next week.

Rodney. (Dejected) Oh!

Peale. But it’s all right. We’re going to sign the contract with her to-night.

Rodney. But we must have some more cash to start with.

Mary. (Entering) The Countess wants to know how much longer she must wait?

Peale. Coming now. Sign the contract.

Rodney. Sure, I’ll sign anything—I’ll sign it twice. (Signs)

Peale. You know, this has got the show business beat a mile. (He exits door lower R.)

Mary. Oh, Rodney, did Mr. Smith lend you any money?

Rodney. He did not.

Smith. (Re-entering) Oh, Rod—(Seeing Mary) I beg your pardon.

Rodney. That’s all right—you needn’t go, Mary. Mr. Smith, this is the future Mrs. Martin.

Smith. (Crosses to Mary) You don’t say so? Well, well, a thousand congratulations!

Rodney. I suppose you and father had your laugh?

Smith. No, I didn’t tell him.

Rodney. Thanks for that, anyhow.

Smith. Of course, it sounded funny to me at first, but when I thought things over, after all, why shouldn’t you be a success in business?

Rodney. (Amazed) What?

Smith. You have been in everything else you’ve tried.

Rodney. Yes, yes, certainly—sure.

Smith. Of course, you haven’t tried much. But as you said, I am an old friend—and I figured if you gave me your word that you’d return the money within a year—perhaps after all it would only be the act of an old friend to take a chance. That’s what friends are for.

Rodney. Why, that’s simply great of you, by George!

Smith. How much was it you wanted?

(Mary holds up fingers of both hands.)

Rodney. (Promptly) Ten thousand dollars.

Smith. But, didn’t you say—?

Rodney. Oh, I’m sure I said $10,000—that’s the very least.

Smith. Um—well I’ll mail you a check to-night.

(Mary squeaks. Smith looks sharply at her. She stops.)

Rodney. (Enthusiastically) I’ll never forget it. I tell you, old friends do count. Thanks, thanks.

Smith. (Embarrassed) That’s all right—don’t thank me. Good-night, Miss Grayson, and I hope you’ll be very happy.

Mary. Good-night.

Rodney. Good-night. Good-night. (Smith exits door upper L. At door, calling after him) Oh, Mr. Smith, have you your car with you?

Smith. (Off-stage) Yes.

Rodney. Well, tell the chauffeur to drive slow and careful. (Rodney grabs Mary by her two hands and dances around excitedly) Ten thousand—and he lent it to me. Oh, isn’t it great? (He kisses her) Wait till I tell Peale. (Exit door R.)

Countess. (Off-stage, to Rodney) Oh, Monsieur, c’est une affaire magnifique. (She enters, followed by Marie—to Marie) Je vous remercie, Marie, de ce que vous avez fait. Ah, les Américains ce sont des gens d’affaires superbes mais les dames—oh, là, là, qu’elles se fichent au diable! (Exits door upper L.)

Mary. (To Marie) What did she say?

Marie. She said the American men are splendid but the women were crazy and they could all go to hell. (Exits door upper L.)

Mary. Oh! (She goes over and knocks three times at door L.)

Martin. (Entering) Well, how goes it?

Mary. Oh, Mr. Martin, he’s perfectly splendid. So full of energy, hustle and ideas. He’s a different man already. You were right: he only needed development.

Martin. Good! Good! You’re not saying this to flatter an old man’s vanity?

Mary. Indeed, I’m not. We won’t have to blast.

Martin. (Shrewdly) Would you rather take a guarantee of $2,500 additional and give up that 10 per cent of his profits?

Mary. I should say not.

Martin. You know, Miss Grayson, you’re making me believe we’ll win that $30,000 from old John Clark. (Crosses down R.)

Mary. Oh, indeed we will: you should have just seen Rodney borrow $10,000 from Mr. Smith, without the least trouble.

Martin. (Smiling) Oh, that was my money.

Mary. What?

Martin. When Smith told me Rodney tried to touch him—well, I thought the least I could do was to back my son, so I sent Smith to make good with him.

Mary. That was nice of you.

(Rodney enters from door R., with dress-suit case.)

Martin. Well, I owed the boy a chance, anyhow. (Seeing Rodney, turns to him, crossly) So you’re still here, are you?

Rodney. Yes, sir, but I’m going. Come, Mary. (Crosses to Mary)

Martin. Really going into business, eh? Well, when you fail, don’t come sniveling back here! You can’t count on a dollar from me.

Rodney. I won’t snivel—and I don’t want your money. I don’t need it. Why, I’d have gone to work long ago if I’d known how easy it is to raise $10,000.

Martin. (Grinning at Mary) You would, eh? Well, what soft easy-going business have you picked out?

Rodney. The soap business.

Martin. (Genuinely annoyed) What? Why, he can’t make any money out of soap. (Crosses to Mary) That takes brains.

Rodney. Oh, yes, I can.

Martin. I control all the important soap business in the country.

Rodney. I know you do, but I am going to take it away from you.

Martin. What?

Rodney. Yes, sir, I’m going to manufacture the Thirteen Soap: Unlucky for Dirt: The Most Expensive Soap in the World! I’m going to break the trust; I’m going to attack monopoly. I’m going to appeal to the American people for fair play against the soap trust. You’ve always wanted me to go into business. Well, I’m in, and forgive me, father, but I’m going to put you out of business. I’m going to advertise all over the world.

Martin. You can’t fight the soap trust with advertising: we’re established.

Rodney. Yes, yes, we can: think what advertising means: the power of suggestion—the psychology of print. Why, 97 per cent of the public believe what they’re told, and what they’re told is what the other chaps have been told, and the fellow who told him read it somewhere. Advertising is responsible for everything. People are sheep, and advertising is the way to make ’em follow your lead. (He is beginning to forget the speech) Say, what makes you go to the theater? (Peale enters from door R. Martin starts to speak) Don’t tell me: I’ll tell you. It’s what you’ve read of the play or what some fellows told you, and the fellow that told him, read it—in a newspaper. (Remembering—rapidly) And that, my boy, is the whole secret of it. You’ve got to be talked about—get ’em praisin’ or cussin’, but don’t let ’em be quiet. I want to tell you; what kind of duck eggs do you eat?

Martin. (Aghast) What?

(The curtain begins to fall.)

Rodney. Do you know anything against the duck? No, you don’t, but when a duck lays an egg it’s a damn fool and keeps quiet, but when a hen does—cluck, cluck, all over the place! Advertising!

(The curtain is down.)

(The Second curtain:—Peale and Rodney on either side of Martin, are talking advertising, while Mary has her fingers to her ears.)

(The Third curtain:—Martin is protesting angrily to Mary, while Rodney and Peale are talking gleefully to each other and shaking hands.)

Curtain.

ACT II

Scene: The private office of the 13 Soap Company. A rather commonplace room, furnished comfortably but not elaborately. The walls have several posters extolling the virtues of 13 Soap—such as “Do you believe in signs?” “13 Soap is unlucky for dirt.” “Be Clean. Cheap Soap for Cheap People.” “13 Soap is the most expensive soap in the world, one dollar a cake.” There is a particularly large stand in the up-stage wall bearing the legend:

“The average cake of soap gives you 56 washes. A cake of 13 soap gives you only 24,

But
What Washes!”

There is a door on the left and two more at right. At back are windows through which the audience sees the building across the street literally covered with 13 Soap posters. There is a desk, down C., with chairs, cabinets, a hatrack, a water-cooler, a safe, etc., which complete the equipment of the room. Light oak office furniture. Three telephones, one on stand right, one on desk left, and one on desk center. Shades on windows. All over carpet. Four brackets.

The time is one month after the first act, about ten o’clock in the morning.

The curtain rises on an empty stage. Rodney’s voice heard off-stage:

Rodney. (Enters from door upper R.) Forward march! (Six sandwich-men enter door upper R., bearing boards: “13 Soap—unlucky for dirt”) Halt! (They stop) Now, you understand you’re all to go down to Mr. Cyrus Martin’s office, 226 Broadway, and parade there all day—and to-morrow the same thing. Be in front of his house to-night at six sharp, you understand?

Sandwich Men. Yes, sir.

Rodney. Then forward march! (They exit through door L. Rodney goes to his desk. Business with papers, etc. Peale enters from door upper R.)

Peale. Hello, little boss. Holy Peter Piper, you’ve shaved off your mustache!

Rodney. (Grinning) Yes, I’m just beginning to get on to myself. By George, I certainly used to look like the devil. Do you observe the clothes?

Peale. (R. C. Crosses up; removes coat, and places it L. of C. corner L. of desk) Why, you are getting to be a regular business man.

Rodney. Business is great stuff. I thought it’d bore me, but it’s immense; it’s the best game I ever played. What’s the news with you?

Peale. We only just got back from Buffalo this morning.

Rodney. We?

Peale. (Sits in chair L. of desk) Yes, your father and I. He went to the Iroquois in Buffalo. I had all the billboards in the neighborhood plastered thick—and 48-sheet stands along the streets to the Union Station. From the time the old man got in until he got out, he couldn’t look anywhere without seeing 13 Soap. I even found out the number of his room and had a small balloon floating 13 Soap streamers right outside his window. I took a page in all the Buffalo papers—bribed the hat boy to keep putting circulars in his hat every time he checked it, and sent him one of our new folders every mail. They have eight mails a day in Buffalo. I came back with him on the train and when he went into the washroom last night I had the porter say “Sorry, sir, we ain’t got no Thirteen Soap, but you can’t hardly keep any on hand—it’s such grand, grand soap.” (Rises and crosses to R.)

Rodney. Gee, that’s great. (Crosses to L.)

Peale. Well, what’s on for to-day?

Rodney. I’ve got a bully new advertising scheme. When you go into a barber shop where do you look?

Peale. At the manicure.

Rodney. No, no, at the ceiling—we’ll put ads on all the barber’s ceilings.

Peale. (Scornfully) Old stuff! It’s been done—is that what you call a new scheme?

Rodney. Well, that wasn’t my big idea. (Goes up-stage, sits in chair behind desk)

Peale. (Mockingly) No? Well, what is your big idea?

Rodney. Plans for our new factory.

Peale. Plans for what? Have you gone dippy?

Rodney. Here they are. (He produces large blue-print) Pretty real looking, aren’t they?

Peale. You don’t mean you’ve actually got some nut to build us a factory?

Rodney. No, no, they are for father.

Peale. Oh, yes, I must admit that is some idea. (Takes blue-print)

Rodney. If he ever does drop in to make a deal I thought we ought to have something to make a front, something that looks like a plant.

Peale. Plant is right.

Rodney. And by the way, if we can, let it leak out that it’s the Ivory Soap people who are backing us with unlimited capital.

Peale. The Ivory Soap people?

Rodney. Sure, father’s always hated ’em in business. His oldest friend, though, is John Clark, one of the big bugs in Ivory Soap. Clark’s got a son, Ellery, that father dislikes because he’s such a success in business—always held him up to me as a model son to pattern by. It’d make father wild if he thought that old Clark was going to back us; Ivory Soap’s the only bunch he’s never been able to lick. (Rises and goes down R.)

Peale. (Goes down L.) Then that scheme ought to be good for a great rise out of father.

Rodney. Say, by the way, I put over a corker on him this morning: I arranged for a parade of sandwich-men up and down in front of his house. I just sent another bunch to his office.

Peale. Oh, we’re bound to land him sooner or later, keeping after him the way we have.

Rodney. Funny, though, nobody’s tried to buy any soap from us yet.

Peale. Well, it takes time to create a demand. These 200 cakes of pink castile you bought looked swell in our old rose wrappers, didn’t they?

Rodney. Say, where’s Miss Grayson? Have you seen her to-day?

Peale. No, and it’s after eleven.

Rodney. I’ll bet she was here before either of us—she always is. By George, isn’t she a corker?

Peale. (Indifferently) Oh, she’s all right. (Takes pad and pencil from pocket and sits in arm-chair L.)

Rodney. All right!? Why, the girls you read about don’t mean anything compared to Mary. She’s got Juliet beat a mile. Every time I think of her I want to yell or do some darn fool thing, and every time I see her I just want to get down and kiss her shoes. I just want to walk around after her all the rest of my life and say “Are you comfortable, my love? Are you happy? If there is anything on the wide earth you want, let me get it for you, Mary.” What a wonderful name that is—just like her, simple and honest and beautiful! Mary!

Peale. (Reflectively) If we could only land one hard wallop on father after that Buffalo business!

Rodney. (Indignantly) Didn’t you hear what I said?

Peale. Not a word.

Rodney. I was talking about Mary.

Peale. I know you were. That’s why I didn’t listen.

(Mary enters from door upper R. with MSS. case. Hangs up hat, then goes to desk, sitting back of it C.)

Mary. Good-morning.

Rodney. (To Mary) Ah, you’re here—now everything’s all right, it’s a great world.

Mary. Don’t be silly; this is a business office.

Rodney. By George, Mary——

Mary. Miss Grayson!

Rodney. By George, Miss Grayson, you do look simply stunning! You’re twice as pretty to-day as you were yesterday, and to-morrow you’ll be——

Peale. Hey, hey, change the record or put on a soft needle!

Mary. (To Peale) Quite right—in business hours, only business. (Takes list of assets and liabilities from case)

Rodney. But you are the prettiest thing——

Mary. Never mind that—you listen to me. This firm’s broke.

Rodney. That we can’t be——

Peale. It must be some mistake in the books——

Mary. Is it? I was surprised myself when I balanced our accounts this morning. I have here a statement of our assets and liabilities. We owe $22,818.09.

Peale. What’s the 9 cents for?

Rodney. What are our assets?

Mary. $133.13.

Rodney. That’s quite a showing for a month.

Mary. Mr. McChesney, the advertising man, was here this morning, and he won’t wait any longer for his money.

Rodney. But we paid him $5,000.

Mary. (Looking at statement) Yes, and owe him $9,400. And unless he has $2,500 of it to-day he’ll put you out of business.

Peale. That’s the trouble of dealing with business men. They’re so particular about being paid. Now, you take a lot of actors——

Mary. But what about McChesney?

Rodney. Yes, what are we going to do when McChesney comes here to-day for money—cash?

Peale. Well, we don’t do any more business with him.

Mary. No, I guess we won’t.

Peale. Well, don’t you worry, old son, we’ll fix father somehow. Nobody can stop good advertising. Why, I met a little fellow on the train last night. He gets $50,000 a year just for writing ads. He says a good trade-mark is 70% of the battle, and we’ve got the best trade-mark I ever heard of.

Mary. You think we ought to keep on advertising?

Peale. Sure, if we can get credit.

Rodney. I suppose we might as well owe forty thousand as twenty.

Peale. Absolutely. Half of all modern advertising success is based on a good trade-mark, and ours is a bird.

Rodney. By George, that’s true, we simply have got to keep going. We’ll manage somehow.

Mary. I like to hear you say that.

Peale. Now you’re talking. We’ll conduct the greatest campaign since George W. Advertising was a young man.

Miss Burke. (Entering with one letter from door upper R.) Here’s the morning mail. (Rodney takes letter, returns front of desk, Miss Burke exits R.)

Peale. Pretty heavy mail. (Coming down L. of Rodney)

Mary. I’ll bet it’s another bill. (Coming down R. of Rodney)

Rodney. Hurrah! Hurrah! It’s from the Countess.

Mary. What does she say?

Peale. (Grabbing letter, and looking at it) Oh, French stuff.

Rodney. She says she was delayed abroad, but that she’s due to-day on the Imperator or Rotter or whatever you call it, this morning, and that she’s coming to see us at eleven.

Mary. It’s half-past eleven now. Oh, dear.

Peale. Fear not. Remember, though a Countess, she is still a woman: give her time.

Mary. Does she say anything about the $15,000?

Rodney. No.

Peale. Well, I’ve got a hunch everything’s going to be all right, or she wouldn’t have written us at all.

Rodney. Her $15,000’ll keep us going for quite a while.

Miss Burke. (Entering from door upper R.) Mr. McChesney is here to see you.

Mary. The advertising man. (Goes to typewriter desk, and pounds on it)

Miss Burke. He seems very angry, too.

Rodney. Tell him I’m out. (Goes to chair behind desk and sits)

McChesney. (Entering from door upper R.) Thought I’d come right in instead of waiting to have her tell me you were out. (Going to Rodney)

(Miss Burke exits.)

Rodney. (Genially) Why, hello, Mr. McChesney.

Peale. (Trying to shake hands) How are you, Mac?

McChesney. (Throwing him off) You may be in the soap business, but cut out the soft soap with me. Where’s my money? Have you got it?

Rodney. Why—er—the fact is——

McChesney. That means you haven’t.

Rodney. Well, you see——

McChesney. That doesn’t go with me. Do you think you can put me off? You can bet your blooming liabilities you can’t. I think this whole concern is bunk and I’m going after you good——

Rodney. I don’t care for that kind of loud talk. Drop it.

Peale. Drop it.

McChesney. (Surprised) What?

Peale. He said, drop it.

Rodney. It’s simply that I haven’t had time to examine your bill in detail. This afternoon, however, I——

McChesney. I’ve heard that before. Now, see here, Mr. Martin—your father’s an honest man: he won’t stand for his son not paying me my money. I’ll see him now. (He starts for door)

Rodney. Wait a minute, wait a minute. I’ll give you a check for $2,500 on account. I presume that will be satisfactory.

McChesney. (Taken aback) Why, yes—sure—but——

Rodney. You understand, Mr. Peale, that not a cent of that fifty thousand dollars we appropriated for our October advertising campaign is to go to him?

Peale. Absolutely.

McChesney. Now, Mr. Martin, I’ll admit I’m hasty tempered. I’m sorry I made a mistake, but a contract is a contract and——

Rodney. Here’s your check. Good-day.

McChesney. But, Mr. Martin——

Rodney. Show Mr. McChesney out.

Peale. (Goes to McChesney, takes his arm and leads him to door upper R.) Come on, Mac—this way to the elevator. (Delighted) Watch your step.

(Mr. McChesney exits.)

Rodney. (Gleefully) Well, I fixed him, didn’t I?

Mary. (Rises and goes to Rodney) No, you’ve only got us into more difficulty. You know, there’s no money in the bank.

Rodney. But the check won’t go through the clearing-house until to-morrow morning and by then we’ll have the $15,000 from the Countess.

Peale. But where is the Countess?

Mary. I’ll go telephone now to see if the Imperator’s docked yet.

Peale. I’ll bet she sank in mid-ocean!

Miss Burke. (Entering) Mr. Ellery Clark to see you.

Rodney. How I hate that fellow!

Peale. What’ve you ever done to him?

Rodney. Nothing. I wish I could. That’s the fellow I told you about. John Clark’s pride.

Peale. Oh, yes, the son of Ivory Soap. Let’s have a peek at him?

Miss Burke. Yes, sir. (She exits)

Peale. I never saw a model son before.

Mary. (She starts down R.) Oh, Rodney, find out how Ellery’s doing in business, will you?

Rodney. Oh, I suppose so.

(Mary exits door lower R.)

Peale. (Crosses to arm-chair L.) You’re spoiling that girl. She used to be a good business woman. Now half the time, instead of using her brains she just sits and looks at you as if you were some marvellous antique work of art. (Sits)

(Ellery enters door upper R.)

Ellery. Hello, Rodney, mind if I come in?

Rodney. I’m very busy to-day, Mr. Clark.

Ellery. Oh, I suppose you are. Must take a lot of time to get up your advertisements.

Peale. (Rises, goes to Ellery and offers hand) You like ’em? I write ’em! My name’s Peale! (Goes back to chair L. Sits)

Ellery. (Turning from him, bored) How do you do? (Sits in arm-chair R.)

Rodney. What is it, Mr. Clark?

Ellery. You see, it’s like this, old top. I’ve been having rather a time with father lately—silly old man—insisted on the absurd idea of my going into business. Beastly bore.

Rodney. But you wanted to do that?

Ellery. I should say not.

Rodney. But I thought you loved work?

Ellery. It’s a preposterous idea—men of intelligence go in for the professions. I paint.

Peale. (Half aside) You look it!

Rodney. I’d heard you were a model son.

Ellery. But I don’t consider it a compliment to be a success in business—think of all the blighters who are.

Peale. Yes, the bally rotters!

Ellery. Father keeps reminding me of your success every day—most irritating. You see, of course he’s sore, because I never bothered much about business. Oh, I have tackled a thing or two. But luck was always against me. It just happened it didn’t work out right. Not my fault, you understand?

Peale. You couldn’t be to blame.

Ellery. Of course, if I ever devoted myself to business! But, after all, when you know you can do a thing you want to, why bother to do it, if it bores you?

Peale. Yes, life is a damn nuisance.

Ellery. (Sighing) And father has been so offensive lately, I’ve decided to give a little time to business and make a success of it. I can, you know.

Rodney. Indeed?

Peale. Seems simple.

Ellery. Oh, rather. I have it all figured out. For my scheme I’ve got to raise seventy-five hundred dollars, and I wanted to talk to you about it. This idea of mine is an automobile proposition. I really need $10,000, and I’ve only got $2,500.

(Rodney and Peale exchange looks and walk over to Ellery, one on each side of him.)

Rodney. Ellery, why do you want to go into the automobile business? It’s dangerous—unsafe——

Peale. The risk’s tremendous.

Rodney. Ellery, our families are old friends. Now, if you really want to show your father you’re a money-maker, why don’t you buy some shares in our company?

Ellery. I don’t care much about the idea of being in the soap business—rather vulgar.

Rodney. But you don’t have to be in the business.

Peale. Absolutely not.

Rodney. It’s a very simple proposition. All you do is invest and then sit still and deposit your checks when we pay dividends.

Ellery. I say, that sounds a bit better.

Rodney. We’re not letting the general public in—but it’d be such a joke on your father for you to make money.

Ellery. Yes, wouldn’t it? (They all laugh) I fancy he’d be mighty glad I had sense enough to go in with you.

Rodney. Yes, wouldn’t he?

Ellery. But is it a safe investment?

Rodney. Why, we’d guarantee you against loss from our assets.

Peale. Yes, from our assets.

Ellery. That sounds rather ripping. But what would I get for my twenty-five hundred?

Peale. A receipt.

Ellery. I know, I know, but what interest in the business?

Rodney. Two and one-half per cent.

Ellery. I say, is that much?

Rodney. Think what two and a half per cent in the steel trust would mean.

Peale. And more people use soap than steel.

Ellery. (Wisely) Isn’t steel dearer?

Rodney. It’s quantity that counts.

Peale. Four cakes a year to every person in this country would represent an annual output of 400,000,000 cakes—and think of all the babies who’ll be born next year. They’ll all have to be washed.

Ellery. Very true, very true. What is the annual birth-rate?

Rodney. Let me see, let me see; do you know, Peale?

Peale. There’s one born every minute.

Ellery. I fancy that’s true.

Peale. You can bet it is.

Rodney. Now, what do you say, Ellery, about investing in our company?

Ellery. (After a long pause, rises and shakes hands with Rodney) I’ll do it.

Peale. God’s in His Heaven, all’s right with the world! (Crosses L.)

Rodney. Have you the money with you?

Ellery. Why, no.

Peale. Then you’ll send us a check to-day?

Ellery. I don’t get the money until next week.

Rodney. Why not?

Ellery. Father didn’t promise it to me till next Monday.

Peale. Well, ask him for it now.

Ellery. Oh, I’m afraid I can’t. He’s out of town.

Rodney. We can’t agree to hold the matter open until next Monday. (Goes to chair behind desk and sits)

Peale. No, not till way next Monday. Why don’t you telephone him?

Ellery. Yes, that wouldn’t be so distressing. If I can get him—I find him considerably easier to talk to on the ’phone. I can always ring off.

Peale. Come this way—it’ll be quieter for you if he’s noisy. (Goes to Ellery, takes his arm, and leads him to door lower R.)

Mary. (Enters door lower R.) Oh, how do you do, Mr. Clark?

Ellery. Oh, how do you do? (They shake hands)

Peale. (Pushing him out) Never mind the social chatter. Ellery, you don’t mind my calling you Ellery—do you, Ellery? (To her) You see, Ellery has work to do. (Exit Ellery. Mary goes to L.) If that’s a model son, thank God I was born a black sheep!

Rodney. (To Mary) Has the Imperator docked?

Mary. Three hours ago.

Peale. Then I’ll bet the Countess has been hit by a taxi! (Drinks)

Mary. Oh, Rodney, did you find out how well Ellery’s doing?

Rodney. Oh, great! Hasn’t made a cent. Wanted to borrow some money from me.

Mary. Your father’d be glad to hear that.

Peale. Oh, where is our wandering Countess? (Crosses to L.)

Miss Burke. (Entering) The Countess de Boureen.

Peale. By golly, she enters on the cue.

Rodney. We’re saved now.

Mary. Oh, I do hope so.

Rodney. Get her right in here, quick.

(Miss Burke exits.)

Ellery. (Sticking his head in at door) How do you use this ’phone? I’ve never run a switchboard!

Mary. Oh, I’ll come show you. (Crosses to R.)

Ellery. Oh, thank you. I’m not much at mechanical problems. (He exits)

Rodney. (To Mary as she goes) And get his father for him; it may mean $2,500 more for us.

Peale. (Runs to door R. shouting to Mary) Do anything: hold his hand—kiss him! (She exits. To Rodney) Do you need an interpreter for the Countess?

Rodney. (As he speaks, goes over and pulls down a shade on which is painted an advertisement in French) I can understand anything she says about money. You can help me count it.

Peale. That’s the grandest sensation I know. (Crosses to L.)

Miss Burke. (Announcing) The Countess de Bowreen.

(Countess sweeps in. Rodney delighted. Goes to her and kisses her hand.)

Rodney. Ah, bonjour—bonjour.

Countess. Bonjour—bonjour.

Rodney. (Pointing to window shade) Regardez.

Countess. Ah, magnifique, superbe, superbe! Je suis désolée d’être si en retard, mais c’est très compliqué à la douane. (Coming down in front of desk)

Rodney. Not at all. (Going to her)

Peale. Not at all. (Going to her)

Countess. (Threatening) Vous avez reçu ma lettre?

Rodney. Letter? Yes, I got your letter.

Peale. (Leaning forward eagerly to her) Oh, you little life-saver.

Rodney. (To her) Mon manager, you remember?

Countess. Je suis enchantée de vous revoir.

(Peale bows very low.)

Rodney. Kiss her hand—it’s French stuff.

(Peale kisses her hand.)

Peale. She looks like money—ask her—ask her.

Rodney. (Nervously) You have the money?

Countess. Eh?

Peale. (Snapping his fingers) Come on, kid, say yes, say yes.

Rodney. Vous avez argent?

Countess. Oui, oui, j’ai l’argent.

Peale. What does she say?

Rodney. She says yes.

Peale. Shall I kiss her?

Rodney. Do you want to spoil everything? Don’t kiss her till we get the money. The money with you?

Countess. Eh?

Rodney. Argent avec vous?

Countess. Oui, j’ai l’argent ici. (Opening bag and taking out check)

Peale. It’s real.

Countess. C’est un chèque de Morgan Harjes pour cent mille francs.

Rodney. (Looking at it) Draft for $20,000 in full payment for French rights of the 13 Soap.

Countess. Je vous donnerai ce chèque pour vingt mille dollars, mais comme je ne vous dois que quinze mille, vous pourrez me donner votre chèque pour cinq mille. Cela finira notre affaire.

Peale. Slip it to me, kid, slip it to me. I’m dying on my feet. (Takes check from Rodney)

Rodney. She says she’ll give us the draft for $20,000, but as she only owes us $15,000, we must give her back our check for $5,000.

Peale. That seems simple, give her the check.

Rodney. But we haven’t any money in the bank. Suppose we get her check cashed first. Then we can pay her.

Peale. Sure, great! I’ll go right over to the bank to get it certified. (Countess takes check from Peale and tears it up) What’s the matter with you? What’s the matter?

(Countess is smiling.)

Rodney. She’s crazy——

Countess. Ah mais non, l’affaire c’est fini maintenant——

Peale. Talk French to her.

Rodney. Pourquoi tear it up—pourquoi—pourquoi?

Countess. Gee, but you’re funny!

Rodney. She spoke English! She’s a fake. (Rodney and Peale stare at her speechless, Peale pointing toward the draft)

Peale. The draft was phoney, too.

Countess. (Smiling) Sure it was.

Peale. But what’s the idea, kid?

Countess. (Sits on desk) You see, I was going to trim you out of your $5,000 check, but as long as you haven’t any money, your check’s no good, so you’ve busted up my whole scheme.

Peale. But why pick on us?

Countess. I didn’t start out to: you wished it on yourselves. I came to trim your father. You remember, I wanted to see him, but I looked so soft you thought you’d grab me off and sell me the French agency of your Thirteen Soap. I didn’t think your father could be as big a boob as you were, so I changed my plans. Do you get me?

Peale. Yes, I get you and now I’m going to get the cops to get you. (Starts up-stage)

Countess. (Laughs. Crosses down L.) I should burst into laughter. Why, you pikers, I’m on: you’re busted. You haven’t any money and you have got a phoney company.

Rodney. Now, see here—(Goes to her)

Countess. Preserve it. Preserve it. (Crosses to center) Don’t forget, I’ve understood everything you two guys were talking about.

Peale. Whew! (Sits in arm-chair R.)

Rodney. Gee! (Goes to arm-chair L.)

Countess. (To Rodney) “Kiss her hand—it’s French stuff.” (To Peale) “Ah, there, you little life-saver.” (To Rodney) “The money with you—argent avec vous?” Gee, your French is rotten. (To Peale, who moves away) “Shall I kiss her?” (A pause) Send for the cops and I’ll blow the whole thing to the papers. (A pause) Well, I guess we’re quits. If you had any money I’d ask for a piece of change to keep me quiet, but as it is, I can’t waste my time.

Rodney. (Rises) You’re not French at all?

Countess. I was educated over there—immense, wasn’t I? You never tumbled at all.

Peale. (Rises) But why the foreign stuff?

Countess. Well, I can talk good French—but my English is punk. (Sits on desk)

Rodney. You won’t say anything now?

Countess. No, I don’t hit a fellow when he’s down. Anyhow, we’re all in the same class. Three fakes.

Peale. She has spilled the beans.

Rodney. Great Scott! And McChesney has our check for $2,500.

Peale. (To Rodney) Gee! We will just have to get that $2,500 from Ellery.

Rodney. What’s happened to Ellery? Let’s find him. (They start for door R.)

Peale. If he falls down on us——

Ellery. (Entering) Can I see you a moment?

Rodney. I should say you could.

Peale. You seem very beastly pleased, Ellery.

Ellery. Oh, I am.

Rodney. Then everything’s all right about father?

Ellery. Oh, yes, so to speak—in a way.

Rodney. Ah?

Peale. (Suddenly suspicious) What do you mean—so to speak, in a way?

Ellery. Well, I couldn’t reach the old man on the ’phone, and that did make matters so much easier. I don’t fancy talking to father on the ’phone.

Peale. Why couldn’t you reach him?

Ellery. (Smiling happily) Why, he’s on his yacht somewhere on the Sound—he won’t be home till Monday, so I can’t possibly get the money for you to-day.

(Rodney and Peale walk up-stage while the Countess drops her handkerchief. Ellery picks it up and smiles back delightedly at her. Mary enters from door lower R.)

Mary. Look out. McChesney’s coming back here—I just saw him across the street.

Peale. Try and keep him out.

Mary. I’ll do my best. (She exits door upper R.)

Rodney. Ellery, you’ll have to go—we’ve got a big job on our hands. Au revoir, Countess.

Countess. Au revoir, Monsieur. (With marked accent) Is there no one to see me to my taxi? These American buildings are so big I am lost.

Rodney. Ellery, you take the Countess.

Ellery. Oh, I’d love to.

Rodney. Madame la comtesse de Beaurien—Ellery Clark.

Countess. Dee-lighted.

Ellery. So am I.

Rodney. (Opens door lower L.) You can go out the private entrance.

Ellery. (Going toward left) Oh, certainly.

Countess. (As they go) You speak the French?

Ellery. No, not at all.

Countess. A pitee.

Ellery. But I can speak German.

Countess. Aber prachtvoll—Ich habe die Deutche sprache so furchtbar gern.

Ellery. Ich auch——

Countess. Warum laden sie mich nicht zum Biltmore zum Thee ein?

Ellery. Mit dem grössten——

Countess. Vergnuegen?

Ellery. (Relieved) Yes, that’s the word—Vergnuegen.

Peale. I’ll bet there’s a Berlitz in her family somewhere.

Countess. Au revoir, Mr. Martin—(Turning to Rodney) Vous êtes trop aimable. Je vous remercie beaucoup de votre politesse. Au revoir—(Goes to Peale—in undertone) So long, kid, call me up sometime. (And then, chattering a stream of German to Ellery, they exit door left)

Rodney. (Closes door after Countess exits) Well, I’ve got to hand it to her. The Countess is a fake. Ellery is a flivver and McChesney’s on his way here with that phoney check. (Goes to his chair behind desk)

Peale. I can see Sing-Sing from here. (Goes to chair L. corner, sits quickly)

(McChesney bursts in, followed by Mary.)

McChesney. No, I won’t wait. You’re two swindlers. I’ve just come from the bank. Your check’s no good.

Rodney. No good! That’s impossible.

Peale. Absolutely.

McChesney. You haven’t any money in the bank.

Rodney. It must be some mistake on the part of our cashier.

McChesney. Yes it is—ask him.

Rodney. He’s at lunch.

McChesney. I’m going to the sheriff now, and unless you make the check good at my office in an hour, I’m going to cancel your advertising, cover up your billboards and send you both to jail, and that goes. (He exits)

Mary. Can’t you pay him?

Rodney. With what?

Mary. What happened to the Countess? Didn’t she give you the money?

Rodney. No, and she nearly got us for five thousand dollars.

Mary. What?

Rodney. She’s a fake.

Mary. The swindler! And the man from the Edison Company is here to say that unless they get some money at once they’ll cut off the current from all our signs, and the agent of the landlord is waiting for the rent. He seems very suspicious and wants to be paid for last month right away. What can I say to them?

(Rodney shakes his head.)

Peale. I don’t know.

Mary. Oh, please send for your father and give in.

Rodney. No.

Mary. You know I want you to succeed, but there’s no use fighting odds like these—you haven’t any money, you’re way in debt, and you mustn’t be disgraced. Please send for your father. I’m sure he’ll help you.

Rodney. I wonder if I’d better? What do you think, Peale?

Peale. I don’t know.

Mary. Do telephone him right away. (Crosses to door lower R.) Now I must try to fix the Edison man and the landlord, or they’ll be in here. (To Peale) What can I say to them?

Peale. I don’t know.

Mary. Oh, I’ll say you’re both out. (She exits door lower R.)

Peale. That’ll be a new one.

Rodney. Do you happen to know the sheriff?

Peale. Not yet. I’d like to have a pull enough to get a cell with a southern exposure.

Rodney. What are we going to do?

Peale. I don’t know.

Rodney. What are you here for?

Peale. I know, but I can’t think.

Miss Burke. (Entering) Mr. Cyrus Martin to see you.

Peale and Rodney. Who?

Miss Burke. Mr. Cyrus Martin.

Rodney. Have him wait.

Peale. Have him what? (Rises and goes to Rodney)

Rodney. Just a minute till I think. When I ring, show him in.

Miss Burke. Yes, sir. (She exits)

Peale. He must be here to make a deal. Our scheme worked—we’ve put it over, and what did it? Advertising.

Rodney. But father’s no fool. We’ve got to be very careful. How’ll we handle it? I’m not used to putting it over on father.

Peale. Don’t forget the factory and the Ivory Soap people and the plans, and get busy. You know. (He makes motions and brings letter-file from rack and throws contents on desk) That rubber-stamp stuff.

Rodney. But isn’t this playing it rather low down on father?

Peale. Oh, don’t get cold feet now?

Rodney. We really haven’t anything to sell him.

Peale. Yes, we have—a trade-mark. You know it’s good, so do I. We only need your father to back us and we’ll make a lot of money for him in spite of himself.

Rodney. I guess that’s true.

Peale. Sure it is, and anyhow all’s fair in love and business.

Ellery. (Coming in at private door left) Oh, I beg pardon, but I was so fascinated at meeting the Countess, I forgot my stick.

Rodney. Can’t see you now, Ellery. (He goes over and pulls down two windows shades on which are painted ads of 13 Soap)

Peale. (Giving him gloves) No, can’t ever see you again, Ellery. Here’s your cane. Now, hurry, Ellery. (He starts to lead him to door)

Ellery. The Countess is perfectly delightful—

Rodney. (Suddenly goes to Ellery) Hold on, hold on, Ellery, can you wait in there five minutes?

Ellery. (Pausing) But the Countess is downstairs in a taxi.

Rodney. Oh, she’ll wait for you, and charge the taxi to Mr. Peale. He’ll be right in and explain everything to you.

Peale. Oh, yes, I’ll explain.

Ellery. I don’t want to detain the Countess too long. Hate to keep a lady waiting—all that sort of thing. You know what women are. (He exits left)

Peale. Now, what is it, what do you want that gink for?

Rodney. Don’t you see?

Peale. No, I’m near-sighted.

Rodney. He’s the son of Ivory Soap. Coach him with some important message from old John Clark to us about a merger, and when father begins to wabble, have Ellery come in with the message. That’ll send father kerflop to the mat.

Peale. (Going) Master! Great, great, I get you. I’ll fix Ellery. This is your father’s Waterloo. (At door) As soon as I’ve taught Ellery his lesson I’ll be right back. I’ll tell him when we ring the bell twice, to bust in with his little recitation.

Rodney. But don’t let him get on to our game.

Peale. He couldn’t get on to anything but a weighing machine. (He goes out left)

(Rodney pushes the buzzer and then takes up the ’phone, keeping his eye on the door. In a moment Cyrus Martin enters.)

Rodney. No, much obliged, but we can’t consider it. No stock for sale—it’s quite out of the question. Good-bye. (Ringing off and then pretending to be surprised, turns and sees his father) Why, hello, father.

Martin. Hello, son.

Rodney. (Rodney gets very busy with papers and rubber-stamp) Sit down, won’t you? Be with you in just a minute.

Martin. (Drily) Thanks.

(Rodney very busy again with filing papers and opening and closing drawers. Martin looks at him in astonishment.)

Rodney. Have a cigar? (He abstractedly passes him a box)

Martin. Thanks—(He bites off end and lights it, and as he does so, Rodney again gets busy with similar business) Surprised to see me, I suppose?

Rodney. Not a bit. (He starts signing a contract. Martin, who has risen, attempts to glance at it, and as he does so, Rodney calmly turns it over and blots it. Martin turns away) There, that’s done! Now, father, what can I do for you?

Martin. Well, my boy—I just dropped in for a social call. The fact is, I’ve rather missed you.

Rodney. I’ve missed you too, father.

Martin. (Abruptly) Thought I’d have a look in and find out how things were going. (Sits in arm-chair R.)

Rodney. Fine—fine—everything’s breezing right along. Of course, I’m always glad to see you, but right now, father I’m pretty busy, so you’ll excuse me if—(He gets busy again with rubber-stamp)

Martin. (With a certain sarcasm) Well, if you can spare the time, I’d like a little business talk with you, Rodney.

Rodney. Certainly, in just a minute. (Gets busy with papers. Pushes the buzzer)

Peale. (Entering) Oh, excuse me.

Rodney. That’s all right, come right in. Father, you remember Mr. Peale—Peale, my father——

Peale. Indeed yes, I recall very well——

Martin. (Gruffly cutting him off) How are you?

Peale. (Sitting in chair left) A bit tired—just back from Buffalo where I’ve been conducting a big campaign.

Martin. Then it is to you I should address myself?

Rodney. Either or both of us.

Martin. (Rises and goes to desk) Then both of you listen to me. You’ve got to cut out this nonsense you call advertising.

Rodney. What nonsense?

Peale. (Weakly) Yes, what?

Martin. This morning there was a parade of sandwich-men in front of my house for two hours. I had to have them arrested. I got to the office to find another bunch. It annoys me.

Rodney. I’m sorry, father.

Martin. You’re trying to make a fool of me. I open a letter. It’s a circular for 13 Soap. I open my newspaper—you have a page ad. I look out of the window—there’s a billboard—I take a train, the damned porter apologizes because he’s all out of 13 Soap.

Rodney. Well, of course, all that proves how wonderful our publicity is.

Martin. (Grimly) You’re a grand young bluff, my son.

Rodney. Why, father, what do you mean?

Martin. I’ll tell you exactly what I mean: I’ve let you ramble on to see just how far you would go, but you’ve been spending a lot of money on ridiculous advertising, hoping that by annoying me I’ll buy your business to get rid of you. Well, I’m not going to. Now what have you got to say to that? Eh—eh?

Peale. (Rises quickly) Nothing—absolutely nothing. (Sits)

Rodney. (Quickly) But I have a lot to say. We may not have a big business now, but we have got a trade-mark, the catchiest trade-mark ever invented for soap. We’re a growing concern. Just because our advertising annoys you, you mustn’t think it’s valueless. Why, it’s so good that capital is chasing us: our money is practically unlimited. Is that a fair statement, Peale?

Peale. (Dazed at Rodney’s bluff) Very fair—very fair indeed——

Martin. Bluff, son, bluff!

Rodney. Not at all. And since you’re so skeptical, father, I don’t mind letting you see the plans for our new factory. (Takes plans from desk)

Martin. New factory?

Rodney. Yes, father—these are the offices, this is Miss Grayson’s office, this is Mr. Peale’s office, and this is mine.

Martin. Well, aren’t you going to make any soap?

Rodney. Right here, where our capacity will be——

Martin. Who’s putting up the money?

Rodney. (Reprovingly) Now, father, you cannot expect me to divulge a business secret to you, a rival manufacturer.

Peale. Oh, why not tell him, he is your father?

Rodney. Well, Peale, if you really think it is wise?

Peale. Oh, yes, I think it’s quite wise.

Rodney. It’s the Ivory Soap people.

Martin. (At once impressed and annoyed) The Ivory Soap people?

Peale. (Rises and goes to desk. Rubbing it in) Yes, the Ivory Soap people.

Martin. You mean John Clark?

Rodney. Yes.

Peale. Absolutely. (Martin turns and reflectively walks up-stage. Peale very obviously picks up push-button and pushes buzzer twice; it rings off left. There is a pause, and then in a moment, Ellery enters)

Ellery. Oh, excuse me. I didn’t know your father was here.

Rodney. (Very genially) That’s all right, Ellery.

Peale. (The same) Come right in.

Ellery. How do you do, Mr. Martin?

Martin. (Gruffly) How are you, Ellery?

Ellery. Well, I really can’t wait any longer. The party downstairs in the taxi—you follow me?

Peale. Yes, Ellery you told us that——

Ellery. Well, good-bye, then.

Rodney. Was that all you came in to say?

Ellery. (Remembering) Oh, yes, of course. If you’ll keep it open until Monday I’ll get the money for you then.

Rodney. But we can’t wait till Monday.

Ellery. But Mr. Peale told me——

Peale. (Interrupting quickly) We’ll see what we can do, but just now, Ellery, we’re very much occupied. (He has him by the arm)

Rodney. Oh, just a minute: you’d better give your father back the plans—say they’re quite satisfactory. (Gives plans to Peale)

Ellery. What plans?

Peale. Don’t you know?

Ellery. No.

Peale. That’s too bad. Well, good-bye, Ellery.

Ellery. I say, I do find business very confusing. (He exits)

Peale. (As he comes back) Ellery talks too much.

Rodney. He is very indiscreet—if it had been anybody but father he’d have given our whole plan away.

Martin. What’s he doing here—acting for his father?

Peale. Absolutely.

Martin. You’re not going to take him in—that pin-head? Why, he didn’t even seem to know what he was trying to get at.

Peale. No, he didn’t, did he?

Rodney. But after all, he does represent Ivory Soap.

Peale. Great soap, Ivory! Over 99 per cent pure. (Sits in arm-chair L.)

Martin. (Grunting) Ivory Soap? (He walks up and down while Rodney and Peale exchange gleeful glances. After a considerable pause) Well, thinking things over, why should you and I fight?

Rodney. You began it, father.

Martin. Quite true, and therefore I should be the one to call it off. Now, son, here’s the idea: I’d rather have you with me than against me—the money doesn’t matter much. In your way, while I don’t endorse that kind of publicity, I suppose you boys think your sensational ads are good.

Peale. (Rising) Thank you, sir.

Martin. Not at all. (To Rodney) And if you’re going to have a backer, wouldn’t I be better than the Ivory Soap people?

Rodney. After all, blood is thicker than business. What do you suggest?

Martin. Suppose I buy you out—including your trade-mark and goodwill?

Peale. Oh, you have our goodwill now, sir. (Rises and bows very profusely, then sits)

Rodney. (Reflectively) Buying us out might be expensive for you, father.

Martin. Oh, I guess it won’t take all the money I’ve got. What’s your proposition?

Rodney. What’s yours?

Martin. Well, I’ll give you $50,000 for your business as it stands.

Rodney. But we don’t want to give up our business. I like business.

Peale. (Grandly) We wish to continue in our chosen profession.

Martin. Well, suppose you take 25% of the profits in addition?

Rodney. It’s a wonderful autumn, isn’t it? These crisp cold bracing mornings.

Martin. Well, I hardly thought you’d grab at that. What will you take?

Rodney. (Rising quickly) One hundred thousand dollars cash, you assume all the contracts and obligations of this company, give us 40% of the profits, a contract for me at $20,000 a year; for Miss Grayson at $10,000, (Peale coughs)—and another for Mr. Peale at the same figure.

Martin. Done. (Shakes hands with Rodney)

(Peale and Rodney exchange looks and shake hands.)

Rodney. I congratulate you, father.

Martin. You needn’t. Your trade-mark might appeal to a lot of superstitious idiots, but as a business proposition I don’t think much of it. But now I’ll show old John Clark he can’t butt into my family affairs or get Ellery mixed up with my boy’s business.

Rodney. Yes, father, we’d much rather have you than Ellery.

Peale. Oh, much rather.

Miss Burke. (Entering) Oh, Mr. Martin!

Rodney. Yes?

Martin. Yes?

Rodney. (Going to her) That’s for me, father. (To Miss Burke) What is it?

Miss Burke. The agent for the landlord says he’s got to see you immediately.

Rodney. (Motioning her to be quiet) I’ll be right out. (To Martin, very nervously) You see, father, we’re thinking of taking larger offices. Come, Peale. We’ll be right back, father.

Peale. Yes, father, we’ll be right back. (They hurriedly exit)

Martin. (Stands there watching them proudly. Miss Grayson enters door lower R.) Hello, Miss Grayson, it’s mighty good to see you again—I——

Mary. Oh, Mr. Martin, I’m so glad Rodney finally sent for you.

Martin. (Surprised) Sent for me? (Goes in front of desk)

Mary. Have you talked to him?

Martin. Oh, yes, he just went out for a minute to see the agent of the landlord——

Mary. Oh, then he told you about that? (Goes to him)

Martin. (Puzzled) Yes, he told me—why not?

Mary. I am so glad to think he wasn’t ashamed to tell you the truth.

Martin. Oh, Rodney always was a truthful lad.

Mary. Oh, I’m so happy you’ve settled with him! You have settled, haven’t you? (Goes to arm-chair R.)

Martin. Yes, sure.

Mary. Oh, good. Isn’t it wonderful for him? (Very sweetly) Just think! Without you he couldn’t have lasted out the day. (Crossing down in front of desk)

Martin. Couldn’t have lasted out the day, ha, ha! Then our little scheme to put Rodney on his feet didn’t work?

Mary. But everything’s all right now. You’re going to help him——

Martin. Everything’s great now—(Knocked off his feet, then recovering himself) Oh, by the way, in our negotiations the one thing that Rodney didn’t fully go into was the nature of the assets.

Mary. The assets! They must have made even you laugh. Why, we haven’t any! (She laughs)

Martin. (Trying to laugh) Haven’t any! Ha—ha—by the way, there was a report on the Street to-day that the Ivory Soap people were going to make a deal with Rodney—build him a factory—

Mary. (Innocently) Oh, there’s nothing in that.

Martin. Are you sure? As I got here, I thought I saw Ellery Clark leaving.

Mary. Oh, he didn’t come here on business: Ellery came to borrow some money from Rodney—isn’t that funny?

Martin. Oh, yes, very funny—but the plans?

Mary. Rodney showed you some plans? He must have been joking!

Martin. (Changing his whole manner) The young scoundrel! (Starts to go up-stage)

Mary. What!

Martin. (Stops) Thank you, Miss Grayson, for telling me. Do you know what he tried to do to me? Hold me up for a hundred thousand dollars, make me think Ivory Soap was backing him, too—and but for you, he’d have succeeded.

Mary. What have I done?

Martin. You saved me a lot of money and kept me from being a fool. Thank you! Good-morning. (Starts for door upper R.)

Mary. You mean at last he’d succeeded in getting you to back him?

Martin. At last! (Coming to her, lays hat on desk) So that was his scheme all the time, was it? He didn’t go into business on the level, but just for my benefit? And you were helping him. Well, he can thank you again for having failed.

Mary. It’s all my fault.

Martin. Yes it is, from the start. You got up the plan of my pretending to put him out of the house——

Mary. Oh, but I tell you, you must help him.

Martin. Help him yourself. You’ve got $5,000.

Mary. But I gave it to him.

Martin. My son took money from you?

Mary. He didn’t know—I pretended it was from a friend.

Martin. Well, you got him in; now you can get him out.

Mary. But your bet—you bet $30,000 with John Clark. You don’t want to lose that?

Martin. Well, if Ellery’s trying to borrow money from Rodney it looks like an even break—and anyhow I’d lose the bet twice over rather than have my son think he could make a fool of his father.

Mary. But he is a good business man: he’d make you proud of him. You don’t know how hard he’s worked, how fine he’s been; he’s simply wonderful. If he could keep on a little longer, I know he’d succeed. If you’ll just help him, he’ll make money. You’ll see he will.

Martin. Of course, you want him to make money. You’re thinking of that percentage contract with me.

Mary. I’m not! Oh, I’m not! I can’t see him fail. Listen: I’ll try to give you back what you’ve given me—I don’t care anything about the contract. I’ll tear it up now if you’ll just help him.

Martin. By George, I believe you really are in love with him!

Mary. (Proudly) Yes, I am—now. But that doesn’t matter. We’ve got to save him—save his business.

Martin. I won’t give him a nickel. Good-bye! (Starts to go)

Mary. But you can’t go like this: he’ll be disgraced! He’s in debt.

Martin. Let him get out of it—it’ll do him good. I’ve been a sentimental fool. I’ve made it all too easy for him. (Coming down R.)

Mary. But that’s your fault, too.

Martin. Yes it is, and I don’t propose to repeat the error. He’s lied to me all the way through. We’ll let him face the truth; now we’ll see what he’s made of.

(Rodney and Peale enter.)

Rodney. (Coming in) Well, we’re going to move. (Goes to desk and sits)

Peale. Yes, nice chap, that fellow. (Coming down R.)

Rodney. Well, Mary, have you heard about our deal?

Martin. The deal’s off.

Mary. But—(Sits in arm-chair L.)

Rodney. (Back of desk) Off!

Peale. Off! (Goes up-stage to window)

Martin. Yes, off.

Rodney. But, why—why?

Martin. Because you took me for a bigger fool than I am. My own son can’t do that to me. I’ve found out now that you’re broke.

Mary. Oh, Mr. Martin!

Martin. (Stopping her) No! (To Rodney) And all the time you were lying to me about the Ivory Soap people and the factory they were going to put up. You thought you could make an ass of me—get the best of me, did you? Well, you can’t. I’m finished with you and your 13 Soap. You’ve got a swelled head, you’re a smart alec, you’re a complete fake, you’re a cheat, young man——

Rodney. (In utter dejection) I guess you’re right.

Martin. (With satisfaction) Ah!

Rodney. I did try to be smart. I was stuck on myself. I thought business was a cinch. But you’re right. I have been a fake. This whole thing never seemed real—it was just fun—like a game; but I’ve waked up, and now it’s serious. I tried to get the best of you, but I’ll take my licking. I don’t want any charity: I know what’s coming to me and I’ll take my medicine.

Martin. (Relenting a little) Well, maybe I’ve said a little too much——

Rodney. No, it’s all true.

Martin. But, see here, I don’t want you disgraced—I——

Rodney. You told me never to come back to you for a nickel, and I won’t. I told you, too, that I wouldn’t snivel—well, I’m not going to. Good-bye, father——

Martin. Now, see here——

Rodney. Please, father, it’s up to me and nobody else, to get out of this. Please go. (He holds out his hand)

Martin. (Gently) Good-bye, son. (He shakes his hand. He exits)

(Rodney sits in chair dejected.)

Peale. (Coming down to Rodney) Now, see here, little boss——

Rodney. Peale, I’m sorry, but you’re fired.

Peale. (Coming over and putting hand on his shoulder) Say, little boss, you can’t fire me. I’m just going to stick around, whatever happens.

(Mary touches Peale on the arm and motions him to go out. He nods understandingly and exits upper R. Mary comes to Rodney.)

Mary. Oh, Rodney, Rodney, it was all my fault. Your father had no idea of the truth—I didn’t understand; I thought you sent for him to help you. I told him about our company. I did it all—betrayed you.

Rodney. But you didn’t mean to: it’s all right, Mary.

Mary. You forgive me?

Rodney. Why, of course: I love you.

Mary. Oh, Rodney, I’m so sorry.

Rodney. (Changing completely. Rises) But if father thinks just because he laced it into me I’m licked, he’s wrong. Maybe I have been a fake but, by George, I won’t be any longer. (Goes down R.)

Mary. You’re really going on? (Goes down L.)

Rodney. When I’ve got you, you bet I am. Say, do you really think a long speech from father and no money to work with are enough to stop me? No, sir; what father said got me for a minute, but I’m not a quitter, and I’ll prove it. There must be something of father in me: I can’t be such a pin-head as I look. I’ll get out of this mess the best way I can, and then I’ll shine shoes or sell peanuts. I’ll start at the bottom instead of finishing there. I’ll make money—I’ll——

Mary. Oh, Rodney, Rodney, now I am proud of you! (She kisses him unexpectedly and heartily)

Rodney. (Overjoyed) What! That’s the first time you ever really kissed me—all by yourself—like that. By George, you must love me!

Mary. You bet I do. (She kisses him again and they clinch as Peale enters excitedly, coming down R.)

Peale. (Entering) Say, I didn’t mean to interrupt!

Rodney. (Still with Mary in his arms) Nothing in the world can interrupt me—What is it?

Peale. A telegram. It’s the first we ever received, and—I was afraid to open it.

(Mary, taking it, looks at it nervously.)

Mary. What awful thing can it be? (Goes in front of desk)

Rodney. Gee, I wonder what it says? (Crosses to her)

Peale. Read it. Read it. (Crosses to her)

Mary. (Having opened it) “Rodney Martin, President 13 Soap Company, 226 Broadway”——

Peale. Go on, we know the address——

Mary. “Ship at once, collect, 50,000 cakes 13 Soap. Marshall Field, Chicago.”

Rodney. Somebody really wants to buy some soap!

Peale. I don’t believe it.

Mary. (Handing Rodney the telegram) But here it is.

Rodney. (Reading) Fifty thousand cakes—it’s true.

Peale. We’ve started—we’ve begun! We’re actually going to sell some soap.

Rodney. The tide’s turned—didn’t I tell you advertising pays? We’ll sweep the country—Europe—Asia—Africa! Go in with father? Not for a million dollars! (Starts up-stage)

Peale. I’ll wire Marshall Field right away. (Starts for door upper R.)

Rodney. Go ahead.

Mary. (Suddenly) Great Heavens!

Peale. What is it?

Rodney. What’s happened?

Mary. That order is no good.

Peale. What! (Coming down R.)

Rodney. Why? (Coming down L.)

Mary. We can’t fill it: we’ve never made any soap. (Start stand staring at each other aghast)

Rodney. What’ll we do?

Peale. Let’s think. (They sit staring straight ahead)

(Rodney sits in chair L. Mary sits on table. Peale sits in chair R.)

Rodney. (Slowly) We must get some soap.

Peale. (Slowly) Yes, I thought of that.

Mary. (Slowly) Where can we get it?

Peale. From a soap factory!

Mary. (Slowly) But they all belong to father.

Rodney. (With dawning hope. Rises) But he can’t know about this Marshall Field order—maybe we could buy some soap before he’d have a chance to stop them selling to us?

(Peale and Mary rise.)

Peale. Great idea—let’s get busy.

Mary. How?

Rodney. Where’s the ’phone book? (She grabs red classified directory from desk) We’ll call up two or three of his branch offices. (He has hurriedly begun turning over pages, as Peale on one side and Mary on the other, help him) Skins, skates, shirts—where’s soap?

Mary. (Over his shoulder) Skylights, skates, slides——

Peale. (The same) Smelters, smoke-stacks, snuff.

Rodney. Ah, here it is! Soap manufacturers—(Skimming down page) 276 Broad—here’s one of father’s factories.

Peale. I’ve got one, too—374 Schuyler.

Mary. So have I: 480 Audubon. (They drop book and each dashes to a ’phone. As they give the number of ’phone, curtain. During two curtains, till they finish lines)

Rodney. 276 Broad.

Mary. 480 Audubon.

Peale. 374 Schuyler—and hurry, sweetie——

(Together)

Rodney. (Holding wire) It’ll have to be Old Rose.

Peale. Castile is the cheapest.

Mary. Order small cakes.

Rodney. Hello, this is the Martin Soap Company—we want to get some soap—pink castile—small cakes—40 or 50,000 cakes immediate delivery—what’s the price?

Mary. Hello, 480 Audbon. I want to find out if I can buy a lot of soap right away—Old Rose—castile—50,000 cakes; we want it this afternoon.

Peale. Hello, son, I want to buy a lot of soap: 50,000 cakes—got to have some of it to-day—smallest size castile cakes you keep. If you haven’t Old Rose—pink’ll do. Who am I? None of your business.

(Together)

(And as all three are talking together violently in their separate ’phones,

The curtain falls.)

ACT III

Scene: The scene is the same as that of Act I, except that it is five o’clock in the afternoon of a day in late October.

Martin is discovered behind the desk, right. Before him is a pile of evening papers and some unopened letters. As the curtain rises he opens one, displaying to the audience on its back page a page-advertisement of 13 Soap. In a moment he turns over to others, gives an annoyed exclamation and tosses it aside. He picks up one of the letters, opens it, gives an angry grunt, mutters disgustedly “13 Soap”, and throws it into the waste basket.

Johnson. (Entering door upper L.) Miss Grayson is here to see you, sir——

Martin. (A bit surprised) Miss Grayson? Well, show her in.

Johnson. Very good, sir. (He exits. Martin opens another paper, again sees an advertisement of 13 Soap and with considerable irritation sweeps the whole pile off the desk as Johnson enters, followed by Mary) Miss Grayson. (Johnson exits)

Mary. How do you do, Mr. Martin?

Martin. Come to get your job back, I suppose?

Mary. No, sir.

Martin. Well, you can have it—at the old salary.

Mary. I don’t want it.

Martin. Oh, Rodney sent you to plead for him?

Mary. No, sir.

Martin. Then, what are you here for?

Mary. To make you a business proposition.

Martin. Why doesn’t Rodney make it himself?

Mary. He doesn’t know I’m here.

Martin. That’s something in his favor: can’t see much use in women tying up in men’s business.

Johnson. (Entering) Mr. Rodney Martin and Ambrose Peale.

Martin. Oh, the whole firm! Send ’em in, Johnson.

Johnson. Very good, sir. (He exits)

(Rodney and Peale enter.)

Rodney. Hello, father. (Crosses to table)

Peale. How do you do, sir? (Coming down L.)

(Martin grunts to them both.)

Rodney. (Seeing Mary) Mary, what on earth are you doing here?

Mary. I came to tell your father about Marshall Field’s order.

Rodney. That’s why we’re here, too.

Peale. Absolutely.

Martin. Let me tell you right now, I won’t back any fake company.

Rodney. But we’re not a fake any longer.

Peale. We’ve actually sold some soap.

Mary. Fifty thousand cakes.

Rodney. To Marshall Field.

Martin. Then why did you send ’em only five thousand cakes?

Rodney. Because after we’d got that much from one of your branch factories you shut off our supply.

Peale. And we couldn’t get any more soap anywhere.

Mary. (Accusingly) And you knew it very well. (Crossing to R. side of Mr. Martin)

Rodney. We’ve still got 45,000 cakes to deliver, if we can get ’em from you. Why let all that money get out of the family? It’s a business proposition.

Martin. No, it isn’t. Don’t fool yourself: I sent that telegram.

Rodney. What telegram?

Martin. The telegram from Marshall Field’s ordering the 50,000 cakes.

Mary. You sent it?

Martin. That day at the office you were pretty game, son, and to tell the truth, I felt so sorry for you, I kind of had to do something, so I sent that wire——

Rodney. So that success is all a bluff, too? (Sits on sofa)

Mary. But what did you do it for?

Martin. Well, I figured an order like that would stall off your creditors, and then I had fixed it with one of our factories to let you have 5,000 cakes at three cents a cake. I knew it would mean some ready cash for you from Marshall Field——

Peale. But how did you square Marshall Field?

Martin. Oh, I just wired ’em I’d be responsible, and, say—(Turning to Rodney, who rises) you had a nerve to charge ’em sixty cents a cake—and I had to pay the bill! That shipment cost me $3,000 for $150 worth of soap. (Peale laughs) That isn’t funny, young man.

Rodney. No, it isn’t: I thought we’d really made good, and all the time it was you behind us——

Martin. You see, my boy, even if you did nearly trim me, I’ve got a sort of sneaking fondness for you. Look here, son, why not quit? There’s no market for dollar soap.

Rodney. But how do you know?

Martin. I had a letter from Marshall Field a few days ago asking me what to do with the soap. They hadn’t sold a cake. I told ’em to dump it in the Chicago River; it might help to clean it up.

Rodney. But you didn’t give our advertising a chance.

Peale. We only finished a great big advertising campaign in Chicago two days ago.

Rodney. I know the soap’ll make good—with that trade-mark.

Martin. If your trade-mark was so marvelous, somebody besides your poor old father would have bought your soap.

Peale. Oh, what’s the use? He doesn’t believe in advertising!

Martin. Oh, yes, I do: sound, conservative advertising, but not the crazy, sensational stuff you go in for.

Mary. Oh, you’re just mad because the soap trust didn’t think of 13 Soap itself.

Martin. Why, we wouldn’t touch a fool thing like that. If you deliver the goods, your goods will advertise you—that’s always been our policy.

Rodney. I’m sorry, father, but you are old-fashioned to knock the modern way of advertising. Why, do you know, the National Biscuit Company was on the verge of failing until they hit on the title, Uneeda Biscuit?

Mary. And since then, they have had over four hundred lawsuits to protect it.

Rodney. Their trade-mark made ’em. They value that trade-mark now at six million dollars.

Peale. Great stuff. (Turning to Martin)—and Spearmint Gum just as a trade-mark is worth seven millions.

Rodney. And the Fairbanks people count their trade-mark, The Gold Dust Twins, at $10,000,000.

Mary. Ever hear of the Gillette Safety Razor?

Martin. I use it myself.

Mary. Tell him about it, Rodney.

Rodney. It costs you five dollars. Don’t you know there’s a mighty good safety razor for a quarter, and dozens at a dollar, but you use the Gillette because Gillette was there first; you buy his razor at a high price simply because of its trade-mark.

Mary. (With gesture) Advertising.

Rodney and Peale. (With gesture) Absolutely.

Peale. Ivory Soap in the magazines alone used $450,000 worth of space in 1913—and at three cents a cake wholesale, that represents 15,000,000 cakes for magazine advertising alone.

Martin. I don’t believe it.

Peale. Yes, and a lot of other guys didn’t believe that iron ships would float or that machines heavier than air would fly, or that you could talk to ’Frisco on a wire or send a message across the Atlantic without a wire. Pardon me, sir, but you want to get on to yourself.

Rodney. Yes, father, you certainly do.

Mary. And you’d better hurry up.

Martin. You’ve got a fine lot of theories, but what have they done for those 5,000 cakes of 13 Soap out at Marshall Field’s?

Peale. Why, we haven’t really spent enough money advertising.

Rodney. That’s true. Every time the American Tobacco Company puts out a new cigarette they start off by appropriating $200,000 to boom it.

Peale. And I suppose they are a lot of boobs?

Rodney. And think what other firms spend! I’ve gone into this thing, father——

Mary. Yes, Rodney, let’s show him our list.

Rodney. Sure, it’s an absolutely accurate list of what some of the big advertisers spent in the thirty-one leading magazines last year. Eastman Kodak, $400,000, Postum Coffee, $125,000, Arrow Collars, $400,000, Melachrino Cigarettes, $100,000, Welch’s Grape Juice, $100,000.

Peale. Grape Juice, my friend!

Mary. Uneeda Biscuit, $150,000. Spearmint Gum, $140,000.

Martin. That’s enough.

Rodney. I’ve only just begun. Grape Nuts, $228,000.

Mary. Colgate’s Dental Cream, $230,000.

Peale. Campbell’s Soups, $186,000.

Mary. Kellogg’s Toasted Cornflakes, $200,000.

Rodney. Quaker Oats, $367,000, and these are only a few. You can’t see how it pays, but you do know that it must pay or they wouldn’t do it.

Mary. Does that mean anything to you?

Peale. Yes. Does it when you realize that those thirty-one magazines have only about 10,000,000 readers?

Rodney. And that there are a hundred million people in this country. Why just to appeal to one-tenth of the population, fifty million dollars was spent in magazines last year, and each year people are getting better educated—more people are wanting to read. It won’t be long before there are 25,000,000 people buying magazines, and you can reach all of them by advertising—get a new market, a new population to deal with. Think what national advertising is accomplishing! It sells automobiles, vacuum cleaners, talking machines, rubber heels, kodaks, washing machines, foods, clothes, shoes, paints, houses, plumbing, electric irons, fireless cookers—mostly to a lot of people who’d never even hear of ’em if it weren’t for advertisements.

Peale. But nowadays it isn’t only people who have stoves to sell or tooth-brushes, that are spending money on publicity. Banks are advertising for money, nations for immigrants, colleges for students, cities for citizens, and churches for congregations, and you sit there thinking it doesn’t pay to advertise.

Mary. Six hundred and sixteen million dollars were spent last year in magazines and newspapers, billboards and electric signs.

Rodney. Bringing education and comfort and fun and luxury to the people of the United States. It’s romance, father, the romance of printing-presses, of steel rails, of the wireless, of trains and competition, the romance of modern business, and it’s all built on advertising. Advertising is the biggest thing in this country, and it’s only just begun.

Martin. (After a pause) Why didn’t you boys go into the advertising business? You seem to know something about that?

Peale. (Fairly tearing his hair) Oh, what’s the use! He’s the old school—we’re new blood. (Coming to L. of C.)

Rodney. (With enthusiasm) Youth has got it on old age.

Mary. (Coming down between Peale and Rodney) You bet it has!

Martin. When you boys get through talking and you’re flat broke and down and out, come around and see me: I’ll show you an old business that has a lot of money that isn’t radical and manages to keep going without wasting a fortune in fool advertising.

Rodney. Then you won’t let us get any soap.

Martin. Risk my business reputation on a silly scheme like Dollar Soap? I should say not!

Peale. Oh, come on. What’s the use of talking to a man whose brain is deaf? (Exit door upper L., keeping in step, single-file)

Martin. (Rises and comes to center) Say when you get a new line of patter, come around. I like to hear you. Dollar Soap!

Johnson. (Enters) I beg pardon, a gentleman to see you, sir. (Johnson hands Martin a card on silver tray)

Martin. “Mr. Charles Bronson.” What does he want?

Johnson. He says he’s from Marshall Field.

Martin. Oh, a kick, I suppose? Send him in.

Johnson. Yes, sir. (He exits)

(Enter Bronson.)

Bronson. (Inquiringly) Mr. Martin?

Martin. Yes.

Bronson. I just arrived from Chicago. I am here in reference to the 13 Soap.

Martin. Be seated. Well, what about it? (Sits in chair L. of table)

Bronson. (Sits in chair R. of desk) While, of course, we understand that the 13 Soap is made by your son, Mr. Rodney Martin, at the same time as you wired us you would be responsible for that order, Marshall Field felt that I should first see you in the matter.

Martin. Humph!

Bronson. We realize, of course, that you are backing your son——

Martin. (Gruffly) Well, why shouldn’t I back him?

Bronson. Of course, of course. That is why we’d like to place our order through you.

Martin. (Amazed) Place your what?

Bronson. Through some error we received only 5,000 cakes, instead of 50,000 but that’s all gone.

Martin. All gone? What happened to it?

Bronson. We’ve sold it.

Martin. Sold it?

Bronson. Yes, and we want the balance of the original order you were kind enough to throw our way, and as much more soap as we can get.

Martin. But only the other day I had a letter from Marshall Field saying they hadn’t sold a cake.

Bronson. (Laughing) I know, I know. We felt at first that of course there could be no popular market for a dollar soap; we weren’t as far-sighted as you were. (Martin clears his throat) But of course, when those extraordinary advertisements appeared, so different from your usual conservative publicity, the sales began immediately! We sold the 5,000 cakes in two days.

Martin. And the advertising did it?

Bronson. Of course, what else? Now we want to handle your goods exclusively in the west—with extensive immediate deliveries. Can that be arranged?

Martin. It ought to be. What do you offer?

Bronson. I dare say we would contract for a quarter of a million cakes of soap.

Martin. (Amazed) A quarter of a million!

Bronson. (Misunderstanding him) Of course we might do a little better if we could settle the matter at once.

Martin. I should have to consult my son first.

Bronson. (Rising) Oh, then perhaps I ought to go see him?

Martin. (Rising) Not at all—not at all. I’ll attend to it.

Bronson. But we thought that you would have full power.

Martin. As a matter of courtesy I should like to talk things over with my own boy——

Bronson. But you control the product?

Martin. Bronson, you can trust me to handle this thing.

Bronson. Of course, of course. When can I see you again?

Martin. In half an hour.

Bronson. Very well. I’ve some matters to attend to. I’ll be back in half an hour. (Going to door upper L.) It’s a wonderful soap, Mr. Martin.

Martin. (Dryly) Oh, wonderful.

Bronson. See you in half an hour. (Bronson exits)

Martin. Wonderful soap—plain pink castile, I’ve got to get in on this. (He goes to ’phone) 1313 Bryant. Hello, is this the 13 Soap Company?

Johnson. (Enters) Oh, beg pardon, sir, but—

Martin. Just a minute. Is Mr. Rodney Martin in? No? Never mind who I am. Good-bye. Johnson, call up my son’s office every ten minutes and let me know the minute he comes in. Don’t tell ’em who’s calling. (Crosses to R.)

Johnson. Yes, sir.

Martin. And when Mr. Bronson comes back, be sure to have him wait for me.

Johnson. Yes, sir. There’s a lady to see you, sir. She speaks English now.

Martin. She does, eh? That’s unusual, isn’t it?

Johnson. I mean, sir, when she was here two months ago she could only talk French.

Martin. Indeed! Well, I’m not interested in the languages she speaks. Who is she, and what does she want?

Johnson. She wishes to see you about the French rights of the 13 Soap.

Martin. The what?

Johnson. The French rights.

Martin. Great Scott! Send her right in.

Johnson. Yes, sir. The Countess de Bowreen. (He exits)

Countess. (Enters) How do you do?

Martin. (Comes down in front of table) How do you do?

Countess. I am the Countess de Beaurien. Your son have told you of me!

Martin. No.

Countess. I bet he have not. He is a cheat—he trick me.

Martin. Now, my dear lady——

Countess. Attendez, you listen to me: two months ago there in that very room, I buy the French rights for the 13 Soap. I pay him 15,000 dollar and now I cannot get any soap.

Martin. You will have to see my son.

Countess. But I have seen him, and he give me no satisfaction. If I cannot get any soap, I must have my money, one or the other, or I put him in the jail. He is a cheat. I have here ze contract. I sue him in the court.

Martin. My dear lady, you mustn’t feel that way.

Countess. Feel! Ah, mon dieu—I trick no one, I play fair, I am an honest woman. Mais je vous dis que je suis honnête, très honnête dans mes affaires. Monsieur votre fils m’a donné le contrat, et j’insiste qu’il est très malhonnête. Je n’ai pas l’habitude d’être si maltraitée, monsieur, et je répète que je ferai tout mon possible d’obtenir les quinze mille dollars que me doit Monsieur votre fils, et s’il ne me les donne pas, je le poursuivrai sans cesse. Comprenez-vous, Monsieur? (She takes the contract from him)

Martin. But I don’t understand French.

Countess. Pardon, Monsieur, always I am excited I speak the French. But! If you love your son, you pay me back, or else he go to jail. What you say?

Martin. But $15,000 is a lot of money.

Countess. Yes. But it is more to me than it is to you. You pay me, or he go to prison. Now what you say?

(Johnson enters.)

Martin. What is it?

Johnson. I beg pardon, a gentleman to see you, sir.

Martin. (Comes to Johnson) Is it Bronson?

Johnson. No, sir. (Johnson hands him card)

Martin. By George, just the man I want to see! Show him right in. Hold on, hold on. Now, Duchess, if you don’t mind, just step in this room a minute. (Indicating room lower R.)

Countess. No, no, I do not like that room: I have been there before.

Martin. Here is a nice room. (Points to room lower L.) You will find it very comfortable.

Countess. Very well, I wait. (Crosses to left) But in fifteen minutes if I do not get the 15,000 dollar, I go to my lawyers, and your son—poof! he is done. (Talking in French as she exits)

Martin. (To Johnson) Did you get my son’s office?

Johnson. Yes, sir—he hasn’t come in.

Martin. If you reach him while Mr. Peale’s here don’t mention Rodney’s name; just call him “that party.” I’ll understand. (Crosses R.)

Johnson. Yes, sir. (He exits)

(Peale enters door upper L.)

Martin. Now, see here, young man!

Peale. Now, one moment, Mr. Martin. I just want to say that I am a man of few words—that this isn’t advertising, it’s personal. I know you don’t like me.

Martin. Why do you say that?

Peale. Because I’m a pretty wise gink.

Martin. Well, you are a bit——

Peale. Fresh? Well, I guess that’s right, too. But that’s me—I’m not your style. Here’s the idea: your son has been immense to me. Great kid, and it struck me the reason you wouldn’t back him was because I was mixed up in his business. So I just came to say if that’s the situation, why I’m out, that’s all. You go ahead with him alone.

Martin. You’re not a partner?

Peale. I should say not. I’m just a hired hand. He could can me any moment, but he’s not the kind of guy who’d do that.

Martin. Then you haven’t power to sign, to make a deal?

Peale. I should say not. Why, he and Miss Grayson do all the signing. If I could have signed contracts, I’d have spent a million dollars in advertising. And believe me, you ought to back him, because, honest, Mr. Martin, it’s a great scheme—the 13 Soap, on the level, if it’s handled right and the publicity end is——

Martin. Now don’t get started on advertising.

Peale. That’s right, too. Well, I guess that’s all. I wanted to tell you how I stood about Rodney. That’s off my chest, so good afternoon. (Starts to go)

Martin. Wait a minute. What did you boys mean by trimming that poor Countess on the French rights?

Peale. Jumping Jupiter; has she been here?

Martin. She’s here now.

Peale. What did she come to see you for?

Martin. She said she’d put Rodney in jail for fraud unless I made good that $15,000. I’ve got to pay her—can’t see the boy disgraced.

Peale. Say, if you’d like to save that $15,000, I’ll fix it for you.

Martin. But she’s got a contract.

Peale. I’ll get it for you cheap. Pardon me, sir, but I know how to handle dames like her.

Martin. Mr. Peale, I like you. (Slaps him on shoulder)

Peale. Huh!

Martin. Have a cigar?

(Peale crosses R. He takes it as Johnson enters.)

Johnson. I just telephoned that party, he is at his office now.

Martin. Good, good. Peale, I’ve got to go out on an important soap deal. (He starts to go, then goes to Peale) Oh, by George, I nearly forgot. There’s another matter I must attend to first. Peale, you’ll find the Countess in there. Do the best you can—we’ll settle the details when I get back. Make yourself at home.

Peale. Sure. This cigar’s great company.

Martin. Good cigar, eh?

Peale. Corker.

Martin. Johnson, send over half a dozen boxes of these cigars to Mr. Peale’s house. He’ll give you the address. (He exits left)

Peale. And, say, Johnson, wrap ’em up now and I’ll take ’em with me.

Johnson. Very good, sir. (He exits. Peale walks over to the window and looks out at the 13 Soap signs)

Peale. (The telephone rings. Peale looks at it, it rings again, he goes over to desk and raises it) Yes, Sweetie—this is the garage. How long does it take to go to Coney Island? How in hell do I know? (Business of changing money and watch to different pockets. Goes to door L., and opens it) Countess de Bull Run. (He goes into some fake French) De juis—de joie—politesse noblesse oblige.

Countess. You ought to take up French—your accent’s immense. Well, little sweetheart?

Peale. Say, what are you doing in these parts?

Countess. Oh, I came to see Mr. Martin.

Peale. What for?

Countess. What do you think?

Peale. See here, now, if you’re aiming to trim the old man, I won’t stand for it.

Countess. Ambrose, do me a favor.

Peale. What is it?

Countess. Don’t tell old Martin what I tried to do to you boys. He’s the kind that would put me in jail. I’ll be on the level. I did come here to try to trim him, but I’ll cut it out. Honest, I will. Oh, Ambrose, I don’t like being a grafter. I’ve had to do a lot of things I didn’t want to. You don’t know how hard it is for girls like me. I never had a show. I ran away from home when I was a kid. I’ve been pretty much up against it. Is what I’ve done to other guys going to butt in and queer me?

Peale. Nix, nix——

Countess. Give me a chance to be on the square. It ain’t easy for a girl to fight it out all by herself when she’s all alone: no money—no friends and you got to live—live on five a week. You got a lot for a good time, haven’t you? God, I’ve been lonely sometimes; you’ve got to be pretty smart to steer straight—but I’ve done it, I’ve done it, I’ve done it. (She breaks down and sits on chair R. of desk)

Peale. (Kindly) Now, see here, Countess—(He pats her on back)—don’t do that—don’t, don’t—(She is sobbing a little) Oh, quit it. (A pause) Keep it for some poor boob who’ll fall for it.

Countess. (Tearfully) Oh, Ambrose, don’t talk like that——

Peale. Say, honest, it’s foolish wasting it on me, kid.

Countess. (Completely changing to a radiant smile. Rises) Well, it’s always worth trying once.

Peale. (Genially) Sure it is. Why, you had me winging for a minute, but when you pulled that wheeze about “I’ve done it,” three times in succession, I knew it was phoney.

Countess. But, honest, I was on the level about old Martin.

Peale. Nix, nix, you came here to trim him for the $15,000 on the French rights.

Countess. Gosh, have you seen him?

Peale. Yes, he left me here to settle it. Where’s the contract? Come on—gimme—gimme——

Countess. You mean you’ve been on all the time?

Peale. Sure.

Countess. And you let me sit there and emote all over the place.

Peale. Gimme—gimme——

Countess. Oh, I suppose I’ve got to. Oh, I’m sick of soap anyhow. 13 may be a lucky hunch for you boys, but it has been a hoodoo for me.

Peale. And now, my little hearts of lettuce, this concludes your portion of the evening’s entertainment.

Countess. But at that, don’t give me away, will you?

Peale. I like you, you’ve got brains. Most chickens are just chickens.

Countess. You are 18-karat, kid.

(Mary, followed by Rodney, enters hurriedly and sees Peale.)

Rodney. Oh, have you seen father? Is he here?

Peale. I’m waiting for him now.

Mary. It’s most important.

Peale. You remember the Countess? (All bow embarrassed. Pause)

Countess. Well, I guess I’m not wanted, so I’ll trot. I’ll trot. (Goes to door upper L.) So long, you 13 Soap suds. (Exits)

Mary. Where is father?

Peale. Yes, what’s the excitement?

Mary. Just after we got to the office there was a letter from Macy’s.

Rodney. Ordering 10,000 cakes of 13 Soap.

Mary. Now what do you think of that?

Peale. Pinch me, I’m dreaming! (Going down R.)

Rodney. They say our advertising’s wonderful and has created such a demand they want to handle the soap in town. (Goes around table down R.)

Peale. (Wonderingly) Then all the things we said to your father are really true? (Goes up center)

Mary. Of course they are.

Rodney. (Protesting) Now, see here, old man—

Peale. Gosh! (Coming down in front of table)

Rodney. You see, when I show father this letter from Macy’s he’s got to admit we’ve won out, and supply us with soap.

Mary. Isn’t it a shame that you can’t get soap from anybody but him?

Rodney. He certainly has got the soap business tied up tight.

Peale. Yes, if he busted, the whole world would go dirty.

Mary. Suppose he’s still stubborn and won’t help you? What’ll you do?

Rodney. Oh, I’ll just have to plod along.

Peale. Don’t plod—gallop, son—gallop—gallop.

Rodney. You’re a great pal.

Mary. (Crosses to Peale) Do you know, Mr. Peale, I’d like you awfully.

Peale. Call me Ambrose.

Mary. (Coyly goes to L.) Ambrose.

Rodney. If we ever do come out of this, you’re going to be my partner, 50-50.

Peale. Aw, shut up.

Johnson. (Entering) Mr. Charles Bronson; shall I show him in?

Peale. You have my permission—(Crosses to L. Mary crosses to table R.) This isn’t my house. (Bronson enters. Johnson exits) This way, sir.

Bronson. Oh, I beg pardon—I expected to find Mr. Martin.

Rodney. I am Mr. Martin.

Bronson. (Eagerly) Mr. Rodney Martin?

Rodney. Yes.

Bronson. Just the very man I wanted to see—on private business.

Rodney. Oh, these are my partners. You can talk before them. This is Mr. Peale and Miss Grayson, may I present—Mr.——?

Bronson. Mr. Charles Bronson, of Marshall Field.

Mary. (Stunned) Marshall Field?

Peale. (Falls in chair R. of desk) Marshall Field?

Bronson. Now, about your soap——?

Peale. We’re very sorry—(Rises and goes to Bronson)

Mary. We are; but a bargain is a bargain. (Rises)

Bronson. Sorry? Why, your 13 Soap the last few days has had a most remarkable sale at our store.

(Mary and Peale, speechless, look at each other.)

Rodney. (Gasping) You mean it is really selling?

Bronson. Rather!

Mary. It’s really selling?

Bronson. Why, you seem surprised——

Mary. Oh, no—not a bit.

Rodney. Oh, not a bit.

Peale. You mean people are actually coming into the store and buying it?

Bronson. At a dollar a cake.

(Mary and Rodney take arm-chair from L. of table and place it in center of stage.)

Rodney and Mary. Have a chair?

Peale. Give me your hat! (Takes hat and fans himself)

Mary. It was those page advertisements in Chicago that did it.

Peale. Absolutely.

Bronson. Extraordinary advertisements they were, too.

Rodney. Oh, nothing to what we will do.

Bronson. You’ll keep up your campaign?

Rodney. Double it.

Peale. Triple it.

Bronson. Good, good. We foresee a tremendous sale for your goods. It’s an amazing soap.

Rodney. It’s more than that——

Peale. Absolutely.

Bronson. Do you control the company yourself?

Rodney. Oh, entirely.

Bronson. Then I can deal with you.

Rodney. With us—all of us.

Bronson. We would be glad to contract now for 250,000 cakes. (Peale just flops into chair) With deliveries to begin next week.

Mary. Our capacity just at present is limited.

Rodney. Yes, we have so many orders on hand.

Bronson. Naturally, but how much soap can you deliver now?

Rodney. I don’t quite know. (To Mary) Do you?

Mary. Not quite. (To Peale) Do you?

Peale. Not quite.

Bronson. Well, under the circumstances, what can we do?

Mary. That’s the question.

Peale. What’s the answer? (Rises. A pause)

Rodney. Here’s an idea: in view of our pressing orders, would you consider for the moment paying us merely for the use of our trade-mark without any soap at all?

Bronson. Yes, I think we would.

Peale. You would?

Bronson. Your trade-mark is of course your biggest asset.

Rodney. Yes, of course.

Bronson. You would naturally give us your formula?

Peale. Yes, if we still have that cook-book.

Bronson. I beg pardon?

Peale. Nothing, nothing. Have a cigar?

Rodney. You can have the formula.

Bronson. With a license from you to use the title, we could probably arrange to have the soap manufactured by Cyrus Martin of the soap trust.

Rodney. Oh, you think you could—?

Mary. How much would you be willing to pay us for the trade-mark?

Bronson. I should have to call up our Chicago office, but I think I can safely say we would be prepared to offer you at least two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

Peale. (Grasping) Indeed!

Bronson. Can I have an option at that figure?

Mary. No!

Peale. Yes!

Rodney. Yes——

(Together)

Mary. (Loudly) No!

Rodney. No!

Peale. No, but I hate to say it.

Bronson. But if you control the company, why not settle matters now?

Rodney. Why not, Mary?

Peale. Yes, why not, Mary?

Mary. Hadn’t we better discuss the matter a little more fully first among ourselves?

Bronson. Perhaps I could wait somewhere for a few minutes while you talk things over?

Mary. (Opening door left) Yes, do, please—in the library.

Bronson. I am very glad to have met you.

Rodney. Not half as glad——

Peale. Not half so glad——

Mary. —not half as glad as we are to have met you.

Peale. No, not half as much!

(Bronson exits L. lower door.)

Rodney. Why not give him an option at a quarter of a million?

Peale. Yes, why not? For the love of gee whiz, tell us that!

Mary. Because maybe we can get more money than that out of your father.

(Johnson enters with letter, and crosses to table R.)

Rodney. Mary, you are a wonder.

Peale. Gosh, I wish you were going to marry me!

Mary. Johnson, oh, Johnson, you know I’ve always liked you——

Johnson. I beg pardon, Miss?

Mary. Will you do me a favor?

Johnson. Why, yes, Miss.

Mary. When Mr. Martin comes back, don’t tell him that Rodney and Mr. Peale are here, or Bronson, either; say I’m alone.

Johnson. Yes, Miss, but Mr. Martin just drove up in his car, he’ll be here directly——

Mary. Hurry up, then, tell him I’m here, waiting for him.

(Johnson exits.)

Rodney. But I don’t understand?

Peale. Neither do I.

Mary. I do. I’ve got a great idea. You two boys go into that room, (Indicating lower R.) and stay there. When I ring this buzzer twice, you call me on this ’phone—there’s a switch in there—and never mind what I say. Hurry now, both of you.

Rodney. But what’s your plan?

Mary. I’m going to try to make a deal with your father.

Peale. Well, I’ll slip you something that may help you when you see father. You tell him that I’ve got that contract. He’ll understand.

Rodney. But I don’t know what any of this is about?

Peale. Neither do I. Come on, she’s got more brains than both of us. (They exit R.)

(Mary settles herself in chair L. of desk, as Martin enters.)

Martin. Hello, Miss Grayson, this is a pleasant surprise. Where is Rodney?

Mary. That doesn’t matter. I’m here.

Martin. Where’s that—that Mr.——?

Mary. Mr. Peale—oh, Mr. Peale’s gone back to the office—but he told me to tell you that he’d got that contract——

Martin. Great, great! He’s a smart boy.

Mary. We are all smart—it’s a smart firm. We just got a letter from Macy’s for 10,000 cakes of 13 Soap, and this time you didn’t send a telegram——

Martin. Macy’s, eh? Well, well. Now, I’ll be frank. I want Rodney to come in with me—and you’ve got to help. You started this scheme. Now finish it up.

Mary. What’s changed you all of a sudden?

Martin. Well, Macy’s, for one thing. That shows sensational advertising does pay. Those boys are right. I’ve been too conservative, but anyhow I’ve got the whip hand: Rodney can’t get his soap for Macy’s except from me, and if I’m going to furnish three-cent soap that he sells wholesale for sixty cents, I’m going to be in on the profits. Any young man who can do that is just bound to have me for a partner whether he wants me or not. What do you say, Miss Grayson?

Mary. I’ll do all I can for Rodney.

Martin. You have authority to close the deal?

Mary. Absolutely.

Martin. Good. Now, what’s your proposition? (Sits)

Mary. Five hundred thousand dollars cash.

Martin. (Rising) What!

Mary. (Calmly) Sit down. That isn’t all: we get 51% of the stock, you put up a factory and give Rodney $50,000 a year, Peale, $30,000, and me $20,000.

Martin. As my son once observed, what a lovely autumn we’re having! (He leans back and lights a cigar. As he does so, Mary pushes the buzzer twice. N. B. The audience must hear this buzzer. Almost instantly the ’phone rings. Mary quickly takes ’phone)

Mary. Shall I answer it?

Martin. Go ahead—say I’m out.

Mary. (In ’phone) Oh, hello—(To Martin) It’s for me. Hello, Rodney—you’ve seen Bronson?

Martin. (Sitting up) Bronson?

Mary. (In ’phone) He did? Why, that’s a splendid offer. I hardly dared think Marshall Field would be so generous.

Martin. (Promptly. Rises) I’ll accept your proposition, Miss Grayson.

Mary. Wait. (In ’phone) Have you closed with Bronson yet?

Martin. What’d he say?

Mary. Oh, you haven’t?

Martin. Good.

Mary. No, I think you’d better come right up from the office and see me before you sign anything.

Martin. Here, let me talk to him. (He reaches for ’phone)

Mary. (Quickly) Oh, hello, hello. (She jiggles ’phone) Oh, dear, we’ve been cut off. Still, it doesn’t matter; it’s all settled now.

Martin. That’s splendid, Miss Grayson. I’m mighty grateful to you.

Mary. (Nervously) Shall we sign a memorandum now?

Martin. Sure—sure—just the rough details.

Mary. Sure, never put off till to-morrow what you can sign to-day.

Martin. (He crosses to table R., sits and makes memoranda. Writing) Fifty-one per cent—Rodney—fifty thousand. And what’s that young man’s name again—Spiel——?

Mary. Peale.

Martin. That certainly is one hell of a name—thirty thousand—Grayson twenty thousand. There. (To Mary) You sign here.

Mary. No, you sign first. (Martin grunts and signs) Now I’ll sign for Rodney. (She does so gleefully)

Martin. That’s great. (Rises and goes L.)

Mary. You don’t know how great it is. (Mary starts for door) Now, I’ve a big surprise for you. Rodney’s not at the office—he’s in there.

Martin. What do you mean?

Mary. Only that I thought I’d handle you less sentimentally than he would. You see, once before I spoiled Rodney’s plan. This time I thought I ought to fix it up for him. (Opening door) Rodney—Ambrose.

Martin. Say, what is all this?

(Rodney and Peale enter.)

Rodney. Hello, father!

Mary. Rodney, it’s all settled. Your father has gone in with us. I’ve the contract.

Rodney. Then we can get some soap!

Martin. All you want.

Rodney. Then I don’t care what the arrangement is—now that we can make good—twenty per cent of the profits, and any old salary.

Martin. Twenty per cent! Why, she buncoed me out of fifty-one per cent and half a million down.

Peale. (Gasping) Half a million!

Rodney. (To Mary) You did? Mary, you are a peach!

Peale. Absolutely.

Mary. (To Rodney) And by the terms of my contract with you, you now owe me 10% of what Rodney has made: $50,000.

Rodney. What contract?

Peale. I don’t get you.

Martin. So that’s why you held me up, eh? Just to get your 10%. Say, young lady, I’ve got a lot of other money that you are overlooking.

Rodney. Father, what do you mean?

Martin. (To Rodney) I’ll tell you what I mean. She got engaged to you to make you go to work—she only left me to keep you on the job because I promised her 10% of what you earned. All the time that she’s been pretending she would marry you, she’s been making use of you. (Goes to R. of table to sign check)

Rodney. Mary, you did this to me?

Peale. I don’t believe it.

Mary. (To Martin) You owe me fifty thousand dollars—can I have the check, please?

Martin. Yes, if you’ll quit now—get out of here for good.

Mary. Certainly.

Martin. I’m disappointed to think you’d treat my boy like this.

Mary. What’s the difference? If I’d really loved him, you’d have objected to his marrying only a typewriter.

Martin. Objected! If you’d been on the level I’d have been proud to have you for my daughter. (Handing check to Rodney)

Rodney. (Gleefully) Hurrah, Mary, it’s all right!

Peale. I don’t get you.

Martin. What is this—a joke? (Rises)

Rodney. Certainly it is: you two put up a joke on me, and Mary and I thought we’d put up one for you. Mary told me about that fool contract weeks ago.

Martin. You mean you’re going to marry her?

Rodney. Certainly not.

Peale. Now see here——

Martin. Why aren’t you going to marry her?

Rodney. Because we were married this morning, and we thought before we told you of our marriage we’d get her percentage for a wedding present. (Hands check to Peale. He gives it to Mary)

Mary. And it’s bigger than we ever hoped for.

Martin. By George, you boys were right: I am an old fool. Anyhow, I’ll win that bet from old John Clark.

Mary. And now for Bronson. (Goes to door L. lower) Oh, Mr. Bronson?

Martin. You boys know Bronson?

Mary. Oh, yes, we had a long talk, with him, right in this room, about a proposition from Marshall Field——

(Enter Bronson.)

Bronson. (Crosses to Martin, Sr.) Mr. Martin—Mr. Peale.

Rodney. (To Bronson) Now you talk to father.

Mary. Yes, you talk to him, father.

Peale. Yes, father, you talk to him.

Bronson. (To Rodney) But I thought I was dealing with you?

Martin. No, sir, with me—now what’s your proposition?

Bronson. A quarter of a million cash just for the trade-mark.

Martin. A quarter of a million? Why, you ought to be ashamed of yourself to try to trim these poor boys like that. You know that 13 Soap is worth half a million in Chicago alone, and you try to take advantage of these kids’ ignorance. Why, it’s outrageous, but you can’t trim me! No, sir, we wouldn’t take a million. Do you know that the Uneeda trade-mark is valued at six million, the Gold Dust Twins at ten million and our trade-mark is better than theirs! We’re going to advertise all over the world. That’s what advertising means: the power of suggestion—the psychology of print. All you have to do is to say a thing often enough and hard enough, and ninety-seven per cent of the public’ll fall. Say, what kind of garters do you wear? Boston! Why? Because all your life every time you opened a magazine you saw a picture of a man’s leg with a certain kind of a garter on it—Boston!

Curtain.

IT PAYS TO ADVERTISE

ACT I & III

IT PAYS TO ADVERTISE

ACT II

PROPERTY LIST

ACT I.

Stage Properties

- Typewriter desk
- Typewriter
- Office swivel chair
- Library table
- Couch
- Six large chairs (living room chairs)
- Footstool
- Writing set on large table
- (Pen, ink, etc.)
- Magazines and books
- Check book on large table
- Stenographer’s note book
- Walking stick
- Telephone on desk
- Telephone on table
- Clock (?)
- Carpet or rugs
- Push bell on Right flat near Door R. I E.
- Telephones may be connected.

- Three telephones in Third act may be connected to be ready for second Act and may remain through as two are used in Third Act too.

Side Properties

- Walking stick—Martin
- Book of passes—Peale
- Pencil—Peale
- Parasol—Countess
- Suit case—Rodney
- Cook book—Rodney
- Two contracts—Peale
- Money for Rodney
- Letters for Johnson
- Salver for Johnson
- Calling cards—Johnson
- Martin’s foot tied up

ACT II.

Stage Properties

- Large flat-top desk
- Typewriter desk (same one as Act I)
- Typewriter paper, etc.
- Small table or desk for telephone stand

- Three telephones and three books (directories)

- Box of cigars in desk
- Plane in drawer of desk
- File cabinet
- Letter file on cabinet
- Letters in file cabinet
- Signs for walls
- Sandwich men signs (6)
- Rubber stamp and pad on big desk C.
- Ledger—or ledger sheets for MSS. case
- Buzzer connected up on Desk C.
- Buzzer connected up on Desk L.
- About six office chairs
- Two swivel office chairs
- Papers, check book, etc. Desk C.
- Papers like contracts for Rodney to sign
- Hat rack

Side Properties

- MSS. case—Mary
- Pencil and pad—Peale
- Peale—telegram
- Letter—Mary
- Draft—Countess
- Cane—Ellery
- Hand bag—Countess
- Handkerchief—Countess

ACT III.

Stage Properties

- Same furniture as Act I—Arranged

- Same, except might have small table where desk was in Act I.

- Newspapers on desk C.
- Letters sealed on desk for Martin to open
- Circulars in these letters
- Advertisements on N. Y. papers: 13 soap
- Waste paper basket
- Check book on Table C. with ink, etc.
- Buzzer connected at typewriter desk

Side Properties

- Letter seal on large table
- New York papers with ads of 13 soap
- Cigar—Peale
- Contracts—Countess
- List of Advertisers—Rodney
- Card and Tray—Johnson
- Bronson’s hat
- Cigar for Martin
- Matches—Martin

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Table of Contents

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