Читать книгу Seeking His Fortune, and Other Dialogues - Horatio Jr. Alger - Страница 6
ОглавлениеCHARACTERS.
| Fernando Clapp, | Editor pro tem. |
| Ephraim Simpson, | a Country Farmer. |
| Dr. John Jenkins, | Vender of Salve. |
| Eugene Snow, | Printer’s “Devil.” |
| Araminta Ellis, | a Sentimental Young Lady. |
| Geo. Crane, | a Mechanic. |
| Dr. Wm. Randall, | Proprietor of Anti-Dyspepsia Pills. |
| Henry Perkins, | a Fierce-looking Individual. |
Scene I.—A country printing office. Editor pro tem. sitting R. before a table C. covered with MSS. Piles of newspapers upon the floor on either side of him. A pair of scissors in one hand and a pen in the other. Enter Ephraim Simpson, L.
Ephraim Simpson. Is this the office of the “Petersville Post”?
Editor (with some curiosity). It is.
E. You are the editor, I reckon?
Ed. You are right.
E. Well, you see my name is Ephraim Simpson, and I live over to Greenfield. I’ve been workin’ this summer hayin’, but I found it was too hard work, and I reckoned I’d come to you and see if you couldn’t give me a chance to edit a little.
Ed. Why, you know it is quite a difficult thing to learn to edit a paper. It requires education, judgment, and a variety of other qualifications.
E. Oh, as to that, I guess I can satisfy you. I have tended school in our deestrict for four winters, and can read, write and cipher like a book.
Ed. That is all very well, but you know one must be able to compose as well as write.
E. Oh, compositions you mean. Well, I have written them some. Don’t you want me to try my hand and show you what I kin do?
Ed. I am not in particular need of an assistant just now, but perhaps you might as well sit down and try your hand at writing an editorial. (Ephraim sits down, R.)
(Enter, L., a rusty-looking individual, with a tin trunk under his arm.)
John Jenkins. Are you the editor of the “Post”?
Ed. I am.
J. J. Then, sir, allow me to present you with a box of my famous salve (hands box to him).
Ed. Thank you.
J. J. Perhaps you’d be willing to insert this little paragraph about it. I wrote it off to save you trouble (hands paper to editor).
Ed. (reading aloud). We have received from Dr. Jenkins a box of his Magnetic Salve, which is warranted to cure every description of cut or bruise in an incredibly short space of time. We know a boy who accidentally cut off one of his fingers. His mother being absent, he bethought himself of Dr. Jenkins’s salve, which she had bought the day previous. He applied it to the injured finger, and before night there was not even a scar to indicate where the wound had been.
Ed. (looking up). You want me to insert this?
J. J. (in an insinuating tone). Yes, sir.
Ed. But I don’t know the boy referred to.
J. J. My dear sir, aint you rather new in the business?
Ed. (indignantly). Well, and what if I am?
J. J. (smiling sarcastically). I thought you were, or you’d understand that this is the way they always do things.
Ed. We are a little more conscientious than editors generally. However, you assure me that the salve is good?
J. J. (warmly). Nothing better in the whole world, sir.
Ed. And you think it would be safe to speak well of it?
J. J. Sir, you will be conferring a blessing on the community.
Ed. Very well, I will write a little puff for you.
J. J. Thank you, sir.
(Exit, L.)
Printer’s Devil (entering, R.). More copy, sir.
Ed. Here it is (handing him a paper).
(Exit P. D.)
(A knock is heard at the door, L.)
Ed. Come in.
(Enter young lady, L.)
Young Lady. Please, sir, I am Araminta Ellis, the authoress of “Lines on a Faded Buttercup.”
Ed. I am delighted to see you, Miss Ellis. Did the—the poem you speak of appear in the “Post”?
A. E. (surprised at his ignorance). No, sir, it was contributed to the “Weekly Bulletin.” I have never written anything for the “Post,” but should be willing to do so. What are your terms?
Ed. (blandly). Three dollars a year.
A. E. I do not mean the subscription price of the paper, but how much do you pay your poetical contributors?
Ed. We—ahem—that is, our friends are kind enough to make us a free gift of their productions in that line.
A. E. (insinuatingly). But don’t you pay for superior poetry? I have here a poem which I would like to see transferred to your columns (passes manuscript to him).
Ed. (taking the poem). Seventy-seven stanzas! That would be too long for our columns. Couldn’t you shorten it?
A. E. Not without marring its symmetrical proportions. But I will write another and a shorter one soon, which will perhaps suit you better.
Ed. Thank you, Miss Ellis. That will undoubtedly be better suited to our columns.
(Exit A. E., L.)
(Enter, L., George Crane excitedly.)
George Crane. Sir, don’t you regard it as a part of an editor’s duty to unmask villany and expose it to the world?
Ed. Certainly, sir.
G. C. Then I should like to furnish you with some information respecting a neighbor of mine, named Henry Perkins. He is a hypocrite, sir! He professes a good deal, but secretly practises petty acts of meanness. I have every reason to believe that he beats his wife; and he has been suspected of robbing his neighbor’s hen-roosts. Just write an article touching him up, and I’ll subscribe to your paper for a year.
Ed. (cautiously). Cash in advance?
G. C. (promptly). Yes.
Ed. Very well, then. I’m your man.
(G. C. hands Ed. five-dollar bill, and receives two dollars back as change. Exit G. C., L. Enter William Randall, L.)
William Randall. Is Mr. Clark in?
Ed. No, sir; but as his substitute I shall be happy to serve you.
W. R. You must know, sir, that I have been laboring for some years past on the preparation of a remedy for dyspepsia. At length, after great labor and research, I have prepared a pill which I am sure will prove an infallible cure in the most obstinate cases. I have the pleasure, sir, of presenting you with a box of Dr. William Randall’s Anti-Dyspepsia Pills (passes box to him).
Ed. Thank you.
Dr. R. (preparing to leave). By the way, I suppose you will favor me with a notice?
Ed. (hesitating). Ye-es.
(Exit Dr. R., L.)
(Ed. sits down to write. After a moment’s pause Ephraim Simpson, who has been writing (when not gazing at visitors), starts up.)
E. S. Well, Mister Editor, how’s that? (handing him a paper.)
Ed. (reading aloud). The hoss.—The hoss is a noble animal. He is also interestin’ and knows a good deal. Some folks get very much attached to their hosses. I knowed a Frenchman once, that thought so much of his hoss that he even went so far as to call his own mother a mare as a pet name. Hosses are very interestin’ animals when they don’t rare up. Not havin’ any more to say on this subjick, I will stop.
Ed. (gravely). That is very good; but, on the whole, I don’t think there is any need of an assistant just yet. If there should be a time when I stand in need of one, I will certainly think of you.
E. S. (disappointed). Then you haint got anything for me to do?
Ed. Not just now.
E. S. Then I must go.
(Exit E. S., L.)
(Curtain falls.)
Scene II.—Printing office. Ed., C., looking complacently at a newspaper spread out to its full proportions on the table before him.
Ed. (soliloquizing). And this is the result of my first week’s labor as an editor. Excellent as my friend Clark has heretofore made the “Post,” I think he will acknowledge that I have made some improvements in it. (Glances complacently down the page. His eye is suddenly arrested by a paragraph which startles him.) What! What’s this? (Reads.)
“Mr. Fernando Clapp,—Dear Sir: I am instructed by your tailor to present, for immediate payment, his bill amounting to twenty-one dollars, eighteen cents and three-quarters. You are requested to pay immediate attention to it, as otherwise the law will take cognizance of your delinquency.
“Timothy Pettigrew, Att’y at Law.”
Ed. (furiously to P. D. entering R.). How did this get into the paper?
P. D. (smiling). You gave it out as copy, sir.
Ed. When?
P. D. The first day you were here.
(Exit P. D. as Dr. Randall enters L. He is evidently very much excited. He holds in his hand a copy of the “Post.”)
Dr. R. (pointing to an item). Did you write that?
Ed. (coolly). Yes. I hope it suits you.
Dr. R. Suits me! Confound your impudence! Suits me! What do you mean by that, sir?
Ed. You seem angry—why, I am at a loss to guess.
Dr. R. Sir, in noticing my medicine, you have insulted me.
Ed. (surprised). In noticing your medicine! How?
Dr. R. (placing paper within two inches of Ed.’s nose, he repeats), “He says it will cure the most obstinate case of dyspepsia. Perhaps it may.” I demand an explanation, sir.
Ed. (stepping back). It is very easily given. I only intended to say, that personally I had no experience of the matter, and not being able to speak positively, I said “perhaps!”
Dr. R. (suspiciously). Is that true?
Ed. Certainly. But, if you wish, I will recall the statement in our next issue.
Dr. R. That would be more satisfactory to me.
(Exit, L.)
(Enter, L., a fierce-looking individual.)
Henry Perkins (in a threatening tone). Are you the editor?
Ed. (with quaking heart). Yes.
H. P. (sneering). I suppose you don’t know who I am?
Ed. No, I don’t.
H. P. (fiercely). I am that Henry Perkins whom you have so atrociously libelled in your paper of this morning. Don’t think, sir, that such conduct is to go unpunished! I stand upon my rights, sir, as a citizen, and I will not be trampled upon.
(Mr. P. seizes Ed. by the collar of his coat and shakes him vigorously.)
Ed. (struggling). Unhand me, sir!
H. P. (still shaking him). There, you little blackguard! I guess you won’t slander me again in a hurry.
Ed. (passionately). I’ll have the law of you, you villain!
H. P. You will, eh! Then I must give you your pay in advance.
(He continues to shake him a moment. Then making a low, mocking bow, he goes out.)
Ed. (furiously). I won’t stand this. I’ll leave a note for Clark, and go home this moment. There’s no knowing what may come next. It is as much as one’s life is worth to be an editor.
(Exit hurriedly.)
(Curtain falls.)
