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CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 Cornell University 
 Dept. of Theatre Arts 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PS 3515.0953G5 
 
 The gipsy trail 
 
 91 
 
 a comedy in three acts. 
 
 3 1924 022 481 786 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924022481786 
 
THE 
 
 GIPSY TRAIL 
 
 A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS 
 
 BY 
 ROBERT HOUSUM 
 
 Copyright, 1917, by Robert Housum 
 Copyright, 1930, by Samuel French 
 
 All Rights Reserved 
 
 CAUTION : Professionals and amateurs^ are hereby 
 warned that "THE GIPSY TRAIL," being fully pro- 
 tected under the copyright laws of the United States, 
 is subject to royalty, and any one presenting the play 
 without the consent of the author 'or his authorized 
 » agents will be liable to the penalties by law provided. 
 Applications for the amateur acting rights must be 
 made to Samuel French, 28-30 West 38th St., New 
 York. Applications for the professional acting rights 
 must be made to The American Play Company, 33 
 West 42nd St., New York. 
 
 New York: 
 
 SAMUEL FRENCH 
 
 Publisher 
 
 28-30 West 38th Street 
 
 London : 
 
 SAMUEL FRENCH, Ltd, 
 
 26 Southampton Street 
 
 Strand 
 
S5~f5 
 
 Especial notice should be taken that the possession of this 
 book without a valid contract for prbduction first hav- 
 ing 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 
 pubjic only and no performance of it may.be given 
 except by s'pfecial ai-rangement with Samuel French, 
 28-30 West Thirty-eighth Street, New York City. 
 
 Section 28 — That any person who wilfully or for profit 
 shall infringe any copyright secure^ by this act, or 
 who shall knowingly and wilfully aid or abet such in- 
 fringement, shall be deemed guilty of a misdemeanor, 
 and upon conviction shall be punished by imprison- 
 ment for not exceeding one year, or by a fine or not 
 less than one hundred nor more than one thousand 
 dollars, or both, in the discretion of the court. 
 
 Act of March 4, igdg. 
 
TO MY FATHER 
 
ARTHUR HOPKINS 
 
 presents 
 
 "THE GIPSY TRAIL" 
 
 A 1917 Romance 
 
 By Robert Housum 
 
 Staged by Arthur Hopkins 
 
 CAST 
 (in order of appearance) 
 
 Frank Raymond Robert Cummings 
 
 Miss Janet Raymond Katharine Emmet 
 
 John Raymond Frank Longacre 
 
 Stiles Charles Hanna 
 
 Frances Raymond Phoebe Foster 
 
 Edward Andrews Roland Young 
 
 Michael Ernest Glendenning 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore Effie Ellsler 
 
 Ellen Loretta Wells 
 
 Act I. The Raymond Place 
 Act II. The Andrews Place 
 Act III. The Raymond Place 
 
CAST 
 
 Michael Rudder 
 Edward Andrews 
 Frank Raymond 
 John Raymond 
 Stiles 
 
 Frances Raymond 
 Mrs. Widdimore 
 Miss Janet Raymond 
 Ellen 
 
 SYNOPSIS 
 
 Act I. Veranda of Frank Raymond's summer 
 home at Kirtland, Ohio. 
 An evening in early June. 
 
 Act II. Room in Edward Andrews' summer cot- 
 tage, "The Breakers," on the Lake 
 Shore Boulevard. 
 An hour and a half later. 
 
 Act III. Same as Act I. 
 A month later. 
 
 The following is a copy of the playbill of the first 
 performance of "The Gipsy Trail" at the Plymouth 
 Theatre, New York City, December 4, 1917. 
 
The Gipsy Trail 
 
 ACT I 
 
 *ScENE : The scene represents the side veranda of 
 Mr. RAYMbND's summer home at Kirtldnd, a 
 suburb of Cleveland, Ohio, on a moonlit even- 
 ing in early June. 
 
 The veranda is formed by a platform, raised 
 some four inches above the level of the stage. 
 Between this platform Md the proscenium, is a 
 space about three feet wide, representing a path- 
 way. At the rear of the veranda rises the wall 
 of the house, which is of pink stucco, with 'white 
 trim. 
 
 This wall is pierced in the center by a wide 
 doorway, open, with doiibl'e screen doors that 
 swing outward. Through this doorway may be 
 seen the plain brown wall of the hall, which is 
 brightly illuminated ; a chair and table on the 
 right; and a telephone on a small sta'hd on the 
 left. 
 
 In this wall there are, to the right of the cen- 
 ter door, three windows; and,^ to its left, two — 
 all hung inside with thick lace curtains. A 
 dim, light may be seen, through these curtained 
 windows, inside the house, but it is impossible 
 to distinguish figure's. 
 
 The right and left side-walls of the veranda are 
 fdrm,ed by white lattices, covered with vines. 
 At the point ■hhere these reach the edge of the 
 
 * See "Notes on Production,'' on Page 94. 
 
 7 
 
8 THE GIPSY TRAIL 
 
 veranda, they turn ^ at right angles and extend 
 off to right and left. The roof of the veranda 
 is supported by two large white pillars, which 
 are set downstage, to right and left. A large 
 dome-light in the center of the veranda ceiling 
 casts a soft glow. 
 
 Against the rear wall, to the right of the center 
 door, is a settee, and to the left of this, a tabor- 
 ette. There is a similar settee to the left of the 
 center door. A small round table stands up 
 left. Down center is an ottoman, and, to the 
 left of it, a small divan, placed irregularly. A 
 chair, facing left, stands at the left of the right 
 pillar. All the furniture is made of gray wick- 
 er'Work, upholstered in gay cretonnes. 
 Note: "Right" and "leff are throughout 
 "right" and "leff of the actors, not of the audi- 
 ence. 
 
 Before the curtain rises, a few introductory 
 bars are played upon the piano, and then the 
 voice of Frances is heard inside the house 
 singing "The Gypsy Trail" 
 
 . Frances. (In right) 
 
 "The wild hawk to the wind-swept sky, 
 
 The deer to the wholesome wold, 
 
 And the heart of a man to the heart of a maid, 
 
 As it was in the days of old." 
 
 (The curtain rises slowly. Mr. Raymond stands in 
 front of the doorway center, enjoying his after- 
 dinner cigar. He is an efficient-looking man of 
 about forty-eight, dressed in a dark business 
 suit; and he is bareheaded. Frances sings on ) 
 
 "The heart of a man to the heart of a maid- 
 Light of my tents, be fleet! 
 
'THE GIPSY TRAIL 9 
 
 .Morning waits at' the end of the world. 
 Arid the world is all at our feet !" 
 . Mr. Raymond. (Calling) Frances! 
 \ Frances. (In right) Yes, Father? 
 
 Mr. Raymond. If you're going to that wedding,, 
 don't you think you ought to be dressing? 
 Frances. (In right) I've plenty of time. 
 
 (She begins to sing again. 
 ."The white moth to the closing vine, 
 The bee to the open clover, 
 .And the gipsy blood to the gipsy blood, 
 .Ever the wide world over." 
 
 (Mr. Raymoistd sighs and, walking over to the settee 
 on the right, seats himself and takes from his 
 . pocket a legal document of many pages, which 
 he begins to study) 
 "Fver the wide world oyer, lass, 
 ;Ever the trail held true, 
 Over the world and under the world- 
 
 (Miss Janet Raymond and John Raymond enter 
 ' along the pathway froM the left. Miss Ray- 
 mond is a pleasant wom^n of about thirty- 
 .' seven, simply! dressed. Joii'N is thirteen and is 
 known to his intimates as "Skinny" Raymond. 
 Miss Raymond, who. has her arm about him, 
 speaks as she enters. Frances continues to 
 ' sing "The Gipsy Trail" throughout the follow- 
 ing scene) 
 
 Miss Raymond. Will you do. that for me, John- 
 "riie? 
 
 John. Yes, Aunt Janet. : 
 
 \(He runs along the pathway and disappears to the 
 \ ■■■■•■■ '■ right) 
 
 Mr. Raymond. (Looking up) ds Mrss Ray- 
 
lo THE GIPSY TRAIL 
 
 MOND comes up on the veranda qnd, goes to the settee 
 on the left, where she seat's hirself) Janet, f ye 
 got to go to town this evening. 
 
 Miss Raymqi^d. Oh, Frank, what a shamel 
 And you've hardly been home two hours. What 
 
 is it? '" " 
 
 Mr. Raymond. Simpson j.ust g-ot in from Chi- 
 cago. He 'phoned me to meet hini- 
 
 Miss Raymond, Qh, abput t\it, merger? (M^t. 
 Raymond nods) Will' the papers he signed tonight ? 
 
 Mr. Raymond. Probably. Unless Simpson and 
 I split on details, and that I dq^'t anticipate. (He 
 looks off to, th^e right arpd. calls) Don't balance aboi^t 
 there oh the railing, John. You'll fall. 
 
 John. (Off right) No, I won't. 
 
 Miss Raymond! What time are you leaving? 
 
 Mr.' Raymond. ^ Uttl,e before eight, I thin-^. 
 (The sound of a heavy fall is heard off righf. 
 
 Miss Raymond. (Starting to, h^r feet 'imtK a 
 cry) Oh, Johnnie! 
 
 MJR. Raymond. 'VVhat did I tell hi^? (J0|HN 
 walks on from the right) % told you yqu'^ hurt 
 yourself! 
 
 John. B.ut I didn't ! (He ^ral^s to. the qhair to 
 the left of the right piUa;r, leans against its back and 
 begins to' teeter back a4^d forth) Ta,kes moi;-e than 
 that to hi^rt w?. Why, the other day 9, red-hpt liner 
 caught me op, tlje en4 of the feng-ar and juat sj^ashed 
 the nail all up. tt was awful blbociy. It would have 
 bowled most fellows over — ^but not me ! t siammed 
 it over to first ai;id put th^e nia,n ov,t^:-e,a,sy. 
 (The chair slips from under him and, he avoids qt 
 fall by a mir(^c{e. of agility) 
 
 Miss Raymond. (With a nervous kiart) John- 
 ni?, de^r, 3rQu, ^a)f?, AvPit Ja,net so. o,ervo,u,s.. Yoi^ 
 don't want to do that wheu^ she's come all the wAy 
 from Minneapolis to pay you a visit ? 
 
 John. Aw;, g-e?^ ^up^t, Ja,n^et — :- 
 
THE GIPSY TR4IL ir 
 
 Mr. HayiiIONd. (Sternly) Jphn ! 
 
 John. Yes, sir. (Mr. Raymond returns to. the 
 study of the document ) 
 
 Miss Raymond. Now, sit down quietly, cj^ar, 
 and don't worry Father. Have you learned tfce 
 piece you're going tq speak at Commencement to- 
 morrow ? 
 
 John. Yessum. 
 (Miss Raymond rises, picks up the sch,ool-h,Oflk 
 from the table up left, and reitf'fns to, ^he- settee, 
 where she seats herself atpd opens it) 
 
 Miss Raymond. Then let me hear you say it. 
 
 John. (Ufith distaste, in a, rapid sing-spng) 
 "Qh, yo^^Q;^ Lpchinvar has come o,%t of the A^est, 
 Through o/| the wide border his sieed is tlie be$t, 
 And save. \\\s good broadsword he weapons hc^4 "0"^> 
 He rode — be rode " 
 
 Miss, Raymqi^d. (Prompting Ifiim) "A\\ un- 
 armed " , ; ' 
 
 John. "He rode all unarnied an^l he ro,d.e— he 
 
 rode " 
 
 He rode all unarmed and; he rocle— jii^ rqde " 
 
 Darn it! 
 
 (The telephone rings in, the, hall. 
 
 Miss Raymond. You see, dear, jon do'^'i know 
 
 it. ' ' ■ ' '.■■": 
 
 John. I fljjrf— rsaid it straight through to Frances 
 before dinner. And I cquld do \i nqw, too, if she'd 
 only keep still a niinute. Hi! Fi-ances! Cut it 
 out! (Frances continues to sing defiantly. John 
 takes the book from* Miss Raymond, g,oes tq, the 
 chcdr tg the teft of th,e right pillar, sits down and 
 begins to, study it. Then, as Frances continues to 
 sirig), Aw, gee, h^ve a heart! (Tfie telephone n^^gs 
 in me hall'. Stiles, the. house man, com.es vnto tt^e 
 hall, from the left and answers th? tdehhpne. Mr. 
 R,AYmOnd looks Vfp and listens) ''''""' ' 
 
 'Stiles. ' (IH tjie hqll) Mr. Frank A. Raymond's 
 
12 - THE GIPSY TRAIL 
 
 residence. Yes, sir. Who is speaking, please? 
 (Then with great contempt) Oh ! (He comes 
 through the door center, and out upon the veranda) 
 The newspaper- office, sir. The Chronicle . 
 
 Mr. Raymond. Thought so. Just hang up the 
 receiver, Stiles. (Stiles starts to go in) Er, no — 
 wait a minute. I'd better talk to them, after all. 
 (Stiles opens the door for him, follows him in 
 center, and goes out to the left. Me. Raymond goes 
 to the telephone) 
 
 John. Darn it all, I don't see why I've got to 
 learn this. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. (In the hall, at the telephone) 
 Frank A. Raymond speaking. No ! I told one of 
 your reporters this afternoon that there was no 
 truth in that merger rumor. No, I tell you — posi- 
 tively, no! What was that? (Frances stops sing- 
 ing) Hello ! I've got nothing to say. If you send 
 a reporter out, I won't see him. (He slams up the 
 receiver, then comes angrily out on the veranda) 
 Confound those newspapers ! 
 
 Miss Raymond. You don't' want the merger 
 known ? 
 
 Mr. Ray'mond. Not until the papers are signed. 
 John. I thought you said over the telephone 
 there wasn't any merger. 
 
 Me. Raymond. (Angrily) Learn your piece! 
 (He returns to the settee right and picks up his copy 
 of the merger. John subsides into his book. Fean- 
 CES begins to sing again) 
 
 Miss Raymond. (Calling) Frances! 
 Frances! (In right, stopping her playing) Yes? 
 Miss Raymond. Do you know it's seven o'clock? 
 If you're going to Elinor's wedding, you ought to 
 begin to dress. Z)o stop playing! 
 
 Frances. (In right) Very well. Aunt Janet, 
 
 (Fjiances appears in the hall from the right and 
 
 comes through the center door out upon the 
 
THE GIPSY TRAIL 13 
 
 veranda. She is about twenty years old, and 
 wears white tennis shoes a white skirt and a. 
 white middy blouse) 
 
 Miss Raymond. Hasn't it cleared up beauti- 
 fully? I'm so glad, for Elinor's sake. There's, 
 something so rressy about a rainy wedding. 
 
 Erances. (Meditatively) I hope that on my 
 wedding day — if I ever have one — it will simply 
 pour. 
 
 Miss Raymond. Good gracious ! Why ? 
 
 Erances. Because then no one will come to the. 
 wedding — except, of course, the groom. At least,, 
 I hope he'll come. 
 
 Miss Raymond. I think that's very selfish of 
 you. People love to go to weddings. 
 
 Erances. Then let them have weddings of their 
 own and go to them. 
 
 Miss Raymond. But when it gives your friends 
 so much pleasure 
 
 Erances. I shan't be getting married to, give 
 them pleasure, Aunt Janet. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. (Looking up with a smile) I 
 hope you'll let me come, Erances. 
 
 Erances. Well — ^yes, Eather," I think you may 
 come — if you'll promise to wear your rubbers and a 
 mackintosh. I can't have you taking cold. (She 
 goes right to the settee, sits down to the left of Mr. 
 Raymond and puts her arm around his neck) 
 
 Mr. Raymond. (Beaming) My dear, how am I 
 going to read? 
 
 Erances. (Coaxingly) But you don't want tO' 
 read, do you, when you can talk to me instead ? 
 
 Mr. Raymond. (Tossing his copy of the merger 
 down on the settee beside him and putting his arm 
 round Erances) Well, no, my dear. I don't be- 
 lieve I do. 
 
 Erances. And it's so wondferful just at twilight. 
 
14 THE GIPSY TRAIL 
 
 I'm very nice to talk to in the twilight. I'm at my 
 best then. 
 
 John. Bill Jenkins had to wear a blue vdvet 
 suit when his sister got married. But he wouldn't 
 put it on until they gave him fifty cents. I wotddn't 
 have done it for that. 
 
 Frances. Then we won't ask you to, John. 
 Mine will be a very simple wedding — without even 
 a blue velvet suit. 
 
 Miss Raymond. When the time for it really 
 comes, you'll want it big and fashionable — just like 
 all the other girls. 
 
 Frances. Oh, Aunt Janet, do you think I will? 
 
 Miss Raymond. I do. 
 
 Frances. Then I won't have any at all. 
 
 John. But Frances, you've got to have a wed- 
 ding. You can't get married without one. 
 
 Frances. Then I won't get married. 
 
 Miss Raymond. Nonsense ! 
 
 John. But you're going to marry Ned. 
 
 Frances. Ned? Ned Andrews? Oh, am I? 
 
 John. Well, that's what Father said. 
 
 Frances. Oh, I didn't know that. And I don't 
 think Ned does either. (She gets up from Mr. 
 Raymond's side) Don't you think. Father, it might 
 be just as well to wait until it's settled before you 
 announce it? Of course I don't mind, but it might 
 embarrass Ned to hear it first from someone else. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. (Angrily) I never said any- 
 thing of the kind. 
 
 John. Oh, Father, you did so. You and Aunt 
 Janet were talking in the upstairs sitting-room, and 
 you thought I'd gone to bed, but I hadn't, and 
 
 Mr. Raymond. (Angrily) Learn your piece! 
 
 Miss Raymond. It was very naughty of you to 
 listen to things that don't concern you. And besides, 
 he didn't say it. 
 
 John. (In an aggravating sing-song) Frances's 
 
THE GIPSY TRAIL 15 
 
 ^ot a beau ! Frances's got a beau ! Oh, Frances! 
 Frances. (Laughing) Johnnie, you little wretch ! 
 Mr. Raymond. John, if I have to speak to you 
 
 again 
 
 John. Yes, sir. (He picks up his hook and goes 
 out right along the path) 
 
 Mr. Raymond. ■ Frances, dear, John was mis- 
 taken. I didn't actually say you were going to 
 marry Ned. I only said 
 
 Frances. Never mind, Father. It isn't only you. 
 Everybody says it. Aunt Janet says it 
 
 Miss Raymond. Why, Frances, really 
 
 Frances. Oh, yes, you do, dear. Ned says it. 
 And last week I overheard Stiles telling it to Annie 
 in the kitchen — and she said it was no news to her. 
 The whole town seems to have made up its mind 
 that I'm going to marry Ned Andrews. It's unani- 
 mous. (With a sigh) Ah, well, I daresay you're 
 all right. Very likely I shall, some day. (She goes 
 down to the ottoman and seats herself, facing up- 
 stage) 
 
 Miss Raymond. Ned is certainly a model young 
 tnan. He has a real talent for always doing the 
 proper thing. 
 
 Frances. It isn't talent. It's genius. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. And he's one of the most suc- 
 cessful young business men in this town. 
 
 Frances. I'm sure he must be. Or he couldn't 
 afford to send me orchids three times a week. Oh, 
 I do hope he orders them by the month and gets 
 them at wholesale rates. 
 
 Miss Raymond. / think you'll be a very lucky 
 girl if you get Ned Andrews. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. But of course, my dear, I 
 shouldn't want anything / said to influence you. 
 
 Frances. Then I'll try not to let it. Still, I 
 don't think you ought to tell me quite so often how 
 -eligible he is. I don't think it's quite fair to him. 
 
lu THE GIPSY TRAIL 
 
 Miss Raymond. I don't think it's quite fair to 
 him to keep him waiting-, and that you'll certainly 
 do if you don't hurry. You can't possibly be ready 
 in time. 
 
 Frances. For Elinor's wedding? Oh, I'm not 
 going. 
 
 Miss Raymond. I thought Ned was coming for 
 y6u in his car. 
 
 Frances. I'm afraid he still is. 
 
 Miss Raymond. Didn't you telephone him you'd 
 changed your mind ? 
 
 Frances. How could I, Aunt Janet? I've just 
 changed it. And he must have started long ago. 
 He was to be here at quarter past seven. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. (Looking at his watch) It's 
 seven-twelve now. Really, Frances, to let him come 
 all the way out from town for you, and then not 
 go 
 
 Miss Raymond. And after he sent you such 
 beautiful flowers 
 
 Frances. And such expensive ones ! 
 
 Mk. Raymond. If you hurry, you can still make 
 it. 
 
 Frances.. Dress? In two minutes? Now, 
 Father, stop flattering me. 
 
 Miss Raymond. Oh, well, he'll probably be a 
 little late. 
 
 FraIsices. Ah, how little you know him. I'm 
 sure he'd rather die than be one minute late for an 
 engagement. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. Well, that's an admirable quality. 
 Frances. Admirable. But aggravating. 
 Mr. Raymot^I). Well, if I were Ned, I'd be per- 
 fectly furious! 
 
 Frances. Oh, no you wouldn't, Father. If you 
 were Ned, you'd think everythirig I did was perfect. 
 Whenever I'm horrid, he takes all the blame ori him- 
 
THE GIPSY TRAIL 17 
 
 self. It's very unfair of him. It makes me feel so 
 guilty. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. I should think it would. 
 
 Frances. It does. I'm beginning to feel guilty 
 already. It isn't nice of me to tease him, but you 
 know I only tease people I'm fond of — and I'm 
 awfully fond of Ned. Even if he is punctual. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. (Looking at his watch) Well, 
 tonight he isn't punctual, for it's seven-fifteen now. 
 
 Frances. But here he is — precisely on the sec- 
 ond. 
 
 (Ned walks on along the path from the left. He 
 is in evening dress, with a linen automobile 
 duster over his arm, and he wears a soft hat) 
 
 Ned. (Coming up on the veranda) Good even- 
 ing. Miss Raymond. 
 
 Miss Raymond. Good evening, Ned. 
 
 (She shakes hands warmly with him., 
 
 Mr. Raymond. How are you, Ned ? 
 
 Ned. (Walking over right and shaking hands 
 with Mr. Raymond) First rate, thank you, sir. 
 (He lays his duster and hat on the taboreite right, 
 and comes down to Frances with a pleased smile) 
 Hello, Fratices. 
 
 Frances. Hello ! 
 
 Ned. I think we'd better be starting for 
 
 (He gazes at her bhnkly and stops) Why, Frances, 
 you're not dressed! (Then, realizing how this 
 sounds, he hastens to add) For the wedding, I 
 mean. 
 
 Frances. No, Ned, I — '— 
 
 Ned. Great Scott! Did I tell you eight-fifteen? 
 I meant seven-fifteen. Oh, Frances, I am, sorry I 
 
 Frances. Of course you said seven-fifteen. You 
 never make mistakes. 
 
i8 THE GIPSY TRAIL 
 
 Ned. That's what I thought. But how does it 
 come, then 
 
 Frances. I'm not going to the wedding, Ned. 
 
 Ned. Why, what's the matter, Frances ? Aren't 
 you well? What a confounded shame you should 
 be laid up tonight. 
 
 Frances. , Do you think I look ill, Ned? Am I 
 very pale ? 
 
 Ned. You look awfully sweet. But — perhaps, 
 you are a trifle pale. I hope it's nothing serious. 
 
 Frances. Ned, I am ashamed of myself. There's 
 nothing the matter with me. I just decided I didn't 
 want to go — and it was too late to telephone. You'll 
 never forgive me — and I shan't blame you a bit ! 
 
 Ned. Why, that's all right, Frances. I'm not 
 very keen to go myself, now I come to think of it. 
 
 Frances. Then don't. Stay here with me. It's 
 a heavenly evening, and we'll walk down to the 
 river and 
 
 Ned. Oh, Frances, I wish I could. But I prom- 
 ised Mrs. Cortright particularly I'd show up 
 
 Frances (Dryly) Then of course you must. I'm 
 sorry, too. 
 
 Miss Raymond. Frances, you accepted Mrs. 
 Cortright's invitation too, and I think you ought to 
 go. 
 
 Frances. It's too late now, Aunt Janet. It's 
 'way down at Trinity. 
 
 Miss Raymond. (Rising) You'll be in plenty 
 of time for the reception. I'll go upstairs and lay 
 out your things. Ned, make her go. (She goes 
 into the hall and out to the right) 
 
 Mr. Raymond. (Rising) Yes, Ned, make her 
 go. (He follows her into the hall and out to the 
 right. There is a moment's pause, then Frances 
 looks up at Ned with a smile) 
 
 Frances. Well, Ned, are you going to make me 
 go? 
 
THE GIPSY TRAIL 19 
 
 Ned. Make you go ? No, I'm not. 
 Frances. I think if you insisted very, very hard, 
 I might go — ^perhaps. 
 
 Ned. You know I want you to go. But I shan't 
 try to make you. I want you to realize, Frances, 
 that if you'll only marry me, I'll never insist on 
 anything. I'll always let you do just as you please. 
 
 I'll always 
 
 Frances. Oh, please don't, dear. I know some 
 girls like being proposed to, but I don't. I hate it. 
 It makes me so unhappy to say "no." 
 Ned. Can't you sav "yes ?" 
 Frances. I can't. Oh, Ned, if I could, I would — 
 you know I would. But please don't ask me any 
 more. 
 
 Ned. You like me, don't you? 
 Frances. Of course I like you — you know how 
 much I like you — and always have. But you're 
 asking me for something more than that — and dif- 
 ferent. 
 
 Ned. I know I'm not good enough for you. 
 Frances. I won't have you say that. It isn't 
 true. That's not the reason. 
 
 Ned. Then what is it ? I know it's my own fault, 
 Frances, that there's something you want I can't 
 give you. But I don't know what it is. 
 
 Frances. And I can't tell you. You must find 
 it out for yourself, Ned. All I can do is to give 
 you, now and then, a tiny hint. 
 
 Ned. Have you ever given me a hint ? (Frances 
 nods) And I didn't see it ? (She shakes her head 
 slowly) I wish I knew what it was. 
 
 Frances. I wish you did, Ned. (She rises, looks 
 at him a moment, then goes over right and stands 
 looking out through the lattice) 
 
 Ned. (After a pause) What are you looking 
 at? 
 
 Frances. Nothing. Just the moon peeping 
 
20 THE GIPSY TRAIL 
 
 out from behind the clouds. Come here. It's beau- 
 tiful. 
 
 (Ned joins her and they stand together for a mo- 
 ment in silence) 
 Ned. (At last) It looks a little as if it might 
 rain, but I don't believe it will— not until after the 
 wedding, anyhow. 
 
 (Frances makes a slight hut hopeless gesture, and 
 turns away. She walks slowly hack to the left, 
 humming softly "The Gipsy Trail" ) 
 
 Ned. (Following her) That's pretty. 
 
 Frances. What ? 
 
 Ned. What you're humming. 
 
 Frances. Do you like it? 
 
 Ned. Yes. What is it ? 
 
 Frances. A song called "The Gipsy Trail." 
 
 Ned. That's right. So it is. 
 
 Frances. (Eagerly) Do you know it, too? 
 
 Ned. Heard it a thousand times. Old Ham Phil- 
 lips used to bellow it at college. 
 
 Frances. Do you remember the words ? 
 
 Ned. (Knitting his forehead, then shakes his 
 head) Funny, but I can't recall 'em to save my life. 
 (Turning to her abruptly) Frances, if you were to 
 give me one of those hints tonight, I believe I'd see 
 it. 
 
 Frances. (Shaking her head) I'm afraid you 
 wouldn't, Ned. 
 
 (John enters from the right along the path. He 
 holds the hook in one .hand and is reciting in a 
 sing-song, without looking at it. He walks 
 very carefully in a straight- line, his eyes bent 
 on the ground) 
 
 John. 
 "So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, 
 
THE GIPSY TRAIL 21 
 
 Among bridesmen and kinsmen and brothers and' 
 
 all ; 
 Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword. 
 For the poor craven bridegroom said never a 
 word " 
 
 Frances. Come here a minute, John. 
 
 John. (Paying no attention to her and still look- 
 ing at the ground) 
 
 " 'Oh, come ye in peace here or come ye in war. 
 Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?' " 
 
 Frances. Johnnie ! 
 
 John. (Looking up) Huh? Oh, hello, Ned. 
 
 Ned. Hello, Johnnie. 
 
 John. We got your flowers, Ned. (He continues 
 to recite to himself during the next three speeches) 
 "So boldly he, entered the Netherby Hall, 
 Among bridesmen and kinsmen and brothers and 
 
 all ; 
 Then spoke the bride's father, his hand " 
 
 Frances. And I never even thanked you for 
 them ! They'-re beautiful. 
 
 Ned. Oh, that's all right. 
 
 Frances. Come over here a minute, John. 
 
 John. Uh-uh, I can't. I'm walking this crack, 
 and I dassent get off. 
 
 Frances. Oh, I see. But can't you transfer? 
 
 John. That's right, I can. Wait a sec. (He 
 rings an imaginary hell) Ding ! Ding ! (He comes 
 Mp on the veranda and joins them) 
 
 Frances. Let me hear that verse you were hav- 
 ing such trouble with before dinner. 
 
 John. (Handing her the book open at the place) 
 AH right. I got it down cold now. 
 
 (Ned turns away, looking bored. 
 
 Frances. Listen, Ned — ^he really does it very 
 well. Now, John. "One touch— — " 
 
 John. (With fine declamation) 
 "One touch to her hand and one word in her ear. 
 
22 THE GIPSY TRAIL 
 
 When they reached the hall door and the charger 
 
 stood near, 
 So light to the croup the fair lady he swung, 
 So light to the saddle before her he sprung. 
 She is won ! We are gone ! Over bank, bush and 
 
 scaur. 
 'They'll have fleet steeds that follow/ quoth Young 
 Lochinvar." 
 
 Frances. Splendid! I think you've studied 
 Enough for tonight. 
 
 Jo'HN. Hurray! (He tosses the hook down on 
 the ottoman, goes down on the path and faces right) 
 Well, I'm going to start now. Will you crank the 
 car, Sis? 
 
 Frances. All right. (She goes down, kneels in, 
 front of him- and goes through the motions of crank- 
 ing an automobile ) 
 
 John. (After a few preliminary wheezes) It's 
 kinder cold. I must give it a richer mixture. Now ! 
 (Frances craMfe.yj R-r-r-r-r-r! All right, good- 
 bye. (He goes out to the right, making strange 
 noises, in the character of an automobile. Frances 
 joins Ned again on the veranda) 
 
 Ned. Johnnie recites that very well. 
 
 Frances. Ned 
 
 Ned. Yes ? 
 
 Frances. If you want me to go to the wedding 
 very much ■ 
 
 Ned. Oh, Frances, I wish you would ! 
 
 Frances. Then I will. I shan't be ten minutes. 
 (She goes into the hall and out to the right. Ned 
 picks up the hook John has left on the ottoman) 
 
 Ned. (Reading) 
 
 "So light to the croup the fair lady he swung, 
 So light to the saddle before her he sprung. 
 
 She is won ! We are " 
 
 (Ned stops, and considers a mom,ent) She is won! 
 
THE GIPSY TRAIL 23 
 
 (Mr. Raymond comes into the hall from the right 
 and out upon the veranda. He seems highly 
 pleased) 
 
 Mr. Raymond. So you persuaded Frances to go 
 after all? 
 
 Ned. Yes. She's getting- ready. 
 • Mr. Raymond. Just a little firmness, Ned — ^that's 
 all she needs. She has notions, but then, all girls 
 have. She'll outgrow them; and — she's a splendid 
 girl 1 
 
 Ned. Yes, she is. (He hesitates a moment) Mr. 
 Raymond, there's something I want to ask you. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. (Smiling) Yes, Ned? Go on. 
 
 Ned. You will probably be quite a little sur- 
 prised 
 
 Mr. Raymond. (Roguishly) Perhaps I won't 
 be quite so surprised as you think. 
 
 Ned. Before I ask you, I want to say that I 
 think you Have known me long enough 
 
 Mr. Raymond. My dear boy, I've known you 
 all your hfe — I'm very fond of you — there is no 
 one I'd rather have — ^in fact, I've been hoping for 
 some time that— ^Now, what is it you want to ask? 
 
 Ned. If I hope to win Frances, I've got to be a 
 Lochinvar. Mr. Raymond, I want your permission 
 to kidnap your daughter. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. What! 
 
 Ned. I want to kidnap Frances. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. Ned, are you crazy? 
 
 Ned. (Rather pathetically) It isn't that I want 
 to do it. She wants me to. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. Wants you to kidnap her? Did 
 she say so ? 
 
 Ned. Oh, not in so many words. But she 
 dropped a hint— and of course I got it immediately. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. But what for? I don't see any 
 sense in it. ■ 
 
24 THE GIPSY TRAIL 
 
 Ned. Well, neither do I, if it comes to that. 
 But you know Frances is sort of — I don't know — 
 Tomantic 
 
 Mr. Raymond. Oh, I know. 
 
 Ned. And if she wants to be kidnapped, she shall 
 be — if I can bring it about. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. Ned, I'm surprised at you. I 
 always thought you were so steady. 
 
 Ned. I'm surprised at myself. I never knew I 
 was so reckless and impulsive. But it's the only 
 way for me to win her 
 
 Mr. Raymond. And all this time I was' hoping 
 she'd really accepted you. 
 
 Ned. You were ? ( Mr. Raymond nods) Then, 
 Mr. Raymond, help me. I know I can win her if 
 you'll just let me kidnap her. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. Don't keep harping on that insane 
 idea. 
 
 Ned. But it's my only chance! And it would 
 be so easy. My car is here — we'd start ofi£ together, 
 supposedly for the wedding. But we wouldn't go 
 to the wedding at all. Confound it, I'll break my 
 engagement at the Cortright's. We'd go to "The 
 Breakers" — my place on thp lake shore. Ellen, my 
 old nurse, is out there, you know. Probably we'd be 
 back tomorrow. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. (Frowning) Tomorrow? 
 
 Ned. Old Ellen's there, you know. It will be all 
 right. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. (Shaking his head decisively) 
 No, Ned. Forget it! (He goes into the hall, and 
 out to the right) 
 
 Ned. But (He stands a moment watching 
 
 Mr. Raymond, then, with a hopeless shrug of his 
 shoulders, follows him into the hall and out to the 
 right. After a moment's pause Michael enters 
 along the path from the left, riding on a bicycle 
 which he brings to rest against the lattice at the 
 
THE GIPSY TRAIL 2$ 
 
 liffht of the veranda. He is a young man of about 
 twenty-nine wearing a shirt with a soft collar, a 
 wrinkled suit of rough material and a battered felt 
 hat. Without hesitation he walks up upon the ver- 
 anda to the center door and rings the bell to the 
 left of it firmly and for some time. Presently Stiles 
 comes into the hall from the left and comes to the 
 door) 
 
 Michael. Mr. Rayrtiond home? 
 
 Stiles. I will inquire. And who shall I say? 
 
 Michael. Mr. — ^Jones. 
 
 Stiles. Jones ? 
 
 Michael. Jones. 
 
 Stiles. Mr. Raymond doesn't know any Mr. 
 Jones. 
 
 Michael. Doesn't he? Well now, that's odd. 
 I should have thought he would. 
 
 Stiles. If you're the man from The Chronicle, 
 Mr. Raymond won't see you. 
 
 Michael. How long have you been with Mr. 
 Raymond ? 
 
 Stiles. About three years. 
 
 Michael. Ah, yes. Then you wouldn't know. 
 
 Stiles. Wouldn't know what? 
 
 Michael. I suppose you never heard of his long- 
 lost son ? 
 
 Stiles. Loiig-lost son ! Why — there's just Mas- 
 ter John. 
 
 Michael. Master John! A younger brother! 
 Good heavens ! 
 
 Stiles. You don't mean to say you're Mr. Ray- 
 mond's long-lost son? 
 
 Michael. There! And I didn't mean to let it 
 out! 
 
 Stiles. And am I to tell Mr. Raymond his long-^ 
 lost son has come home? 
 
 Michael. Well, you must use yoiir own judg- 
 ment about that. The shock may be very great — 
 
26 THE GIPSY TRAIL 
 
 and I couldn't take the responsibility. Do as you 
 think best. But I must see him. 
 ( Stiles stares at him a moment, but Michael meets 
 his look without flinching, and after a moment's 
 hesitation, Stiles goes out to the right. Mich- 
 ael chuckles, and walks over right to the settee, 
 where his eye is caught by the copy of the mer- _ 
 ger which Mr. Raymond has left lying there. 
 He picks it up, glances at it, whistles with sur- 
 prise, then lays it down again on the settee. 
 After a moment Mr. Raymond comes into the 
 hall from the right, and out upon- the veranda) 
 Mr. Raymond. Good evening. Are you my long- 
 lost son? 
 
 Michael. Your man seemed to think I was. 
 But then, he may be mistaken. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. Of course he's mistaken ! 
 Michael. I'm glad to hear it. 
 Mr. Raymond. I haven't any long-lost son. 
 Michael. Are you sure? 
 Mr. Raymond. Say, what is this ? 
 Michael. I haven't the slightest intention of 
 claiming you for a parent. 
 
 Mr- Raymond. Then what do you want? 
 Michael. (With a sudden, disarming- smile) 
 Well, Mr. Raymond, what I really want is the in- 
 formation concerning that merger, for The 
 Chronicle. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. You're a reporter? 
 Michael. Yes. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. And you got me out here by 
 lying? 
 
 Micheal. Why not call it diplomacy ? Without 
 it, you wouldn't have seen me. And now, if you 
 
 will give me the information 
 
 Mr. Raymond. I told your office there woj no 
 information — and that if they sent a man out 
 here 
 
THE GIPSY TRAIL 27 
 
 Michael. You needn't repeat it. It was I who 
 talked to you — from Mentor. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. And in spite of that you came? 
 
 Michael. I've been sent out to get that infor- 
 mation. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. I tell you there is no information. 
 Why the newspapers can't manage their infernal 
 business without the aid of lies 
 
 Michael. Oh, it's much like any other business. 
 Don't even you yourself occasionally find it neces- 
 sary 
 
 Mr. R'aymond. No, sir, I do not. 
 
 Michael. Do I understand you to say that no 
 merger is contemplated? 
 
 Mr. Raymond. That's what I said. 
 
 Michael. Then if I were you, I wouldn't leave 
 a copy of it on my porch. (He picks up the copy 
 of the merger from the settee and hands it to Mr. 
 Raymond^ 
 
 Mr. Raymond. (Irritably, after a short pause) 
 Well, then, there is a merger. (He puts the copy in 
 his pocket) 
 
 Michael. So I see. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. But as you would also see, if 
 you had any sense, the fact must not come out until 
 the terms are agreed upon. And yet you come here 
 — (He looks at Michael and decides to change his 
 tactics. He points to the chair to the left of the 
 right pillar) Won't you sit down ? 
 
 Michael. Thank you. (He sits down)_ 
 
 Mr. Raymond. (Taking out his cigar-case) 
 Have a cigar ? 
 
 Michael. No, thank you! 
 
 Mr. Raymond. Now see here, my boy. I watvt 
 you to keep this dark for me. And anything I can 
 do for you 
 
 Michael. (Rising, with a smile) No, Mr. Ray- 
 
28 THE GIPSY TRAIL 
 
 mond. You won't find much bribery in my busi- 
 ncss. \ 
 
 Mr. Raymond. Then you're going to make use 
 of information obtained in such a way? 
 
 Michael. I have no information. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. Do you mean to tell me you 
 haven't read that agreement? 
 
 Michael. What do you take me for? A busi- 
 ness man? 
 
 Mr. Raymond. Of course you've read it, and 
 you'll go straight back to your office 
 
 Michael. Oh, no, I won't. May I use your tele- 
 phone a moment? 
 
 Mr. Raymond. What for? To tell them 
 
 Michael. I have nothing to tell them. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. (After a pause, during which he 
 looks closely at Michael) Very well. In there 
 to your right. (He points to the door center) 
 
 Michael. Thanks. (He goes into the hall to the 
 telephone) Main one two, please — Hello ! Chron- 
 icle? Desk, please. Hello, Jerry. Jones at Kirt- 
 land on the Raymond Chemical merger. Nothing 
 doing. And I resign. (He laughs) Yes, I beat 
 you to it. All right, old man. 'Bye. (He hangs up 
 the receiver and comes out on the veranda) That 
 ought to satisfy' you. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. I beg your pardon. 
 . Michael. Oh, that's all right. (He starts over 
 right toward his bicycle) Good night. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. Wait a minute. Did you resign 
 from the paper? 
 ^ Michael. Yes. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. May I ask why? 
 
 Michael. Sure. Because, if I hadn't resigned, 
 i'd have been fired in another ten seconds. 
 ' Mr. Raymond. What for? 
 
 Michael. Failing to get the story I was sent 
 out for. 
 
THE GIPSY TRAIL 29 
 
 Mr. Raymond. I don't want you to lose your job 
 on my account. 
 
 Michael. Bah! Don't give it a moment's; 
 thought. It was a rotten- job, anyhow, and I was- 
 getting tired of it. 
 
 Mr. Raymond.-, Have you another job? 
 
 Michael. No. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. Then what will you do? 
 
 Michael. I won't do anything for a wMe,, 
 I've got almost fourteen dollars 
 
 Mr. Raymond. Good heavens! Is that all? My 
 boy, you've behaved very honorably in this matter, 
 and I feel responsible for the loss of your position., 
 / will give you a job. 
 
 Michael. What kind of a job? 
 
 Mr. Raymond. Oh, I dare say they can find a. 
 place for you on the clerical force. 
 
 Michael. Bookkeeping? Sit indoors all day 
 .adding up figures? Oh, no! Thanks very much,, 
 but I couldn't take it. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. Why not? 
 
 Michael. Because it would bore me to death. 
 
 Mr. Raymon.d. Well, when you're out of a job, 
 young man, and have only fourteen dollars you can't 
 afford to be particular. 
 
 Michael. ' If I didn't have fourteen cents I 
 wouldn't take a job that didn't amuse me. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. Young man, I sorry to hear you 
 say that. I tell you plainly, it is not the way tO' 
 make a success in life. 
 
 Michael. It might not be the way for you — but 
 it's the way for me. I don't believe many men have 
 t^e.en so successful as I have. ,| ,,, 
 
 Mr. Raymond. Really? Why, what have you 
 accomplished? , 
 
 Michael. I've been perfectly happy. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. And do you call that an. accom- 
 plishment? , .,.,■/,, ),,,., ;;. 
 
30 THE GIPSY TRAIL 
 
 Michael. Rather! Don't yoo? 
 
 Mr. Raymond. No, I don't. YdaVe been happy ! 
 Haven't you any ambition? 
 
 Michael. I have boundless ambition — brat not 
 :'for money. 
 
 Mr. RAYMOND. I'm always suspicious of a. man 
 who says that; he's usually an idler. Every man 
 ought to earri his own salt 
 
 Michael. Right ! And that I've done, ever since 
 I grew up. I could have had plenty of soft jobs — 
 jobs that you would aoprove of. And ff I'd taken 
 one of them, I m-'ght by this tinte be rich and miser- 
 able. But I didn't, thank God! I started in as a 
 waiter in a Childs restaurant, and since then I've 
 done all sorts of different things all over the worid — 
 I've sounded the heights and depths of life — and 
 I've had a bully time I But I've worked, too — 
 worked like a dog, at jobs that would crtimple up 
 some of your rising young business men in about • 
 thirty seconds. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. Don't you want to ^do something 
 in the world. 
 
 Michael. I have done something in the world ; 
 quite as much, very Hkely, as you have. You're 
 what is called a success, but it's made you a special- 
 ist. You can manufacture chemicals and you can 
 sell them — ^but what else can you do? 
 
 Mr. Raymond. What else ? 
 
 Michael. Can you w'ipe a plumber's joint? Cart 
 you assemble an automobile ? Can you cook Chicken 
 a la King? Can you climb the Matterhorn — drive 
 an a;eroplane ? Did you ever shoot a hippopotamus 
 — and would you know how to go about it? Can 
 you drive an ehgiile? Play the ukelele? Did you 
 ever mine gold ? Can you row a gondola — dive f Or 
 pearls? Lassoo a mustang? 
 
 Mr. Raymond. Why — ho. 
 
 Michael. Well, / can. 
 
THE GIPSY TRAIL 31 
 
 Mr. Raymond. But — ^but — ^bilt I don't want to 
 do any of those things ? 
 
 Michael. Honestly? Then you're even worse 
 ofFthan I thought. I've sailed on a whaler, I revo- 
 lutionized the sanitation of a town in Guatemala, 
 for five weeks I was a general in the Army of Para- 
 guay, and I've built a bridge in the Andes. That 
 is one thing I'm proud of ; it was a good bridge. 
 
 Mr. RaVmond. But — great heavens! — if you're 
 an engineer, why don't you keep at it? You could 
 earn 
 
 Michael. Of course I could. But, good Lord, 
 man I I've built one bridge. You don't suppose I 
 want to build another ? 
 
 Mr. Raymond. Oh, you're crazy ! 
 
 Michael. No, I'm happy. I never worry, and 
 there's always something new. The world is full of 
 roinance and adventure ; all you have to do is to go 
 out and find it. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. But you'll have to settle down 
 sometime. 
 
 Michael. Why ? 
 
 Mr. Raymond. Well, some day you'll want to 
 marry, and then — 
 
 Michael. No. I don't want to marry, 
 
 Mr. Raymond. But you said you were romantic. 
 
 Michael. What has marriage to do with ro- 
 mance ? 
 
 Mr. Raymond. Oh, I suppose you have advanced 
 ideas about that, too. 
 
 Michael. No. Just because I said I was ro- 
 mantic, you think, of course, that I'm crazy aljout 
 women. I'm not. They play only a small part in 
 romance. The main thing — it's adventure. I've 
 made up my mind jnpt to marry, and I shan't. 
 
 ^R. Raymond. Why not } 
 
 Michael. Becausfe marriage means responsibil- 
 ity — and I don't want responsibility. I dread it — 
 
32 THE GIPSY TRAIL 
 
 I'm afraid of it— it's the only thing I am afraid of. 
 It would mean the end of all I care for. Tied down, 
 forced to stay in one place, to make a position for 
 your family — no, thanks ! — none of that for me. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. Have you never fallen m love? 
 
 Michael. (Laughing) Times without number 1 
 I'm always losing my head over some girl, and when 
 that happens, I throw prudence to the winds and 
 fly after her. But my lucky star always saves me. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. How do you mean? 
 
 Michael. Once I've met her, I find I don't 
 want her. She always falls' so far short of my ideal 
 of her. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. Y&u must be particular. 
 
 Michael. I should say I am. It's my salvation ! 
 Suppose I weren't? Where should I be now? 
 Married ! 
 
 Mr. Raymond. (Chuckling) Young man, some- 
 where in your future there is awaiting you a great 
 and painful surprise. Your scheme of life is inter- 
 esting and I don't doubt it is amusing, but it won't 
 work. 
 
 Michael. Why not? 
 
 Mr. Raymond. You're tiying to evade respon- 
 sibility — and you can't. Run as you will, my lad, 
 run clear around the world, it will catch you some 
 day. And Ishen — look out ! 
 
 Michael. "He travels the , fastest who travels 
 alone." I can show a clean pair of heels to plodding 
 old responsibility. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. And what about Nature? You're, 
 human, I suppose? 
 
 Michael. I suppose so. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. Then beware ! For somewhere 
 a girl is waiting for you — and when she begins to 
 sing, ypu'll follow, my lad — ^you'll follow. It will 
 be a rare sight. 
 
THE GIPSY TRAIL 33 
 
 (Ned comes rushing enthusiastically into the hall 
 from the right, and' out upon the veranda, his 
 face beaming) 
 
 Ned. Mr. Raymond, I thought of the most ■won- 
 derful way out (Then as he sees Michael) 
 
 Oh, excuse me. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. Come on out, Ned, meet Mr. 
 
 {Turning to Mic-rkel) Jones, is it? Mr. Andrews. 
 
 Ned. Very pleased, Fm sure. 
 
 Michael. How are you? 
 
 Mr. Raymond. Mr. Jones is quite crazy, Ned. 
 But otherwise he's as interesting a young man as . 
 I've ever met. 
 
 Ned. (Politely) I'm sure that's only Mr. Ray- 
 mond's joke. 
 
 Michael. Oh, it's quite possible he's right. They 
 told me the same thing, in France. 
 
 Ned. Oh, you've been in France? 
 
 Michael. Yes. French aeroplane service for 
 about six months. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. You astounding man, you've 
 "been everywhere. 
 
 Michael. I'd be there yet, only — Well, when 
 your plane falls seven hundred feet with you, it does 
 smash you up. So they hung a war cross on me and 
 sent me home for repairs. 
 
 Ned. It must have been very interesting. I sup- 
 pose you'll be writing a book about your experi- 
 ences. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. Ned, you've guessed it ! (Turn- 
 ing to Michael) You're going to make a book of 
 your adventures ! 
 
 Michael. And sell it ! How like — how exactly 
 like a business man ! Of course I shall do nothing 
 of the sort. I am an amateur— an amateur roman- 
 tic, I do nothing except for the fun of the thing. 
 
34 THE GIPSY TRAIL 
 
 Ned. I thought all romantic people wrote books. 
 
 Michael. Judging from the literary output of 
 the last ten years, I should say none of them did. 
 At any rate, I don't. I am the only living American 
 who has served in the French Army who has not 
 written a book. That is my one legitimate boast. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. You should hear him tell of his 
 adventures. 
 
 Ned. I'd like to. I'd like to know a lot of ro- 
 mantic things to talk about. 
 
 Mr. Raymond.. Then Mr. Jones is your man> 
 But isn't Frances ready ? 
 
 Ned. Well, she said she'd only be ten minutes, 
 but 
 
 Mr. Raymond. Ah, Jones, do you hear that? 
 Patiently waiting for a capricious girl. One of 
 these days, that will be your fate. 
 
 Michael. Good Lord ! I hope not ! 
 
 Ned. Excuse me, Mr. Raymond, but if I could 
 have just a word with you before she comes 
 down-^ 
 
 Michael. I'll say good-night. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. No, no! Don't go yet. I may 
 be able to think of some job that would be suf- 
 ficiently exciting for you. 
 
 Michael. Afraid not, thanks. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. You never can tell. Have a 
 cigar, at least. 
 
 Michael. Thanks. (He takes a cigar from the 
 case Mr. Raymond holds out to him, goes over left 
 and lights it) 
 
 Mr. Raymond. (Turning to Ned) Now, Ned. 
 
 Ned. Mr. Raymond — it was about the kidnap- 
 ping 
 
 Mr. Raymond. Now don't re-open that, Ned. 
 
 Ned. But if I were to have my grandmother 
 come out and chaperone us 
 
THE GIPSY TRAIL 35 
 
 Mr. Raymond. Mrs. Widdimore? She'd never 
 come. 
 
 Ned. Yes, she would. Oh, Mr. Raymond, do 
 say "yes." It means so much to me. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. (After a pause) Very well. 
 But only if your grandmother will -chaperone you. 
 You'd better call her up and make sure. 
 
 Ned. Right away ! (He rushes into the hall to 
 the telephone) Prospect 3072, please. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. (To Michael^ I like you, 
 young man, and I'd like to do something for you. 
 
 Michael. And I like you. But I'm afraid you 
 can't. 
 
 Ned. (At the telephone) Hello? Is Mrs. Wid- 
 dimore there? In bed? At this hour? Yes, Kate,, 
 this is Mr. Edward. Wake her up! 
 
 ' Michael. Even if I took a job with you, I'd be 
 tired of it in a few months and want to change. 
 
 Ned. (At the telephone) Wait a minute, I can't 
 hear you. Hello, grandma! This is Edward. I 
 want you to come right out to "The Breakers" arid 
 spend the night — Oh, yes, you can. Well, you can 
 get dressed. Please, grandma — it's awfully impor- 
 tant- I'll explain later. Oh, now grandma, you 
 musin't refuse. Wait a minute, grandma — don't 
 hang up ! I'll tell you the reason— it's — it's — it's — 
 Ellen — ^yes, my old nurse Ellen out there, you know. 
 She's been taken awfully sick, and I thought if you 
 • would only come out. — Yes, it was sudden. I'm 
 at the Raymonds — they just 'phoned me and I'm 
 starting for the Lake. Shore at once — Then you'll 
 meet me there ? Oh, thank you. I knew you would. 
 Just as quick as you can ! (He hangs up the re- 
 ceiver and comes Out on the veranda) I've fixed it. 
 She's coming. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. There, Mr. Jones, is an example 
 of real business efficiency. 
 
 Ned. Yes, I think I did that rather well. 
 
36 THE GIPSY TRAIL 
 
 (Stiles enters the hall from the left with Mr. Ray- 
 mond's hat and overcoat. He comes out on the 
 veranda) 
 
 Stiles. Wilson is at the front door with ths 
 car, Mr. Raymond. (He helps, Mr. Raymond on 
 with his coat, hands him his hat and goes into the 
 hall and out to the left.) 
 
 Michael. I see you don't even need a chauffeur. 
 I might qualify for that. I have excellent references 
 somewhere. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. Can't I give you a lift into town? 
 
 Michael. No, thanks. (He points to his bicycle, 
 leaning against the lattice) I have a chariot of my 
 own. I bought it in Mentor for three dollars and 
 a quarter — and I got stung. Good night. I hope 
 .the merger is a great success. (He goes over to the 
 right, picks up his bicycle and. walks off with it 
 along the path to the right) 
 
 Mr. Raymond. Well, good night. (Then, turn- 
 ing to Ned) • Good luck, Ned. (He walks along the 
 path off left) 
 
 Ned. Good night. (The telephone rings, Mich- 
 ael walks on again from the right, pushing his 
 bicycle, and brings it to rest again against the right 
 lattice) Hello, what's the matter? 
 
 Michael. (Kneeling down and investigating ) 
 Oh, a flat tire. Thought I'd bring it back here under 
 the light and try to fix it. 
 
 (Stiles enters the hall from the left and goes to the 
 telephone) 
 
 Stiles. (At the telephone) Mr. Andrews? Just 
 a minute, please. 
 
 Ned. (Starting for the hall) I wonder what's 
 the matter? (He goes into the hall and takes the 
 telephone from Stiles, who goes out to the left. In 
 
THE GIPSY TRAIL 37 
 
 the meantime Michael sets to work with a small 
 pump to locate the puncture) Hello? Grandma? 
 You can't come? Why not? Oh, but see here, 
 •Grandma, you've got to come. Hire a taxi! Oh, 
 well, then, if you insist, I'll come for you myself. 
 (He hangs up the receiver and com,es out on the 
 veranda) Doesn't that beat the dickens ? 
 
 Michael. What's wrong? 
 
 Ned. Oh, these drunken chauffeurs. 
 
 Michael. What's the matter? 
 
 Ned. I've got to drive my grandmother. I don't 
 know what to do ! Say, can you drive a car ? 
 
 Michael. Has it got four wheels ? 
 
 Ned. Why, of course it has. It's a Packard. 
 
 Michael. Then I can drive it. 
 
 Ned. I thought I heard you tell Mr. Raymond 
 ■you'd been a chauffeur. Well, I'll engage you for 
 tonight. 
 
 Michael. I'd like to know something about the 
 job first. Is there any fun in it? 
 
 Ned. You're to — well, kidnap a young lady — 
 Miss Raymond. 
 
 Michael. Say on. 
 
 Ned. You're to drive my car up here, tell her 
 I've been unexpectedly called to town, and that you 
 are going to take her to Mrs. Cortright's, where I'll 
 join her later. 
 
 Michael. And then? 
 
 Ned. But .you .don't take her there at all. You 
 drive her to "The Breakers," my place on the Lake 
 Shore Boulevard. It's next door to the Bainbridge 
 place, just beyond Coit road. Do you know it? 
 
 Michael. I can find it. 
 
 Ned. In the meantime, I'll borrow Mr. Ray- 
 mond's roadster, go get grandma and meet you 
 there. Now how much would you want to do it? 
 
 Michael. A kidnapping with a grandmother 
 thrown in? 
 
38 THE GIPSY TRAIL 
 
 Ned. Yes. 
 
 Michael. Appeals to nothing but my sense of 
 humor. Can't take the job. 
 
 Ned. Oh, come on! Please do. I'll give you 
 fifty dollars. 
 
 Michael. (Laughing) Not for fifty thousand". 
 
 (Frances comes into the hall from the right, and, 
 opening the screen doors, comes half way out 
 on the veranda. She is in evening dress) 
 
 Frances. I'll be ready in just a minute, Ned. 
 
 Ned. All right, Frances. Don't hurry. 
 
 Frances. I've just to get my coat. (She goes 
 out to the right. She has not seen Michael,. 
 but he stands staring after her) 
 
 Michael. Is that the girl you want kidnapped ? 
 
 Ned. Yes. Won't you help me out? It's my 
 only chance ! 
 
 Michael. Oh, well, rather than spoil thp party, 
 I'll do it. 
 
 Ned. Oh, that's splendid. Now come with me 
 to the garage — quick ! (He picks up his hat and 
 duster and hastens out along the path to the left. 
 Michael follows him off. They have scarcely dis- 
 appeared when Frances comes into the hall from 
 the right, wearing an evening wrap, and comes to 
 the door) 
 
 Frances. Ned ! (She looks about, and sees that 
 he is gone) 
 
 Miss Raymond. (In right) Are you going, 
 dear? 
 
 Frances. Ned's getting the car. (She goes in to 
 the right. She is presently heard at the piano and 
 pegins to sing) 
 
 "The wild hawk to the wind-swept sky, 
 The deer to the wholesome woVI, 
 And the heart of a man to the heart of a maid," 
 
THE GIPSY TRAIL 39 
 
 (Michael zvalks on from the left, wearing a linen 
 duster. He walks up on the veranda, and stands 
 listening ) 
 
 "As it was in the days of old. 
 
 The heart of a man to the heart of a maid — 
 
 Light of my tents, be fleet ! 
 
 Morning waits at the end of the world 
 
 And the world is all at our feet !" 
 
 (The singing stops and Frances comes into the hall 
 
 from right and out upon the veranda. She stops 
 
 suddenly, as she sees Michael j Well, what is it? 
 
 Michael. Mr. Andrews' chaufifeur, Miss Ray- 
 mond. Mr. Andrews has been suddenly called to 
 town on important business, and borrowed Mr. 
 Raymond's roadster. He wished me to give you his 
 apologies. 
 
 Frances. What a perfect shame ! 
 
 Michael. He left instructions to, drive you to 
 Mrs. Cortright's, where he will join you himself very 
 shortly. 
 
 Frances. Oh, very well. Good night, Aunt 
 Janet. 
 
 Miss Raymond. (In right) Good night. Have 
 a nice time. 
 
 Frances. (Turning to Michael) By the way,, 
 has Mr. Andrews discharged Donald? 
 
 Michael. Donald did not meet Mr. Andrews' 
 present requirements. 
 
 Frances. Oh. (She walks out left along the 
 pathway. Michael follows her off. Just as he 
 disappears to the left, John enters from the right 
 along the pathway, reciting aloud) 
 
 John. 
 "Oh, young Lochinvar has come out of the West, 
 Through all the wide border his steed is the best. 
 And save his good " 
 
 The curtain falls 
 
ACT II 
 
 Scene: The scene represents a room in Edward 
 Andrews' summer cottage, "The Breakers," on 
 the Lake Shore Boulevard. The entrance door- 
 way is in the right wall, well downstage. A 
 portion of a small entrance-hall may be seen 
 beyond it. There is a door in the rear wall and 
 another in the left wall, both very near the 
 upper left corner of the room. When these 
 doors are opened, a slight glim,pse may be had 
 of the rooms beyond. The upper right c0rner 
 of the room, is completely cut off by a large 
 window, through which one gets the effect of 
 the sky on a m,oonlight night. 
 Near this window is a table, with a few books 
 upon it. A long table stands against the rear 
 wall, with twin lamps placed at each end. 
 There is an armchair down right and another 
 one down left; and a long, low, upholstered seat 
 is placed zvell downstage, a little to the left of 
 center. 
 
 When the curtain rises the room, and entrance- 
 hall are brightly lighted. The stage is empty. 
 Ned m^y be heard off right. 
 Ned. Now, you see, grandma, it wasn't such a 
 bad trip after all. (Ned comes in right, wearing 
 his duster, and supporting Mrs. Widdimore, a slen- 
 der and beautiful old lady, dressed in a heavy coat, 
 with a veil about her head) Here we are and every- 
 thing is all right. 
 
 40 
 
THE GIPSY TRAIL 41 
 
 • Mrs. Widdimore. Everything is not all right. 
 The trip was frightful. You skidded four times,, 
 and I'm chilled to the marrow. 
 
 Ned. There, there, there, grandma ! 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. Nothing but Ellen's illness 
 could have induced me to venture out this damp, 
 evening. 
 
 Ned. Now just a few steps more to that nice 
 easy chair 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. Don't clutch my arm! I'm 
 not an invalid. Go away ! (She motions him away, 
 jvalks to the armchair down right, settles herself, 
 then turns to Ned) Now what's the matter with 
 Ellen? 
 
 •, Ned. (Hesitating) We-ell, grandma — I'll just 
 run the car into the garage first ; then I'll explain. 
 (He starts for the door right) 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. Does the doctor think it's 
 serious ? 
 
 Ned. The doctor? 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. Edward Andrews, do you 
 mean to tell me that you haven't had a doctor for 
 that poor, faithful old creature, when she's so des- 
 perately ill? 
 
 (Ellen enters through the dqpr ip. the rear — a hale 
 and hearty old woman) 
 
 Ellen. Oh, Mrs. Widdimore and Master Neddy. 
 I thought I heard the automobile. How wonderful 
 well you're looking. 
 
 (Ned takes off his duster and places it, vuitb his 
 hat, on the table by the window up right) 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. Ellen, why aren't you in 
 bed? 
 
 Ellen. In bed? Mef With you and Master 
 Neddy coming? 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. (WJto has jbeen, scanning her 
 
42 THE GIPSY TRAIL 
 
 face closely) Well, you don't look sick. Edward 
 Andrews, what is the meaning of this deception ? 
 
 Ned. Now grandma, don't excite yoursfelf. 
 
 Mrs. WiDraMORE. Look at her! (Pointing to 
 Ellen) The very picture of health! And you 
 tell me that she's desperately ill. 
 
 Ellen. Mef Why, Master Neddy, where could 
 you 'a-got such a notion ? 
 
 Ned. (Feebly) It was just a joke, Ellen. 
 
 Mrs. WiDtiiMORE. It was a bare-faced lie. 
 
 Ned. Ellen, bring grandma a glass of sherry. 
 
 Ellen. (Starting for the door in the rear) 
 Well, some folks has odd ideas of jokes. 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. I quite agree with Ellen. 
 
 Ellen. (Stopping at the door in the rear, and 
 turning) Master Neddy, what time is the young 
 lady coming? 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. Young lady? Ah! I begin to 
 see a light. 
 
 Ellen. I want to know, because of supper. 
 
 Ned. I've been expecting her every minute. 
 
 Ellen. I telephoned to the Country Club fOr 
 some ice-cream 
 
 (Ellen goes out through the door in the rear. 
 
 Ned. . Now, graiidma — see here. 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. You need explain no further, 
 Edward. I see you've been trying to make me a 
 chaperone under protest. Oh, why did I leave my 
 room? There I lay, comfortably propped up wjth 
 pillows, enjoying the company of "The Three Mus- 
 keteers " 
 
 Ned. Who are they? 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. (Tartly) It's a book. Now 
 take me home to my nice warm bed, and allow, nie 
 to resume my interrupted adventures with D'Ar- 
 tagnan. (.She rises) 
 
 Ned But grandma ! This is serious. I'm in love 
 
THE GIPSY TRAIL 43 
 
 with Frances, I wafit to mafry her. And if you 
 don't stay 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. You want to marry who? 
 
 Ned. Why, Frances Raymond. 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. Frances Raymond ! Oh, that 
 would never do — ^never in the world 1 (She crosses 
 over to the left) 
 
 Ned. Don't you like her ? 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. Of course I like her. She's 
 a very sweet child. But no more fitted to be your 
 wife — No, Edward, I most decidedly object to your 
 marrying her. 
 
 Ned. But why ? 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. She's almost as conventional 
 as you are. We'll find some nice, romantic boy for 
 her — ^if such a thing- is to be found in these days, 
 when a:ll the young men are playing the stocks 
 iriarket instead of the guitar. And you shall marry a 
 rorriantic girl. 
 
 Ned. Well, Frances is romantic. She's the most 
 romantic girl I ever saw. 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. Frances Raymond? Roman- 
 tic ? Edward, you're a fool 
 
 Ned. She is, too, romantic. Why, grsindtna— 
 she wants to be kidnapped, — ^by some man. 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. Of course she does. 
 
 Ned. Of course ? 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. Every girl wants to be kid- 
 tiapped some time in her life. / wanted to be kid- 
 napped. 
 
 NfeD. You, grandma? 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. Don't gape at me, Edward. I 
 wasn't born with spectacles and white hair. I was 
 a headstrong girl once, and — I can say it now — a 
 *^ery lovely girl. 1 longed td be kidnapped — • — 
 
 Ned. By grandpa ? 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. Dori't ask impertinent ques- 
 ■.tioris. (She sits doiiifi in the armchair down left) 
 
44 THE GIPSY TRAIL 
 
 Ned. Well, / have kidnapped Frances Ray- 
 mond 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. Bravo, Edward! I begin to 
 entertain hopes of you. 
 
 Ned. Now you see you've got to stay. Mr. Ray- 
 mond wouldn't let me kidnap her unless you came 
 too. 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. Edward, you don't mean to 
 tell me you went to Frank Raymond and asked his. 
 permission. 
 
 Ned. Of course I did. I had to. 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. Edward, you will be the death 
 of me yet — you really will. (She loosens her coat 
 and takes off her veil) 
 
 Ned. Ah, then you're going to stay? 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. Nothing could induce me to 
 go. I wouldn't miss this for a million dollars. 
 
 Ned. , That's splendid. (Looks at his watch) It's 
 nearly ten, and they must have left the Raymonds'' 
 before eight; I don't see what's keeping them. 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. Edward! You didn't let 
 someone else, do your kidnapping for you? 
 
 Ned. I had to — a fellow named Jones I picked, 
 up there. Mr. Raymond knew him — he's a chauf- 
 feur. . ,. 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. You entrusted the girl' you love 
 to a strange chauffeur? 
 
 Ned. Well, not exactly a chauffeur, either. He's 
 one of those romantic chaps you're always talking 
 about. He's sort of an adventurer. j. 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. An adventurer? Don't. stand 
 there blinking at me in that aggravating way ! Don't 
 you realize that he's probably kidnapped hei; in good 
 earnest? . , .,,.;,,. 
 
 Ned. Good heavens! You don't ttiink. f/iai, . idp 
 you? ,','■■ ;, :; ■■' 
 
 , ,Mrs. Widdimore. They're prpbaj^ly half way to 
 ^:8uffalo by this time. .(N^P smei^ his,hatand~djj^t^/ 
 
THE GIPSY TRAIL 45 
 
 from the table up right) Where are you going?' 
 
 Ned. After them. 
 
 Mrs. Widdimoee. But, Edward, it's a wild-goose 
 chase. 
 
 Ned. Never mind. I'll get track of them some- 
 how — I'll see the police. 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. I almost think you had bettfer.. 
 Oh, Edward, why did you undertake this? It 
 would be dreadful if 
 
 Ned. And you're the one who wanted Frances tO' 
 marry a romantic man. Well, I hope you're satis- 
 fied. 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. Oh, Edward, hurry! 
 
 Ned. I'm off. I wish I'd never tried the thing.. 
 It's been more trouble than a dinner of twenty 
 covers. (He goes out right. Presently the sound of, 
 an automobile engine is heard, then it dies away} 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. (Calling) Ellen! 
 
 (Ellen appears at the door in the rear, with a 
 glass of sherry on a tray) 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. I don't want that. There 
 won't by any supper party, Ellen. 
 
 Ellen. And why not? 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. There won't be anyone to eat 
 it. Miss Frances is lost, and Edward is out search- 
 ing the highways for her. 
 
 Ellen. Oh, dear! And the supper all but. 
 cooked. 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. Then you eat it. And you 
 may as well go to bed, for there's no telling when 
 Edward will be back. 
 
 (Mrs. Widdimore goes out left, closing the door be- 
 hind her. Ellen turns out all the lights in the 
 room, by a switch which is at the left of the 
 door in the rear. The room, is now lighted only 
 by the moonlight seen through the large window 
 
46 THE GIPSY TRAIL 
 
 ■up right; and hy a light from the smtall en- 
 trance-hall to the right, which falls upon the 
 armchair down r-ght. ErxEN goes out the 
 door in the rear, closing it behind her. A brief 
 pause. Then the sound of an approaching au- 
 tomobile is heard, and presently Michakl en- 
 ters the doorway right, carrying Frances in his 
 arms) 
 Frances. Let me go ! How — how dare you? 
 Put me down ! 
 
 Michael. Certainly. (He places her in the arm- 
 chair dozvn right, where the light from the entrance 
 hall falls full upon her. Her opera cloak falls back 
 upon the chair) I'm sorry I had to carry yon, but 
 
 since you wouldn't walk (He shrugs his shotd- 
 
 ders)* 
 Frances. Wh — ^where am I? 
 Michael. You are "somewhere in Cleveland." 
 I can't be more definite. (He takes off his duster 
 and places it, with his hat, on the table by the win- 
 dow up right) 
 
 Frances. Just wait until Mr. Andrews hears of 
 the disgraceful way you've acted ! Oh, I've never 
 been on such a ride in my whole life — ^in and out 
 of parks, back and forth across viaducts — oh, and 
 when I think of the way you skidded around cor- 
 ners ! No wonder I was dizzy ! No wonder I lost 
 all sense of direction! No wonder I haven't the 
 remotest idea where I am ! 
 Michael. I counted on that. 
 Frances. I don't believe you went less than 
 forty miles an hour from the time we started. I 
 saw five policemen take your number. 
 
 Michael. Never mind — it isn't my car. But 
 ■wasn't it a glorious ride ? 
 
 Frances. I was frightened to death— and yet, 
 
 * See "Notes on Production," on Pstge 94. 
 
THE GIPSY TRAIL 47 
 
 somehow — I wasn't, either. You drive worider-r 
 fully. 
 
 Michael. Thank you. 
 
 Frances. It was a perfectly beastly ride. I'm 
 furious about it. And as for Mr. Andrews — ^he'll 
 discharge you, see that you lose your license — atid 
 I hope he'll have you arrested 
 
 Michael. He can't. 
 
 Frances. Why not? {Mien aei. smiles but doe's 
 not answer) Why not? (Still Michael does not 
 answer. Frances rises) Aren't ydu Mr. Andrews' 
 chaufifeur ? 
 
 Michael. I wondered how long it would be be- 
 fore you guessed that. 
 
 F*ranCes. (Frightened) I want you to take me 
 to Mrs. Cortrigfht's immediately: 
 
 Michael. I regret more that I can say that my 
 instructions forbid it. 
 
 Frances. Who gave yoti these dreadful instruc- 
 tions ? 
 
 Michael. The gentleman who is employing me. 
 
 Frances. Who is he? 
 
 Michael. That will develop in due course. For 
 the present, I have no more to say. 
 
 Frances. Well, I have a great deal more to 
 say. I want you to go out and start that car and 
 drive me to the Cortrights' immediately. (Michael 
 does not move) Do you hear what I say ? 
 
 Michael. Yes^ 
 
 Frances. Will you do it ? 
 
 Michael. No'! 
 
 Frances. Very- well, then. (She takes a step 
 toward the chair on which her opera cloak is lying. 
 As she does so Michael leans forward and picks 
 up the cloak) 
 
 MicriAEL. Are you' going-? 
 
 FSan-Ces. Yes. You woiildw't (^a^^ keep me here 
 lay force. 
 
48 THE GIPSY TRAIL 
 
 Michael. Of course not. May I ask where you 
 are going ? 
 
 Frances. To Mrs. Cortriglit's. 
 
 Michael. And where is that ? 
 
 Frances. Well, I— I don't exactly know. But 
 I'll find it. If you won't tell me, others will. 
 
 Michael. I'll tell you this — it's a long walk. 
 
 Frances. I don't intend to walk. I've driven 
 Mr. Andrews' car before — and I can drive it to- 
 night. 
 
 Michael. (Putting his hand in hi^ pocket and 
 drawing out two or three nuts which he shows her) 
 I don't think even / could drive it without these. 
 
 Frances. Then I'll walk. 
 
 Michael. I strongly advise you not to. The 
 roads hereabouts are not only lonesome, they're 
 muddy. They would be hard on high-heeled slip- 
 pers — and I shouldn't like to see your charming 
 ■frock all. streaked with mud. 
 
 Frances. Will you give me my things ? 
 
 Michael. No. 
 
 Frances. Won't you please give them to me? 
 
 Michael. No. (Again he shakes his head. She 
 sits down rather suddenly, in despair, and buries- 
 her face in her hands. Michael starts forward in 
 consternation ) You're not going to cry ? 
 . Frances. (Sitting up angrily and stifling a sob) 
 Certainly not ! . I'm not that sort of girl. 
 
 Michael. (Heartily and much relieved) I was 
 sure you weren't. 
 
 Frances. (Trying very hard to keep her voice 
 from' trembling) Perhaps you'll have the goodness 
 
 to explain '-' 
 
 ■ Michael. Certainly. I've kidnapped you. 
 
 Frances. Why? 
 
 Michael. You asked me just now who*had-'em- 
 ployed me. I Can't- tell you his name. But this I 
 will tell you: he is a man who adores you.- ■ ' o 
 
THE GIPSY TRAIL 49 
 
 ,1,1 
 
 Frances. And yet he sends his chauffeur for 
 me instead of coming himself, and is late to his own 
 kidnapping. I don't think he sounds very promis- 
 ing. 
 
 Michael. You speak lightly of a man's devo- 
 tion. 
 
 Frances. Devotion ! He has chosen an odd way 
 of showing it. 
 
 Michael. Does it really seem so strange to you 
 that a man should grasp at any method — even this 
 
 one— ^f nieeting you, being with you 
 
 Frances. But surely he might meet me without 
 kidnapping me. There are so many simpler ways of 
 obtaining an introduction. 
 
 Michael. And if none of them were open to 
 him? If this were his one opportunity? Are you 
 going to blame him for seizing it when it means so 
 
 much to him 
 
 Frances. (Rising) Who is this man you are 
 
 speaking of? Not — not 
 
 Michael. And if I were the man (He 
 
 checks himself and assumes a lighter tone) But of 
 course I'm not ! Merely his agent. I should never 
 have presumed to kidnap you on my own account. 
 
 Frances. I don't think you will perish for lack 
 of presumption. Who are you? You don't talk 
 like a chauffeur. 
 
 Michael. At least I drive like one. You can't 
 expect everything. 
 
 Frances. And so this man I have never met—: — . 
 Michael. And perhaps you have met him. Per- 
 haps you have chatted with him often, lightly, of 
 this and that. But how can you truly know a man 
 whom you meet only in the stilted whirlig^ of con- 
 ventional functions — with whom you merely dine 
 and dance and golf ? Don't you understand that he 
 cannot display his deepest and most sacred feelings 
 at a tea — that he shrinks from baring h:s soul 
 
50 THE GIPSY TRAIL 
 
 amidst the flighty chatter and tin-pan music of a 
 modern ball-room — and that when he comes to lay 
 his Hfe at your feet, he seeks a time and place in 
 keeping with his mood ? 
 
 Frances. (In a low tone) Yes. I do under- 
 stand. 
 
 Michael. That is why he has had you brought 
 here — far from the feverish bustle of the city — ^here 
 where the calm of perfect peace can sink into your 
 heart — and where the low plashing of the waves may 
 play a soft accompaniment to his words. Where 
 he can speak to you of realities, not sham's — of life 
 and love, no longer stale with sordid custom, but 
 fresh and vigorous and bracing — as they were in 
 the morning of the world. ' 
 
 Frances. Are there such men? 
 
 Michael. Any moment he may be here. Listen ! 
 Listen carefully. And when, far off on the road,; 
 you hear the muffled throbbing of an engine, like 
 a fast-beating heart, think that your fate has come 
 whirling out of the darkness upon you, with all the 
 terror and splendor of a storm racing across the 
 lake. 
 
 (Ellen enters through the door in the rear and 
 switches on the lights, illuminating the room 
 brightly. Frances is half blinded by the sud- 
 den light) 
 
 Ellen. Miss Frances! So you got here after 
 all? I thought I heard someone moving about. 
 
 Frances. (Looking about her) Why, it's Ellen ! 
 And I'm at "The Breakers !" Why— why— why- 
 then the man you were speaking of, the man who 
 had- me kidnapped^Ned ? (Michael &owj. She 
 sinks into the armchair dozvn right in great disap- 
 pointment) Oh, dear ! Ned ! Oh — it must have been 
 that wretched poem. The poor, blundersome old 
 
THE GIPSY TRAIL . 51 
 
 darling. (She begins to laugh, and continues, grow- 
 ing almost hysterical. Michael joins her) But 
 ■where is he? 
 
 Ellen. His grandma will explain. 
 
 Frances. His — grandma ? (She begins to laugh 
 again) 
 
 Ellen. Mrs. Widdimore, Miss. She's just in- 
 side, and it will be a blessed relief to her to set eyes 
 on you. Your poor pa, too — he's been so worried 
 he's telephoned twice for news of you. 
 
 Frances. Father! How did he know? 
 
 Ellen. Oh, he was in it, too. Miss. Master 
 Neddy would never have taken such a liberty with- 
 out his consent. 
 
 (Ellen goes out through the door in the rear) 
 
 Frances. But imagine him' conspiring with Ned 
 to have me kidnapped. 
 
 Michael. You see, Miss Raymond, you need 
 have no fear. It is a perfectly proper and domestic 
 kidnapping, with all the comforts of home. 
 
 Frances. (She rises, taking her cloak with her, 
 and speaks angrily and reproachfully) Was it 
 really such fun to make me believe that wonderful 
 story you told me? Oh, you did it very well, and 
 if it's any satisfaction to you to know that I be- 
 lieved it — I did. 
 
 Michael. Why are you angry? 
 
 Frances. You dragged all my foolish, secret 
 fancies out of their hiding-place, and made fun of 
 them. You built up before me a lovely, impossible 
 dream — and laughed when it was broken. And yet 
 you ask why I am angry. I think that's dull of 
 you. 
 
 (She goes out door left. Michael smiles, hums 
 "The Gipsy Trail," walks towards door. Mrs. 
 
52 THE GIPSY TRAIL 
 
 WiDDiMORE comes into the room. She has re- 
 moved her coat and veil) 
 
 Mrs. Widdimoee. So you're Edward's adven- 
 turer ? 
 
 Michael. (Bowing) Good evening, ma'am. 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. Let me look at you. (Mich- 
 ael comes over to her) H'm. Do know that Ed- 
 ward's out scouring the countryside for you? 
 
 Michael. (Placing the armchair down left for 
 her) Allow me 1 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. (Looking at him curiously and 
 sitting down) Thank you. Do you know that we 
 had made up our minds that you had carried Miss 
 Raymond off to parts unknown ? 
 
 Michael. That would be a strange thing for a 
 chauffeur to do. 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. You a chauffeur? Nonsense. 
 
 Michael. Yes — a chauffeur — hired by your 
 grandson for the evening. But since I've placed the 
 young lady safely in your hands, my work is over. 
 I'll be going. 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. You'll, remain — to entertain 
 an old woman who hasn't talked to your like for 
 many a long year. 
 
 Michael. You're very kind, and no one is more 
 susceptible to flattery than I am, but I must leave 
 
 this place (He glances apprehensively toward 
 
 the door left through which Frances disappeared) 
 The sooner the better. 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. You'll not be so rude as to 
 disappoint a lady, Mr. Jones. Your name is Jones ? 
 
 Michael. Yes, ma'am — Davy Jones. 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. Rubbish! That's not your 
 name, and nothing like it — and you can put that in 
 your locker, Mr. Davy Jones. 
 
 Michael. (With a suspicion of Irish accent) 
 Sure, ma'am, you have the discernin' eye. 
 
THE GIPSY TRAIL 53 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. I have. You're Irish? 
 
 Michael. (Lapsing into broad brogue) I am 
 that ! My grandfather, God rest his soul, came over 
 from County Clare in the days gone by. 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. I know he did. And I'll tell 
 you his name. (She leans over and whispers in his 
 ear. He starts back in great astonishment) 
 
 Michael. Sure, 'tis a Yf\izh. y'are! (He sits 
 down on the long, low seat) 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. I was sure of it! You come 
 like an answer to a prayer. For while I never 
 knew until now that you existed, yoii are the one 
 person in the world I most wanted at this particular 
 minute. 
 
 Michael. But how in the world did you ever 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. I knew him. And I recog- 
 nized you — let me see — one-third by your voice, 
 one-third by your smile, one-third by instinct — and 
 one-third 
 
 Michael. What ! Four thirds ? 
 
 Mr.:. Widdimore. Nonsense. What do people 
 like you and me care for the mathematics ? We live 
 in a sort of fourth dimension, and know that the 
 impossible is true. 
 
 Michael. God be good to you, ma'am, but sure 
 'tis a luxurious feelin' it gives yen to be meetin' 
 someone who speaks your own language. 'Tis 
 like seein' the Stars and Stripes floatin' on a whaler 
 in Bering Sea, after many wearyin' days of waste 
 ice and green water. 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. You don't find many who 
 speak that language. 
 
 Michael. It's precious few of us there are, 
 ma'am, and we scattered here and there over the 
 mighty surface of the revolvin' world. 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. That's because it is a dead 
 language — as dead as Greek or Sanskrit — ^the lan- 
 guage of romance. Are you quite sure you are not 
 
54 THE GIPSY TRAIL 
 
 your own grandfather, waadered back from the long- 
 a^o? 
 
 Michael. I'm not sayin' I'm not, for there do 
 be many things hid in the heart of the world that 
 are past man's findin' out.' Mebbe you're right, 
 an' i wish it were so, for I'm thinkin', from the 
 glint in your eye, you had a kindness for him 
 
 Mrs. Widdimgre. You're' very like him. I was 
 fond of him, and at one time it seemed as if he 
 and I 
 
 Michael. (After a pause) An' now it's him 
 I'm pityin' from the depths of my heart, for you 
 must have been a grand woman entirely when the 
 youth was in you, an' he must have had black hours 
 a-plenty — an' him losin' you. 
 
 Mrs. Wioddimore. The black hours were not all 
 his. Like you, he went walking the world — and 
 oh, my friend, the world was worth walking, in. 
 those days — not bleak and grey as it is today. 
 
 Michael. (Impatiently) Never was an age so 
 full of romance as our own. For now we can wan- 
 der in a year over the whole wide world. The 
 earth's a playground so full of bright nf" toys that 
 you can play from early morning until you drop 
 asleep from very .weariness — and the shelves still 
 full, beyond your power to ransack. 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. Is it never lonely in your play- 
 ground ? 
 
 Michael. Yes — sometimes — at dusk, or when 
 the sun goes down crimson and the sky is flecked 
 with little puffy clouds. 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. Ah ! Then you haven't found 
 your playmate ? 
 
 Michael. (Harshly) I'm not looking for her. 
 I don't want her. 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. I don't believe you. 
 
 Michael. There are no girls nowadays who 
 could lead the life / love. Now you (With a 
 
THE GIPSY TRAIL 55 
 
 quick change to Irish blarney) Ah,;ma')ain, sure an' 
 had I but known you when you were young. (He- 
 rises) 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. Stop flattering an old woman 
 when there's a young one in the house. 
 
 Michael. An' I'm more in love with you this 
 minute than any woman ever I clapped eyes on. 
 Sure, 'tis only the deep an' fearful respect I have 
 for ye keeps me from pickin' you up in my arms 
 this minute an' runnin' away with you. 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. (Her eyes tzvinklmg) Well,, 
 don't ask your grandmother to chaperone us. 
 
 Michael. (Laughing) I will not, then. (He 
 sits down again) 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. And don't tell me you are not 
 nunting for the girl who 
 
 Michael. I tell you the girl I want doesn't exist. 
 Time and again I've thought I've found her — but 
 I've been mistaken — always. 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. But still you keep on search- 
 ing. And that's what brought you into poor Edward's 
 tea-and-toast adventure — because you thought 
 that Frances Raymond 
 
 Michael. Mrs. Widdimore ! I assure you that 
 such an idea never once occurred to me! 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. Go on with your conventional 
 phrases ! You talk like a cotillion leader. Then 
 what did bring you into it? 
 
 Michael. Curiosity. 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. In the spring a young man's 
 fancy lightly turns to thoughts of — curiosity? 
 Rubbish ! 
 
 Michael. Sure, now I know 'tis a witch, y'are, 
 an' if I had holy water by me I'd sprinkle it on 
 you, the way I'd cee you turn into a lovely, proud 
 queen, wid a cruel heart and sea-cold eyes. 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. Ah, it would take more than 
 holy water, my friend, to do that. And so jC' 
 
56 THE GIPSY TRAIL 
 
 think Frances Raymond is the girl to share your 
 glorious pilgrimage? . 
 
 Michael. She comes nearer it than any girl I ve 
 ever seen. (He rises. 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. (Accusingly) You're in love 
 with her. 
 
 Michael. No, I'm not— not yet. But if I stay 
 liere — if I see much more of her — oh, I must get 
 away at once ! 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. (Taunting him) You're 
 afraid to stay. 
 
 Michael. I admit it. I'm afraid of her — ^and 
 I'm beginning to be afraid of you. 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. Of me? Why? 
 
 Michael. Even the best of women are bom 
 matchmakers. 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. Of course we are! But the 
 ■match / am bent on making is between Frances and 
 my grandson. Have you forgotten that he wants to 
 marry her? 
 
 Michael. I wish he would ! Then / couldn't. 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. Then stay and help me bring 
 it about. Poor Edward, he would a-wooing go, but 
 heighho, says Rowley — he'll lose her if we don't 
 help him. 
 
 Michael. How could I help? 
 
 Mrs., Widdimore. Stay and see. 
 
 Michael. (Weakening) Of course I should like 
 to — and I'd feel much safer with that girl securely 
 
 married and out of my reach, but (He looks 
 
 apprehensively off towards the door left) No, no! 
 I think I'd better go. (He starts to the right) 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. (Softly) Oh, but you're not 
 a bit Hke your grandfather. 
 
 Michael. (Stopping) All 'right, I'll stay. But 
 •on one condition. 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. Are you going to disappoint 
 
THE GIPSY TRAIL 57 
 
 me? Am I a huckster, that you should start bar- 
 gaining ? 
 (The sound of an approaching automobile is heard. 
 
 Michael. (Firmly) On one condition. (With 
 a return of his blarneying manner) That I may sit 
 next you at table. 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. (With a smile) Irish! Is 
 that a compliment to me — or are you only trying to 
 escape temptation? 
 
 Michael. Sure, an' it's both. 
 
 (Ned hastens in through the doorway right) 
 
 Ned. (As he sees Michael^ Oh, you're here^ 
 are you? What have you done with Miss Ray- 
 mond ? 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. She's here, safe and sound, 
 making herself tidy in my room. 
 , Ned. Then everything's all right? 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. Absolutely. 
 
 Ned. Thank heaven for that! I've been so 
 worried — and all the time the kidnapping was a 
 success after all. What did she say? Was she 
 thrilled ? 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. Frightfully. 
 
 Ned. That's good. Whew! I'm dead to the 
 world. (He takes off his duster and places it, with 
 his hat, on the table by the windoiv up right. Then 
 he comes down to Michael) Say, where did you 
 go? 
 
 Michael. Well, , pretty nearly everywhere, I 
 think. 
 
 Ned. I should say you did. Every policeman 1 
 stopped had a story of a car tearing through town 
 at about sixty miles an hour, and they all had my 
 number, too. That's how I traced you back here. 
 What did you do that f or ? 
 
 ,, Mich ApL.,., Surely you did not wish Miss R.ay- 
 mond to know where she was, being taken? 
 
58 THE GIPSY TRAIL 
 
 Ned. Well — no. I suppose not. 
 
 Michael. Exactly. So it was necessary to con- 
 fuse her. I did it. That's all. 
 
 Ned. Yes, but see here. I've four summonses 
 to appear in court tomorrow morniilg. 
 
 Michael. I didn't think you would wish me to 
 spare any exlpeftse in carrying out your orders. 
 
 Ned, Well, I gufiss it's worth it. Arid you did 
 a good job, though you gave me a fearful fright. 
 (He takes money ffdm his pocket) Hcfei's your 
 fifty dollars. 
 
 MifcHAEL. Oh, no, thanks, I couldn't. (He 
 glances toward the door left) I've be6n paid al- 
 ready — ^more than I bargained fof — far, far more 
 than I expected. 
 
 N'ED. I don't kflDW what you mean. But I prom- 
 ised you the money, and I insist 
 
 Michael. Then present it, in nty name, to the 
 Society for the Relief of the Incurably Conven- 
 tional. (He staffs for the table up right to get his 
 hat) Good night. 
 
 Mrs. WiddIMore; Edward, invite Mf. Jortes to 
 stay to supper with us. 
 
 Ned. (In a ■oMisper) Why, grandma, he's — 
 he's 
 
 Mrs. WiddiMore. If I've got to stay heffe, I 
 miiit have entertainment. And it's been long strict' 
 I've seen anyone who has fascinating tales Of adven- 
 ture to tell. Invite him! 
 
 Ned. Mt.' JorieS, please do stay. We sJrall'be 
 delighted. 
 
 Micthael. Tharik. yOU. I really ottghH: to be go- 
 ing, but 
 
 (Frances enters through the doot left)- 
 Ned. (Rushing ioworSi Frances, in the hi^heif 
 spirits) Hello, Frances 1 Awfully glad tO see' ybu. 
 Awfully glad you cailne-. 
 
THE GIPSY TRAIL 59 
 
 Frances. (Smiliitg and shaking her head at Mm) 
 Oh, Ned ! Ned ! What will you do next ? 
 
 Ned. You can't say I didn't see this hint, Frances. 
 Just like that fellow in the poem — Lochinvar — or 
 whatever his name is. Now you're here, let's have 
 supper. I'm famished. (Frances begins to laugh, 
 and is joined by Mrs. Widdimore and Michael) 
 I don't see anything so darned funny about it. 
 
 Frances. Oh, don't you, Ned? When I think 
 of your asking father's permission (She be- 
 gins to laugh again) Poor darling! Did he really 
 say you might ? 
 
 Ned. Yes, he did. When I promised to provide 
 chaperones. Ellen's out here too, you know. 
 
 Frances. Oh, Ned, you've been lavish ! 
 
 Ned. (Disappointed) You don't care for it, do 
 you? 
 
 Frances. I think it was very sweet of you- to 
 kidnap me, Ned. But if we expect to throw rice at 
 the bride and groom, we ought to 'leave at once for 
 Mrs. Cortright's. 
 
 Ned. (In a discouraged tone) The thing's a fail- 
 ure — oh, yes it is. I suppose we might as well call it 
 ofif. 
 
 Michael. Surely you're not going to surrender 
 at the first repulse. That's not the way to win a 
 girl. If you let her gO' now, you'll lose her forever. 
 
 Frances. Ned, surely you're niot going to let 
 that man interfere in our affairs with his ridiculous 
 suggestions. 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. I think he's, said the only sen- 
 sible words I've heard tonight. 
 
 Ned. Do- you really, grandma ? (To Michsael) 
 What do you think I ought to do ? 
 
 MiCHAEX. See the game through to a finish. 
 Show her that you are the stronger— if you aire. 
 
 Frances. N^ed', are you going to: disahey me?' 
 
6o THE GIPSY TRAIL 'i] 
 
 Michael. You've never disobeyed her in your ' S 
 life, have you? f ' 
 
 Ned. No — I don't think I have. 
 Michael. Well, you see the result. Try firm- 
 ness. 
 
 Ned. (A smile slowly coming over his face) By 
 Jove, I have a good mind to. (He turns to Frances 
 with an assumption of authority) Frances, you 
 can't go. 
 
 Frances. Do you really mean, Ned, that you are 
 going to refuse to take me ? 
 
 Ned. (Obviously frightened at his daring) I — 
 I — yes. 
 
 Frances. .Ned, it's impossible to be really angry 
 with you — but this makes me wish I could. 
 Ned. (Protesting) Oh, Frances ! 
 Michael. Don't be so down ! She doesn't mean 
 it. 
 
 Ned. Oh, I hope not. I'm sure you'll feel dif- 
 ferently when yoy've had some supper, Frances. 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. Then you'd better tell El- 
 len 
 
 Ned. All right. I will. Just a lamb cutlet, and 
 a little salad, or something — I'm rather peevish my- 
 self when I'm hungry. 
 
 (He goes out through the door in the rear. 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. My dear, let me present the- 
 
 most charming man I've met in — forty years. Mr. 
 
 Davy Jones. I think I can depend upon him to 
 
 keep you amused. 
 
 Michael. I really ought to go. 
 Mrs. Widdimore. But you won't. (She goes 
 out the door left) 
 
 Michael. (After a moment's pause) Miss Ray- 
 mond 
 
 Frances. (Without looking around) Yes? 
 Michael. I know you're angry with me. And 
 I don't blame. you if you believe — hnX on my honor- 
 
THE GIPSY TRAIL 6x 
 
 I never, for a single instant, had the slightest inten- 
 tion of making fun of you — or of what you call your 
 fancies. 
 
 Frances. But that romantic story you told me — 
 it wasn't true, you know. 
 
 Michael. It was true — every word of it. It may 
 have been a little confused, for half the time I was 
 speaking of Andrews 
 
 Frances. It didn't sound a bit like Ned. 
 
 Michael. — and half the time of myself. I did 
 seize this method — the only one open to me — of 
 getting to knbw you — of speaking with you 
 
 Frances. And why did you make Ned keep me 
 here? 
 
 Michael. Because I didn't want you to go. ■ 
 
 Frances. Please don't be polite to me. I'm so 
 tired- of polite men. 
 
 Michael. You shouldn't have sung "The Gipsy- 
 Trail." 
 
 Frances. "The Gipsy Trail?" 
 
 Michael. Yes, — the trail I've followed for eight 
 happy years — ^years so short that they've slipped 
 by me like a summer's afternoon — years packed to 
 the full with joy and freedom and adventure. And 
 when you sang, I heard it all in your voice — your 
 longing and homesickness for that same trail 
 
 Frances. You guessed all that ? 
 
 Michael. I knew then that you were thirsting 
 for the clear stars over your head — the fresh wind 
 blowing keen into your face— the smell of earth in 
 the squashy spring-time, when you splash ankle- 
 deep through wet fields — all those old, pagan joys, 
 that dwellers in the city have forgotten. 
 
 Frances. No one ever guessed before. 
 
 Michael. You see we t\vo belong to that small, 
 happy company who love; life and the open better 
 than the stuffiness of m'odfern 'convention. ' And so 
 I couldn't pass you by-ks if- We'=were strangers, with- 
 
62 THE GIPSY TRAIL 
 
 <GUt u word— without at least calling- oat to yoa: 
 '"Hail, brother!" — before the road divides and we 
 lose each other on our separate ways. 
 
 Frances. And have you really wandered' all over 
 the world — perfectly free — whenever and wherever 
 your fancy called you ? 
 
 Michael. 
 "Pay couldn't 'old me when my time was done. 
 For something in rny 'ead upset me all, 
 Till I ,'ad dropped whatever 'twas for good " 
 
 Frances. (Capping the quotation eagerly) 
 "'An', out at sea, be'eld the dock lights die, ' 
 An' met my mate — the wind that tramps the world." 
 
 (A little pause. 
 Oh, tell me what it's really like to be a wanderer! 
 (She sits in the armchair down left) 
 
 Michael. Early some morning, with the damp 
 mist clinging to your clothes, you slip out of har- 
 bor in a trim little trading schooner, to plow your 
 path southwestward toward the islands of the sun- 
 set. Then follows day after day of heavenly mo- 
 notony, broken now and then by sudden, violent 
 squalls. And it seems as if you'd been bom on the 
 deck of that schooner, and would die there in a thou- 
 sand years or so — ^and you don't care — ^you don't 
 care for anything, so long as you can lie there, and 
 breathe the soft, warm air, and watch the mongrel 
 crew, and the Chinese cook, with his yellow face 
 pasted on the pale blue background of the sky. And 
 the languor of the tropics sweeps over you like a 
 great wave 
 
 Frances. I've always wanted to go there! 
 
 Michael. At night, you gaze upward, and >yatqh 
 the march of strange constellations across the alien 
 sky. Until at dawn there comes up out of the sea a 
 fairy ring of waving palm-trees, where child4ike 
 natives greet you with unfamiliar fruits, and ciyiii- 
 iation falls from you like a useless garment. 
 
THE GIPSY TRAIL 63 
 
 Frances. I couM spend my life there ! 
 
 Michael. Ah, but unless you break the flowery 
 ■chain that binds you, you will float the rest of your 
 life away in listless ecstacy. And so, one day, you 
 strike north! — ^half a world away, where energy 
 creeps back to you, and the muscles ache for action 
 — where great, bare mountains of jagged rock tower 
 upward, until they seem to pierce the sky. And long 
 ere daylight, while the world still lies asleep under 
 its coverlid of snow, we venture out, shivering, and 
 begin the long ascent. And as we wind upward, 
 still in darkness, morning strikes the mighty crags 
 above us, and they flash and glitter in the sunlight 
 like the fabled castle of Valhalla, where the old 
 Norse gods sit feasting. Then we rope ourselves 
 together for the climbing — just we two in the huge, 
 empty world-abound together irrevocably — trusting 
 ourselves utterly to each other's courage. 
 
 Frances. I don't think I should be afraid — with 
 you. 
 
 Michael. (Coming close to her) Or we're gal- 
 loping, side by side, through ruggerd, broken country, 
 with night coming on fast behind us. I can hear the 
 thud of your horse's hoofs by mine, can see your 
 face fade into darkness beneath your broad-brimmed 
 hat, and our shadows scampering ahead of us in a 
 mad, fantastic dance. Then we pitch our camp on 
 the edge of a little wood, and heap the crackling 
 branches high upon the fire against the cold. And 
 we sit there, listeirisg to the strange noises of the 
 night, yntjil there is left only a heap of glowing coals 
 — and your face above them. Oh, so many, niany 
 nights I've sat like this alone — and missed the face 
 that should have been 'beside me, the face of the 
 comrade I've always wanted and never known— 
 yom- f ice — For it's you I've been wanting all these 
 years. It is your voice I have heard calling to me 
 in the winds. All my lile lias "been one long pil- 
 
64 THE GIPSY TRAIL 
 
 grimage in search of you — and. suddenly tonight — 
 one moment of twilight — a girl in a doorway — and 
 I knew that it was ended — that I had found you at 
 last — I'll never let you go — you are mine. (Mich- 
 ael's words die azvay. He looks at Frances, she 
 at him. There is a long moment of silence. Her 
 eyes slowly drop) Comrade ! (She rises, looks at 
 him, drops her eyes and sways slightly toward him.. 
 He takes her in his arms) 
 
 Frances. (After. a moment) I don't even know 
 your name. 
 
 Michael. It doesn't matter. 
 Frances. No. 
 
 Michael. Nothing matters — but that we have 
 found each other ! (He releases her and she sits 
 down) 
 
 Frances. I always knew there was you some- 
 where. And, rto think that this very evening — when 
 they were all badgering me to marry Ned — coming 
 closer and closer to me — and I never suspected — was 
 the man I am really going to marry. 
 
 Michael. (Brought back to earth by the shock 
 of the word "marry ) You're going to — marry me ? 
 Frances. Of course I'll marry you, dear. But 
 do you know, you have forgotten to ask me when ? 
 Michael. Have I ? 
 
 Frances. (With tender playfulness) You have. 
 And I shan't tell you until you do. 
 
 Michael. (After a pause, bravely) When? 
 Frances. (Softly) As soon as you want — ^you. 
 do love me, don't you? 
 
 Michael. (Carried away) Love you? Yes! I 
 never dared let myself believe there was a girl in 
 the world who saw life as I did — who could sympa- 
 thize with me in all I cared for. If I had, I should 
 have. gone mad for very loneliness before I found, 
 her. 
 
 Frances, I di^d so want to be found. 
 
THE GIPSY TRAIL 65 
 
 Michael. But now — Frances, will you marry me 
 tonight ? 
 
 Frances. Tonight? 
 
 Michael. Yes. I can get a special license — 
 I'lnow tbe clerk. And there's an old Catholic priest 
 — charming old soul — he'll marry us 
 
 Frances. You're not a Catholic? 
 
 Michael. I'm not anything. But a priest — well, 
 don't you rather like the idea? 
 
 Frances. I'm a Baptist, and of course I must 
 be married by our own minister. 
 
 Michael. (Somewhat dashed) Oh — all right. 
 I did like the idea of a priest, somehow, but — a Bap- 
 tist by all means. Well, come on. We'll find him. 
 
 Frances. But I can't marry you tonight. 
 
 Michael. Why not ? 
 
 Frances. A runaway marriage? To rush ofif 
 right away — and after all, I've just met you, really 
 — what would all my friends think? 
 
 Michael. What do you care what they think ? 
 
 Frances. Well, I do. And there's my famijy to 
 be considered. 
 
 Michael. Your family? Yes, that's so; I sup- 
 pose there is. 
 
 Frances. Of course there is. You'll have to see 
 Father — ^but he's an old darling! He's bought a 
 lot for me right across the road from, where we live 
 — and he's always promised to build on it for me 
 when I'm married. 
 
 Michael. A house ? What'll we do with it ? 
 
 Frances. (Laughing) Why, live in it, of course. 
 You mustn't mind Father — she'll probably bluster 
 and storm at first, because you see he doesn't know 
 you yet, and say we can't be married forvcver so 
 long 
 
 Michael. Will he say that? 
 
 Frances. (Rising) Yes, but he won't mean it. 
 (Mrs. Widdimore enters through the door left) 
 
66 THE GIPSY TRAIL 
 
 Oh, Mrs. Widdimore, I'm so awfully, awfully 
 happy ! 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. My dear child, what is it? 
 
 Frances. (To Michael) Shall we tell her? 
 
 Oh, yes, let's! Mrs. Widdimore (Suddenly 
 
 stricken shy, she turns to Michael) You tell her. 
 
 Mrs. Wjddimore. It isn't necessary. I can't 
 tell you how pleased I am, and I think — I know 
 you're going to be absurdly happy. 
 
 Frances. (Goes to her and kisses her) Thank 
 you. (She turns to Michael) I'm going in to put 
 my things on. I want you to take me right home 
 and we'll tell Father. I won't be long. ^Michael 
 takes both her hands, and looks gravely into her 
 face) What's the matter, dear? (With a sudden 
 impulse-, he lifts both her hands to his lips and kisses 
 them. She smiles radiantly at him,, and leaning to- 
 wards him, whispers) Goodbye — for a minute. 
 (And then turns and goes out through door left. 
 Michael stands looking after her gravely, shaking 
 h}s head slightly. Then suddenly he turns to Mrs. 
 Widdimore alm-ost with a groan) 
 
 Michael. Good Lord ! What have I done ? 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. You've got yourself engaged 
 — and very quickly, too. How did it happen ? 
 
 Michael. I don't know. How do those things 
 happen? I had no more idea of marriage — I was 
 dreaming, that was all — dreaming aloud, of an 
 ideal girl-comrade who — and then I woke up. Woke 
 up and found myself engaged to be married. Why, 
 I'm as surprised as you are! (Mrs. Widdimore 
 turns aside to hide a sly and triumphant smile, but 
 Michael sees it and starts) You're not surprised! 
 You knew it Was coming all along. Didn't you ? 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. I had my suspicions. (She 
 sits down at the left end of the long, low seat) 
 
 Michael. I see it now: you kept me here on 
 
THE GIPSY TRAIL 67 
 
 t)firpbse. And I, like a blind idiot, thought that — 
 Yes, you planned it ! But why ? Why ? 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. Frances and Edward would 
 have been wretched together. 
 
 Michael. She'd be a thousand times happier 
 with him than with a vagabond like me. (He sitS' 
 down on the right end of the long, low seat) 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. Nonsense! You'll be ideally 
 happy; because you are different. There are two 
 kinds of people in the world, my friend. I always 
 call them after the poem in "Alice in Wonderland" 
 — "The Walrus and the Carpenter." The Walruses 
 are you and I, and the Carpenters are the plain, 
 practical, conventional people. Frances is one. 
 Edward is another. That's why they must not 
 marry. But you — do you remember how the poem 
 goes? "The Walrus and the Carpenter were walk- 
 ing hand in hand." 
 
 Michael. But it doesn't. 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. Oh, well, of course it doesn't. 
 But it ought to. The only happy marriages are 
 where a Walrus and a Carpenter walk hand in harid. 
 Your grandfather and I were Walruses — and we 
 both married Carpenters. That is the Law. 
 
 Michael. I am an anarchist. I hate laws. And 
 besides, this law of yours is hot true. Think what 
 a sheltered life she's always led. Think for a rho- 
 ment what my life is like — and then imagine her 
 sharing it. 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. You could give it up. 
 
 Michael. Give up my life? — Do you suppose I 
 could? (Mrs. Widdimore MorfjJ Can you imagine 
 me settled down? (Mrs. Widdimore nods) Tak- 
 ing her to church every Sunday morning!' In a 
 frock coat? (Mrs. Widdimore nods) .Spending 
 my evenings quietly at home^playing checkers^ — lis- 
 tening to the Victrola — reading the Atlantic 
 Monthly? (Mrs. Widdimore nods) Going; down 
 
es THE GIPSY TRAIL 
 
 to business every single morning of my life at half- 
 past nine? 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. Only here they go down at 
 half -past eight. 
 
 Michael. I wonder if I could ! 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. Love can do wonderful 
 things. 
 
 Michael. (Rising) Can it make a man over? 
 And if I tried — and failed? You don't know what 
 it's like when the longing seizes you — the bitter 
 homesickness for some place — any place but the 
 place you're in. It's in my blood — ^you ^aid it your- 
 self : I'm like my grandfather. 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. My friend, you are only mak- 
 ing excuses ; for in spite of your boldness and ad- 
 ventures you are afraid to marry. 
 
 Michael. I wonder if I am ? 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. You don't love her. 
 
 Michael. (With deep sincerity) Yes, I do love 
 her. There will never be anyone else for me — I've 
 been dreaming of her for years — and now I know 
 that dreaming isn't enough. I want her — her hands 
 to hold, her lips to kiss 
 
 Frances. (Off left) I'll be right in. Are you 
 ready ? 
 
 Michael. (After a pause) Yes. 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore., (After a moment) Are you 
 going to start the machine ? 
 
 Michael. I guess I'd better. 
 
 (He goes to the table up right, picks up his hat and 
 duster and goes out the doorway right. After 
 a moment Ned enters through the door in the 
 rear) 
 
 Ned. Where's Frances? 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. (Nodding toward room to the 
 left) In there. 
 
THE GIPSY TRAIL 69 
 
 Ned. Supper's almost ready. 
 
 (Frances enters through the door left, with her 
 opera cloak on) 
 
 Frances. Where is he ? 
 
 Ned. Here I am. 
 
 Frances. I don't mean you,. Ned. 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. He's getting the car ready. 
 
 Ned. Why, Frances, where are you going? 
 
 Frances. Home. 
 
 Ned. With Jones ? Why, if you're really so set 
 on going, I'll take you. 
 
 Frances. Ned, I hardly know how to tell you: 
 we're engaged to each other. 
 
 Ned. (Astonished) You and Jones? (She 
 nods) Why, Frances, you can't be. I never heard 
 of such a thing. You hardly know him — and I've 
 been in love with you for years 
 
 Frances. He's waiting for me. (She starts for 
 the door right, then turns back) I'm awfully sorry, 
 Ned. 
 
 Ned. It seems awfully unfair, somehow, that he 
 should do in two hours what I've been trying to 
 do for years. And it isn't because I haven't tried, 
 either. Do you think that I ought to congratulate 
 him, Frances? 
 
 Frances. Well, I hope you can, Ned. 
 
 Ned. All right, then. If you say so, I will. 
 (The sound of an automobile engine starting is heard 
 outside. Ned goes to the window up right and looks 
 ■out) Why, he's going ! 
 
 Frances. (Laughing) Of course he's not going ! 
 He's coming right back. (She joins Ned at the 
 ■window) ■ 
 
 Ned. No, he's not. He's turned the corner! 
 Confound him ! He's got my car, too. (The sound 
 of the engine gradually dies away) 
 
70 THE GIPSY TRAIL 
 
 Frances. He isn't coming back! He's gone 
 away for good! But I don't understand — what 
 does it meaii ? 
 
 Ned. It means he's no good— Take one of these 
 chaps who can talk as well as he can, and ninety- 
 nine times out of a hundred, they're no good. 
 
 Frances. (Heartbroken, to Mrs. Widdimore) 
 But — he cared for me — I know he cared for me ! 
 
 NEt). (Angrily) Cares for himself, he does — and 
 no one else. 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. My dear, he did care for ybu 
 — ^as far as people like him can care. For he's riot 
 hke Edward 
 
 Ned. Nd, thahk God ! 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. But he saw what marriage 
 would mean to a man like him — how it would tie 
 him down — and ran away from it^— as his grand- 
 father did before him. 
 
 Frances. Did his grandfather run away from 
 the girl he loved? 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. He ran away from me. 
 
 Ned. (Shocked) Grandma! 
 
 Frances. And did he never come back ? 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. Yes — he came back^-as this 
 boy v^^ill come back to you. But by that time I had 
 married Edward's grandfather. 
 
 Ned. Why don't you do the same thing? Marry 
 me — I won't run away. 
 
 Frances. (Half crying, she turns away from 
 him) Oh, Ned, don't ask me-=— not just now. I 
 can't think of anything now — except that I hate 
 him! He never cared for me — and I — I didn't 
 really care for him. I Was just swept off my feet. 
 
 Ned. I wonder how he did it? You wouldn't 
 think that just a few stories of adventure would 
 make such a difference to a girl. (He looks at 
 Frances, very much puzzled. Suddenly an idea 
 strikes him and his face lights up with satisfaction. 
 
THE GIPSY TRAIL 71 
 
 He clears his throat slightly and bravely begins his 
 recital)* It was in the August of nineteen twelve 
 that I was fishing up in Canada, on Spider Lake, 
 near Muskoka — no, it wasn't Muskoka, either, it 
 was Georgian Bay. I had forgotten to provide my- 
 self with one of those fishing licenses — you know? 
 —pure carelessness. Of course I wasn't trying to 
 cheat the government — and they're only two dollars 
 anyhow. And just as I hooked a fishy I looked up, 
 and there was the government inspector watching 
 me. Well, of course I lost the fish — it was very 
 awkward for me — not having a license. And there 
 was the Inspector looking at me very fiercely — and I 
 suppose he had a gun about him somewhere. So he 
 said to me : "Have you a license ?" And of course 
 I had to confess I didn't — and he said I'd better 
 buy one of him. And so I did^ — it was the only thing 
 to do — and then I'd really intended to get one all 
 the time. Btit he overcharged me, having me, so to 
 speak, in a hole 
 
 (But long ere this point is reached, the curtain has 
 mercifully hidden Ned's unfortunate effort) 
 
 * See "Notes on Production," on Page 94. 
 
ACT III 
 
 .'Scene: The scene is the same as m Act I — the 
 veranda of Mr. Raymond's summer home at 
 Kirtland. It is a moonlit evening about a month 
 later than Act II. 
 
 At the rise of the curtain Mr. Raymond' and 
 Ned, both wearing dinner-coats, are seated to- 
 gether in the settee to the right, Mr. Raymond 
 to the right of Ned. Miss Raymond and Mrs. 
 WiDDiMORE are seated together in the settee to 
 the left, Miss Raymond to the right of Mrs. 
 WiDDiMORE. Frances, in an evening frock, 
 stands leaning against the right pillar, on the 
 upstage side, looking off through the right lat- 
 tice, paying no attention whatever to the con- 
 versation. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. The reduction in operating ex- 
 penses — well, between you and me, the accountants 
 figure it will be not much under twenty-five per 
 cent. We shall be able to scale down our combined 
 office force somewhere in the neighborhood of 
 sixty thousand dollars 
 
 Ned. By Jove, I wouldn't have believed it! I 
 suppose eventually you'll take in the Foster plant ? 
 
 Mr. Raymond. Yes, they've been on the down 
 grade for several years, and when the time's ripe, 
 they'll be glad enough to come in. And then there 
 are the Willetts people. ... 
 
 Miss Raymond. Aren't you men ever going to 
 stop talking business ? 
 
 Ned. Oh, Miss Raymond, I am, sorry. But 
 72 
 
THE GIPSY TRAIL 73 
 
 really, what Mr. Raymond was just telling me was. 
 so extraordinarily interesting-^and then I thought 
 that you and grandma were probably discussing 
 gowns or music or literature or — something like 
 that. 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. As a matter of fact, we were.. 
 You see what happens when you men leave us to 
 our own base devices. 
 
 Ned. (To Mr. Raymond J I'm afraid we've- 
 been remiss. (Turning to Miss Raymond) Tell 
 me, Miss Raymond, did you get in town to the ten- 
 nis tournament this week ? 
 
 Miss Raymond. No, I didn't. Frank has never 
 cared for tennis, and as I didn't want to go alone 
 
 Ned. Oh, why didn't I think to ask you ? That. 
 was thoughtless of me. You and I and Frances 
 might have gone together. I'll tell you what we'll 
 do — we'll go on Monday. I'll call for you 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. I wouldn't — they played the 
 finals this afternoon. 
 
 Ned. Did they ? What a shame ! Well, I'll tell 
 you: we'll go. next year. Remember now — ^that's 
 an engagement. 
 
 Miss Raymond. Thank you. And now — (She 
 rises) Ned, won't you sing for us? Frances has 
 some new songs, and there is one that I'm sure 
 would suit your voice splendidly. 
 
 Ned. (Rising also) Well, I don't know that I 
 am in very good voice tonight — (He clears his- 
 throat) . But, of course, I. shall be delighted to try 
 if you really want me to. 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. Yes, ,Ned, sing. (She and 
 Mr. Raymond rise) 
 
 Miss Raymond. (At the center door) Do you 
 know d'Hardelot's "I Hid My Love?" 
 
 *Ned. No — No, I don't think so. That isn't in 
 
 * See "Notes on Production,'' on P,age, 94. .. , ,' 
 
74 THE GIPSY TRAIL 
 
 my repertoire. But I will sing "The Bandolero" for 
 3'ou. 
 
 .(He opens the screen doors center for her, and 
 follows her in. Both go out from the hall to 
 the right) 
 
 Mr. Raymond. (At center door) Aren't you 
 coming, Mrs. Widdimore? 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. In a moment, Frank. (Mr. 
 Raymond go^s into the hall and out to the right. 
 Mrs. Widdimore looks at Frances a moment, then 
 goes up to her) My dear, what's the matter ? 
 
 Frances. Nothing. Nothing, except — it hasn't 
 any right to be such a glorious evening. 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. I know you're unhappy — and 
 I know why. I wish you understood him as well 
 as I do. 
 
 Frances. Him ?■ Who ? 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. Our truant adventurer. 
 
 Frances. Your truant adventurer, if you like — 
 but oh, not mine. I understand all I want to about 
 him — and more. 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. You' see, I know his kind so 
 well. He's never grown up, that's all. He's just 
 a little boy, like your brother Johnnie — ^playing 
 around the world. You wouldn't expect ifohnnie 
 to think of serious things yet. But some day he'll 
 tire of play — 'he'll grow up-— and then 
 
 Frances. I don't care what be does. I'd — rather 
 you wouldn't talk about him, please. 
 
 Mrs. Widdimore. All right, my dear. I'U stop. 
 But that won't stop you thinking about him. 
 
 (She goes into the hall and out to the right. Frances 
 remains. Presently John enters left along the 
 path. He has an air rifle, and backs on, shoot- 
 ing off left with it) 
 
THE GIPSY TRAIL 75 
 
 Frances. What are you doing? 
 
 John. Firing at the enemy. Their trenches are 
 right over there the other side of the flower beds. 
 (He points off left and shoots again) I just led 
 a charge against them. (He mops his forehead 
 with his sleeve) It's hot work. I hope they give 
 me a war cross. What do you have to do to win it? 
 
 Frances. I don't know exactly. But they are 
 given only to the very bravest men — ^those who are 
 absolutely fearless. 
 
 John. Did you ever see one? 
 
 Frances. No — ;but I knew a man once who had 
 one. 
 
 John. Gee ! He must have been a bear ! 
 
 Frances. (In a low tone) He was. 
 
 John. Whe;i I get bigger I'm going to join the 
 aeroplane service. And I bet you I win a cross. 
 What will you bet, Frances ? I'll bet you a dime I 
 do. Will you bet? (Frances nods with a smile) 
 All right. You'll lose your bet. I'm not afraid of 
 anything. 
 
 (Ned comes into the hall from the right and aid 
 upon the veranda) 
 
 Ned. Frances- 
 
 Fbances. Wha,t is it, Ned? 
 
 Ned. Aren't you going to play my accomipani- 
 ment ? 
 
 Frances. I t-bQught Aunt Janet would play it 
 for you. 
 
 Ned. (He looks at Frances, mho is nof looking 
 a,t him, for a tim,e- in silence) Perhaps I'd better 
 not sing "The Bandolero." 
 
 Frances. (Rousing herself) Oh, cjo ! 
 
 Ned. (Taking her arm and leading ,lfi,er to the 
 tenter door) You know, there's no c^e in^^e world 
 -who can accompany me quite as -^ell as yoi^ can. 
 
 Frances. Come on. 
 
76 THE GIPSY TRAIL 
 
 (She goes into the hall and out to the right, Nei> 
 following her off. John, left alone, starts off 
 left in the stealthy manner of a skirmisher and 
 disappears from view. Then the piano is heard 
 in right and Ned begins to sing) 
 
 Ned. (In right) 
 "I am the Bandolero, 
 The gallant Bandolero! 
 I rule the mountains, and I claim 
 As contraband what comes this way. 
 I am the Bandolero, 
 King, with the sward for pillow ! 
 I am an outlaw, but have a kingdom beneath my 
 sway." 
 
 *( Michael rides on along the pathway, from left 
 to right, on a tandem bicycle, and off right. He 
 wears a heavy, loose coat and a cap) 
 
 "An outlaw with kingdom beneath my sway! 
 I make my castle of my tent. 
 My court I hold in lonely spot," 
 
 (Michael comes along the path from the right and 
 up upon the veranda. He is very stealthy in 
 his movements and evidently desires not to be 
 seen. He tiptoes to the open doorway center 
 and peeps in. At the sam-e time John comes 
 tiptoeing in from the left along the path, catches 
 sight of him, sneaks up behind him, and, shoul- 
 dering his air-rifle and pointing it at Michael, 
 holds him, up. In the m,eantime, Ned sings owj' 
 
 "My army is my gallant band. 
 My law enforced by carbine shot ! 
 I am the Bandolero ! 
 
 ♦See "Nbtes on Production," on Pa^ge 94. ., . 
 
THE GIPSY TRAIL jj 
 
 I am the Bando'ero ! 
 I am waiting and watching 
 Por ransom or outpost, 
 A welcome for captive ! 
 A carbine for spy! 
 Roaming the mountains 
 
 John. Halt ! Or I fire ! (Michael starts, turns 
 round, sees John, and with agrin raises both hands) 
 Come over here ! (During the following scene Ned 
 sings "The Bandolero" to the hitter end) 
 
 Michael. Hello. I guess I'm your prisoner. 
 
 John. (Going up to him). You bet you are. 
 Are you a burglar ? 
 
 Michael. (Lowering his hands) No. Did you 
 think I was? 
 
 John. Yes, I did. And I'm not sure yet that 
 you aren't. What do you want, anyhow, sneaking 
 up on our porch this way? 
 
 Michael. I want to see your sister. 
 
 John. Frances? Then why didn't you ring the 
 bell and send in your card? That's the way callers 
 do. 
 
 Michael. Yes, I know, but — ^you have guests, 
 
 haven't you? 
 
 John. Oh, yes — Mrs. Widdimore's here — and 
 old Ned's on the job as usual ■ 
 
 Michael. I want to see your sister here alone — 
 to surprise her. Don't tell anyone I was here^ 
 that's a good chap — and I'll come back later 
 yifYiQXi (^^ starts azvay to the right. 
 
 John. (Shouldering his air-rifle and pointing it 
 at Michael; Halt! Halt, or I'll call Father!' 
 (Michael stops) I believe you're a burglar after 
 
 all. 
 
 Michael. Aren't you afraid of me? 
 
 John. I should say I'm not. I'm not afraid of 
 anything. Why, when I grow up, I'm going to be 
 in the aviation service, that's what I'm going to do. 
 
7S THE GIPSY TRAIL 
 
 Michael. Bully for you ! Then we'll be pals, 
 J used to be in that service myself. 
 
 iJoHN. You don't mean you're the fellow that got 
 the war cross? 
 
 Michael. Yes, I'm the fellow. 
 
 John. How do I know you're not telling- a 
 whopper ? 
 
 Michael. Here— wait a minute, and I'll show 
 you the cross — (He fumbles in an inside pockety 
 draws it out and shows it to John) Now, hov/ 
 about it? 
 
 John. Gee! I'd like to have one of those. 
 
 Michael. Would you ? Then listen '. Get your 
 sister out on the porch here — ^alone — and— ^I'U give 
 it to you. 
 
 John. Honest injun? 
 
 Michael. Honest injun ! 
 
 John. Cross your heart and hope to die? 
 
 Michael. (Crossing his heart) Cross my heart 
 and hope to die. 
 
 John. All right, I got you! Give it here. 
 
 (He holds out his hand for the cross. 
 
 Michael. (Withdrawing his hand) After I've 
 seen her. 
 
 John. Nope. You've got to come across first, 
 or the deal's off. 
 
 Michael. (Laughing) You'll get on in the 
 -world, my son. Shall I pin it on for you the way 
 they do in France ? The way General Jofifre gave it 
 to me? 
 
 John. Yes. 
 
 Michael. Then stand up straight. 
 
 John. (Draws himself up, with his stomach stuck 
 out) Like this ? 
 
 Michael. More or less. Stomach in! 
 (He pokes John in the stomach. John dt-aws in. 
 Then Michael pins the cross on John's coat, 
 shakes hands gravely with him; then he strikes 
 
THE GIPSY TRAIL 79 
 
 him on each shoulder with his right hand, and 
 finally kisses him on both cheeks) 
 
 John. (Struggling angrily) What do you think 
 you're trying to do ? 
 
 Michael. (Laughing) That's the way they do 
 it in France. 
 
 John. You mean to say General Joffer kissed 
 you? (Michael nods, amused) Well, what do 
 you know about that! 
 
 (Ned, in right, has already finished "The Bando- 
 ' lero") 
 
 Michael. (With a sudden start, listening) Some- 
 one's coming-. 
 
 John. (Sneaking up to the center door) It's 
 Father! Duck! Down behind those Iflac bushes! 
 (He points off left) Quick ! I'll wig-wag when the 
 coast's clear ! 
 
 (Michael hastens off to the left, just as Mr. 
 Raymond enters the hall from the right. He 
 comes out on the veranda and down to John) 
 
 Mr. Raymond. John, go in and say goodnight 
 to Mrs. Widdimore. It's your bedtime. 
 
 John. Oh, Father, just five minutes more — 
 please ! 
 
 Me. Raymond. Very well. Five minutes more. 
 And then off you march. Now run along. 
 
 (He sits in the settee to the left and lights a cigar. 
 
 John. All right. (He runs off to the left. 
 Presently Frances comes into the hall from the 
 right and out on the veranda) 
 
 Mr. Raymond. I don't think, dear, that when 
 Ned is our guest, you ought to avoid him guite so 
 pointedly. The minute he comes into the house, 
 you go out. It isn't courteous. 
 
 Frances. I didn't mean to be rude, but — I don't 
 
80 THE GIPSY TRAIL 
 
 want to be alone with him tonight — honestly, I don't. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. You're too sure of Ned. 
 
 Frances. I suppose I am. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. That's the trouble. I believe 
 you've been in love with him a long time — and don't 
 know it. 
 
 Frances. I wonder. I am awfully fond of him,. 
 but 
 
 Mr. Raymond. Of course, adventui-e and ro- 
 mance may be all very well in books, but 
 
 Frances. (Passionately) I hate adventure— I 
 hate romance ! 
 
 ■ Mr. Raymond. In any event, it's hardly fair ta 
 keep him dangling about indefinitely. ' 
 
 Frances. I suppose it isn't. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. Mind, dear, I'm not urging you, 
 ■one way or another, but if he asks for his answer 
 tonight, I think you ought to give it to him defin- 
 itely. 
 
 • Frances. You're quite right. He shall have his, 
 answer. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. (Questioningly) And ? 
 
 Frances. Oh, Father — I don't know yet — but I 
 will — when he asks me. 
 
 I' 
 (JdHN enters- along the path from the left.. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. That's right, dear. (He goes 
 up to the center door, then, seeing John, turns) 
 John, your five minutes are up. 
 
 John. All right. Father — I'm coming. 
 
 (Mr. Raymond goes into the hall and out to the 
 "right. John faces off left, and stretches out 
 " both arms in a series of signals) 
 
 Frances, (Watching him in amazement) John, 
 ' what are you doing* ? • " ■ '. 
 
THE GIPSY TRAIL 8i 
 
 John. Stretchin'. Good night, sis. (He passes 
 her on way to the center door) 
 
 Frances. (Hugging him suddenly} Good night, 
 little brother. 
 
 (She kisses him and he goes into the hall and, out 
 to the right. Left alone, Frances walks to the 
 pillar left, and stands leaning against it, looking 
 out front. Michael comes on softly from, the 
 left, walks behind the pillar and approaches her 
 from, the right. He stands beside her a moment 
 before she realises his presence. At last she 
 raises her eyes and sees him,) 
 
 Frances. How dare you ! Oh, how dare you ! 
 
 Michael. I've come back for you. 
 
 Frances. For me? 
 
 Michael. Yes. I've come to take you away 
 with me — tonight. Are you ready? 
 
 Frances. Do you think you can come back 
 and i 
 
 Michael. Oh, I know I behaved outrageously — > 
 but never mind that now. It's over and done with ' 
 and — I'm here again. I'm sorry if it hurt you, 
 but 
 
 Frances. If it hurt me? You don't mean you 
 took our little flirtation seriously? 
 
 Michael. Flirtation ! What a damnable word ! 
 
 Fr.ANCES. What else can you call it ? 
 
 Michael. (With disgust) Flirtation? Do' I 
 look like a man who would flirt? Do I? Do you 
 mean to tell me you were only^ — flirting? 
 
 Frances. Of course. I saw that you were flirt- 
 ing, and I thought you needed a ksson, so I pre- 
 tended to want to marry you, and — oh dear, how- 
 funny you were! How awfully funny! ' 
 
 Michael! Funny? I? ' _ ; 
 
 Frances. You blufiFed very well for a timfe-^un- 
 til you lost your nerve. If you'd only bluffed a 
 little longer, it would have been I who ran away. 
 
82 THE GIPSY TRAIL 
 
 Michael. (Seizes her roughly by the wrist, 
 draws her to him and looks steadily info her eyes. 
 Her glance falls) Aha! I thought so. You did 
 care. 
 
 Frances. (Indignantly) I didn't! I didn't, I 
 tell you, I didn't, I didn't, I didn't ! Oh, how can I 
 make you believe I didn't ? 
 
 Michael. You can't. You cared — as much as / 
 did. I wish we hadn't. I didn't want to love you. 
 I didn't want you to love me. 
 
 Frances. I didn't — I don't! 
 
 Michael. But we couldn't help it. So we might 
 as well make the best of it. That's why I'm here. 
 
 Frances. I didn't want you to come. 
 
 Michael. Do you suppose I wanted to come ? I 
 came because I couldn't help it. I swore I'd forget 
 you — I swore it sixty times a day, and the harder 
 I swore, the more clearly I saw you. I tried to 
 put the ocean between us — I even sailed for Europe ; 
 but when we dropped the pilot off Sandy Hook, I 
 came back with him. I've been coming back to you 
 ever since — fighting against it every inch of the way 
 — ^but you dragged me back to you — and at last 
 I'm here. I belong to you. You belong to me. And 
 you're coming with me. 
 
 Frances. I'm not! 
 
 Michael. We're leaving immediately. 
 
 Frances. You're leaving immediately, I hope. 
 
 Michael. You've got to go. I've come to take 
 you out of this humdrum life you've always led, to 
 save you from it — ^to carry you away with me into 
 my world. It's all planned. We leave tonight on 
 a freight steamer for the Northwest woods — come ! 
 (He seizes her hand and draws her toward ihe 
 right) Come, I say ! For, in spite of eyerything — 
 I love you ! 
 
 Frances. No ! (She breaks away from him and 
 goes up toward the center door) I hope that this is 
 
THE GIPSY TRAIL 83 
 
 the last of your ridiculous appearances — and disap- 
 pearances. 
 
 (Michael looks at her a moment, then marches off 
 left without a word. As Frances turns to the 
 center door, Ned com^s into the hall from the 
 right, and out on the tferanda) 
 
 Ned. Frances, I've been trying to get a few min- 
 utes alone with you ever since dinner, but sOme'- 
 how — I don't know — fate seems to have been against 
 me. 
 
 Frances. Well, here I am, Ned. (Ned takei 
 her arm and leads her to the ottoman. She sits 
 down) 
 
 Ned. It was awfully good of you, Frances, to 
 have me out for dinner tonight— and grandma. 
 
 Frances. Why, not at all, Ned. You know I'm' 
 ■always glad to see you. 
 
 Ned. Yes, I think you are — (A little pause) 
 I was thinking tonight, while we were at dinner- 
 there was something so sort of — I don't know — 
 domestic — in the way you passed the bread to me, 
 that it-^it got to me, and 
 
 Frances. I suppose you want your answer, Ned. 
 Is that it? 
 
 Ned. Yes, that's it — if you don't mind. 
 
 Frances. Ned, you've been heavenly to me, and 
 I haven't always been very nice to you ; but you. 
 were never resentful, never angry! 
 
 Ned. Why, anyone would be just that way tO' 
 you. 
 
 Frances. Oh, no, they wouldn't. I know. 
 
 Ned. I don't want you to think I'm impatient. 
 
 Frances. Aren't you? 
 
 Ned. Not a bit. That is, of course, I'd like aw- 
 fully well to know, but — if you aren't able to tell 
 me just yet, why — of course, I'll wait. 
 
84 THE GIPSY TRAIL 
 
 Frances. How long? 
 
 Ned. As long as you want me to. I wouldn't 
 want to hurry you. 
 
 Frances. (Almost to herself) If I don't know 
 now, I'll never know. 
 
 Ned. I've thought that, too. 
 
 Frances. Ned, I don't love you as I think I 
 should, if I'm going to marry you. 
 
 Ned. You don't love anyone else, dp you? 
 • Frances. No ! 
 
 Ned. I guess that will do, won't it? You know — 
 I don't expect you to be perfectly crazy over me — in 
 a roinantic way, I mean. 
 
 Frances. Don't you? 
 
 Ned. No, I don't. But I love you and — I can 
 take care of you and — do things for you and — I'm 
 almost sure I would make a very kind husband, 
 Frances. 
 
 Frances. I know you would. 
 
 Ned. Sometimes I think you care more for me 
 than you think you do. 
 . , Frances. That's just what Father said. 
 
 Ned. Did he? By Jove, I hope he's right. Oh, 
 Frances, if you would just keep on depending on 
 me — I'd never fail you — you know that. 
 
 Frances. Oh, I do, Ned — and it's such a com- 
 fort to have someone you can deoend on — someone 
 whose ways you know — who thinks as you do — who 
 never surprises you 
 
 f Stiles enters the hall from the left) 
 
 Stiles. (Calling into the room to the right of the 
 hall) Mr. Raymond ! 
 
 (Ned looks up resentfully at this interruption. . 
 
 Mr. Raymond. (Appearing in the hall from the 
 right) What is it, Stiles ? 
 
 Stiles. (Handing him a card on a silver tray) 
 A gentleman to see you, sir. 
 
THE GIPSY TRAIL 85 
 
 Mr. Raymond. (Looking at the card) Rudder — 
 Mr. Michael Rudder? (He comes out on the ver- 
 anda. Stiles remains in the hall) Don't know 
 any Rudder. Do you, Frances ? 
 
 Frances. No, Father — I never heard the name 
 before. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. Where have you put him? 
 
 Stiles. He's in the front hall, sir. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. I'll see him out here. 
 
 (Stiles goes out to the left) 
 
 Ned. Come, Frances, we'll g-o into the library. 
 I don't think anyone is in there. 
 (He goes to the center door and holds it open for her. 
 
 Frances. In a minute, Ned. (Ned goes into the 
 hall and out to the right. Frances turns to Mr. 
 Raymond) Father, I just wanted to tell you : I've 
 decided to marry Ned. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. (Delighted) No! Oh, my dear, 
 I am so pleased — so awfully glad. 
 
 Frances. Are you ? I thought you would be. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. The very minute I get rid of 
 this tiresome man, I'll be in to speak to you both, 
 my dear child ! 
 
 (Frances goes into the hall and out to the right. 
 A moment later Stiles enters the hall from the 
 left, followed by Michael, who has taken off 
 his coat and is in full evening dress. Stiles 
 opens the screen door. Michael comes out on 
 the veranda, and Stiles goes out to the left) 
 
 Mr. Raymond. (Not recognizing him) Good 
 evening. 
 
 Michael. Good evening. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. Won't you sit down, Mr. — Mr.— 
 (With a furtive glance at the card) Mr. Rudder. 
 
 Michael. You don't remember me ! 
 
86 THE GIPSY TRAIL 
 
 Mr. Raymond. Well, the fact is, just for the 
 moment — I have a most unhappy memory for faces, 
 
 Michael. Look at me. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. (Recognising him, with great 
 iufpriie) Jones ! 
 
 Michael. Yes. I ' believe I was Jones at that 
 particular stage of my career. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. (Ahgrily) How dare ypu come 
 here? 
 
 Michael. I beg your pardon ? 
 
 Mr. Raymond. How dare you come here, I say, 
 after your atrocious behavior to my daughter? 
 
 MiCHAHX. Ah ! you've heard about it ? 
 
 Mr. Raymond. I should say I had, and let me 
 tell you 
 
 Michael. That's splendid ! I was afraid you 
 hadn't, and that would have meant very tedious ex- 
 planations. As it is, I can come straight to the 
 point. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. I have nothing to say to you, 
 sir — nothing. I wish to hold no communication 
 with you— nor does my daughter. 
 
 Michael. I have come to address mysdf to you. 
 You seem surprised to see me in these accursed 
 clothes ? 
 
 Mr. Raymond. Well, your former appearance 
 was not quite so 
 
 Michael. Correct ? No, it was not ! This is the 
 first time in years that I have appeared in the habili- 
 ments of so-called society. I wish I might think it 
 was the last, but my mind misgives me. 
 
 Mr.- Raymond. (Grimly amused) And was it tO' 
 do me honor that you took this rash step ? 
 
 Michael. Practically, yes. Your daughter, I 
 regret to inform you, is incurably conventional, To 
 approach her in any other manner than that ap- 
 proved by generations of stiff-necked forebears is 
 to court disaster. Behold me, therefore, come be- 
 
THE GIPSY TRAIL 87 
 
 fore you to make formal application for your 
 daughter's hand. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. What! You are proposing to 
 me for her ? 
 
 Michael. I am. I need scarcely tell you that 
 such a ceremony strikes me as ridiculous. Who 
 your daughter marries is her own business and that 
 of her future husband. You ought to have nothing 
 to do with it. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. Well, upon my word, I intend 
 to! 
 
 Michael. I was sure you would. And so I am 
 following that custom which the world has decreed 
 as strictly correct in this emergency. I will now, 
 with your permission, proceed to state my qualifica- 
 tions for becoming your son-in-law. To me this 
 seems a disgusting process. If I were seeking the 
 position of butler I could do no more, 
 
 Mr. Ray-mond. I tell you it is useless. Neither 
 my daughter nor I would even consider 
 
 Michael. Stop! When you have heard my 
 qualifications, I defy you to reject me. From any 
 human and rational standpoint, I may make a 
 wretched husband; but from the worldly point of 
 view, I am so confoundedly and disgracefully 
 eligible that no business man in the world could 
 refuse me his daughter. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. (Sitting down in the chair to the 
 left of the right pillar) Well, if you insist — but I 
 tell you in advance 
 
 Michael. I am thirty-one years old, which age, 
 I am informed by authorities, is absolutely the 
 prime of life. I am in the pink of perfect physical 
 condition. (He extracts from his pocket a sheaf 
 of papers and hands one to Mr. Raymond) _ Here 
 is- a report from my physician, Dr. Edward Grimsby, 
 . of New York. I am the son of Patrick Rudder and 
 Margaret, his wife, nee Nicoll, both deceased. A 
 
88 THE GIPSY TRAIL 
 
 copy of my birth certificate. (He hands Mr. Rayt 
 MON another paper) My grandfather, Dennis 
 Rudder, came here from Dublin in 1847. He was 
 the youngest son of Seumas William O'Dowd Mar- 
 tin Patrick, thirty-seventh Lord Dromore, and, like 
 all other Irishmen, was lineally descended from the 
 Gaelic kings. His family tree. (He hands Mr. 
 Raymond another paper) My mother was a NicoU 
 — need I say more ? Her family tree. (He hands 
 Mr. Raymond another paper) I find, on investi- 
 gation, that I have three uncles, ten aunts, one 
 grand-uncle and fourteen first cousins, to say noth- 
 ing of a large collection of second cousins and first 
 cousins once removed. Most of them, I find, be- 
 long to what is technically known as "New York 
 Society," or, in the more remote subtirban districts^ 
 as "The Smart Set." And, so far as I have had 
 opportunity to judge — for my acquaintance with 
 them has been of the briefest and most casual 
 nature — they do not, as a whole, run much below 
 the necessarily low average of relatives. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. Great heavens. 
 
 Michael. My father left a large fortune, which 
 he acquired, I am glad to be able to inform you, 
 almost by accident, and not with malice aforcr 
 thought. It is under the management of my trus- 
 tees, The Guaranty Title and Trust Company of 
 New York, and, according to their last report — 
 (He picks up another paper and reads from it) 
 — amounts to two million, seven hundred and forty- 
 four thousand, six hundred and ninety-seven dol- 
 lars and thirty-six cents. Here is the list. As you 
 will note, it is invested in conservative securities, 
 which return me, I am informed, an annual income 
 of one hundred and forty-six thousand seven hun- 
 dred and forty-three dollars. (He hands Mr. Ray- 
 mond the list, which he seises and reads eagerly, 
 although he has scarcely glanced at the others) 
 
THE GIPSY TRAIL 89 
 
 Mr. Raymond. This is perfectly colossal! 
 
 Michael. I have never hitherto made use of 
 those stupid organizations known as clubs, but I 
 am a member of most of them — the Union League, 
 the Racquets, the Players, the Lotus ; and I am told 
 that if I live the allotted course of man's existence, 
 I will be a member of the University Club before I 
 die. 
 ■ Mr. Raymond. What next ? 
 
 Michael. I am an Episcopalian by birth, and 
 testimonials to my moral character are herein en- 
 closed from the Bishop of the diocese of New York, 
 the Bishop Coadjutor and the Very Reverend Dean 
 Dalton, rector of my hereditary church, that of St. 
 Michael. But having learned from Frances that 
 your family are Baptists, I took the precaution to 
 secure a letter also from Dr. Frederick Glossop Jor- 
 dan, minister of the First Baptist Church of New 
 York. (He hands Mr. Raymond several envelopes) 
 
 Mr. Raymond. Is there anything more? r 
 
 Michael. Let me see? Have I forgotten any- 
 thing? Oh, only a few small matters. I have a 
 box at the Metropolitan, three houses in New York, 
 with country places at Smithtown, Newport, Aikin, 
 and a shooting box in the Adirondacks. I believe 
 there is a yacht, too — ^there used to be. Should your 
 interests be more largely social, I have prepared a 
 list of ushers. (He hands Mr. Raymond another 
 paper) Most of them will, I believe, be known to 
 you. They are, I am told, rather notable in the 
 world of society. Personally, most of them bore 
 me to tears, but I am told they will make our wed- 
 ding a very remarkable function. It also occurred 
 to me that, as a business man, you might consider it 
 a disgrace to have a son-in-law who was not em- 
 ployed. I am prepared to humor your prejudices. 
 Here are letters from several of my father's friends, 
 offering- me jobs. (As he reads the name of each- 
 
90 THE GIPSY TRAIL- 
 
 firm, he hands Mr. Raymond an envelope) U. S. 
 Steel Corporation, J. P. Morgan and Company, 
 National City Bank, New York Central, Bethlehem 
 Steel — ^you may select the job yourself. One is as, 
 stupid and disagreeable as the other. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. But, as I recall it, you did not 
 wish to marry ? 
 
 Michael. I did not ! 
 
 Mr. Raymond. Nothing could induce you to give 
 Tip your way of life. 
 
 MicSael. She won't have me otherwise. 
 
 Mr. Raymond, And you'll give up all that for 
 the privilege of becoming my daughter's — ^young 
 man? 
 
 Michael. Call me her beau and be done with it ! 
 I will ! 
 
 Mr. Raymond. Well, this is very flattering. But 
 in spite of your concessions, and I admit they must 
 l)e somewhat galling to a man of your constitu- 
 tion (He rises) I have the honor to refuse 
 
 your offer. 
 
 Michael. To refuse! How can you? What 
 possible reason — Look at these papers ! You can't 
 have read them. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. My dear sir, you are, as you. 
 say, ostentatiously eligible. There is only one rea.- 
 son why I am constrained to refuse your very inter- 
 esting offer, and that reason is that my daughter — 
 (He chuckles to himself) But I must not be selfish. 
 Pardon me. (He goes to the center door and calls) 
 Frances ! 
 
 Frances (In right) Yes, Father? 
 
 Michael. I am addressing myself to you, sir. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. (Calling) Will you come out 
 here a moment, my dear? 
 
 Michael. It is your consent to our marriage that 
 I am seeking. Once that is obtained, there will he, 
 
THE GIPSY TRAIL 91 
 
 no difficulty whatever in obtaining your daughter's. 
 (He turns to the left of the center door) 
 
 Mr. Raymond. Your assurance is 90 superb that 
 I really hate to see it dashed. 
 
 Frances. (Comes into the hall from the right, 
 and out upon the veranda. She starts as she sees 
 Michael) You! (MicnAEL bows without speak- 
 ing) But — ^but — you don't look a bit like yourself. 
 
 Michael. Thank you. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. My dear, this gentleman — Mr. 
 Rudder — has come to me to propose in formal style 
 for your hand. He has left with me this large sheaf 
 of testimonials which I am sure it will entertain you 
 to peruse in your leisure moments. He has even 
 signified his willingness to give up entirely his vaga- 
 bond way of life and to become a conventional 
 member of society. And all for your sake, my dear. 
 It's gratifying. (He lays the testimonials down on 
 the taborette) 
 
 Frances. You're willing to give it up after all? 
 
 Michael. Look at me ! (Frances laughs at his 
 ' crestfallen appearance ) There is your answer ! 
 
 Frances. (Laughing louder and louder) Oh, 
 please do forgive me, but — oh, you are so funny! 
 And all these beautiful testimonials! Why, they 
 must have taken weeks of patient efifort. 
 
 Michael. When I came here tonight, I knew in 
 my heart you w.ould never accept me as I was. I 
 really made my surrender two weeks ago, when I 
 began to collect those things. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. I may as well tell you, sir, that 
 my daughter is about to announce her engagement 
 to Mr. Edward Andrews. 
 
 Michael. (In great surprise) To Andrews ! 
 
 Frances. (Smiling) You heard what my father 
 said. 
 
92 THE GIPSY TRAIL 
 
 (Ned comes into the hall from the right and out 
 upon the veranda) 
 
 Ned. Did anyone call me ? Oh, I beg pardon. I 
 
 thought (He recognizes Michael) Oh — ^it's 
 
 you 
 
 Michael. Yes, Andrews, it is I. 
 
 Ned. I didn't think you would come back. 
 
 Michael. Nor did I think when I did that it 
 would be simply to congratulate you. 
 
 Ned. I don't know what you are talking about. 
 
 Michael. Your engagement to Frances. 
 
 Ned. But I am not engaged to Miss Raymond. 
 
 Mr. Raymond. What! 
 
 Ned. No. She has just refused me. 
 
 Michael. Frances ! 
 
 Me. Raymond. But — but — you said 
 
 Frances. I know I did, Father. And, I meant 
 
 to. But when the time came I — I found I couldn't. 
 
 '(Turning to Ned) Oh, Ned, you do understand, 
 
 ' don't you ? It woiddn't have been fair to you-^f eel- 
 
 ing as I did. I'm sorry. 
 
 Ned. Oh, it's all right. Don't feel badly about 
 it. I don't see why people think they've always got 
 to be fair to me. 
 
 (He goes into the hall and out to the right. Mich- 
 ael goes impulsively to Frances, and is about 
 to take her in his arms, when he notices Mr. 
 Raymond's stern glance is upon them. He 
 stops, and takes from, his pocket a small jewel- 
 er's box, out of which he takes an engagement 
 ring and with a defiant look at Mr. Raymond, 
 places it on her finger. A smile slowly spreads 
 itself over Mr. Raymond's face as he watches 
 them. It grows at last to a hearty laugh, in 
 which Michael and Frances join him. Then, 
 still laughing, he goes without a zvord into the 
 
THE GIPSY TRAIL 93 
 
 hall and out to the right. Michael leads 
 Frances down to the ottoman, seats her and 
 sits beside her) 
 
 Michael. I suppose there'll be a big wedding? 
 
 Frances. Yes. . . . 
 
 Michael. And your friends will throw rice at 
 us? 
 
 Frances. Yes. ... 
 
 Michael. And then there'll be a honeymoon — 
 in hotels? 
 
 Frances. Yes. . . . 
 
 Michael. And then we'll come back and live in 
 a house? 
 
 Frances. Yes. . . . 
 
 Michael. And have trouble with servants ? 
 
 Frances. Yes. . . . 
 
 Michael. And then perhaps there'll be children ? 
 
 Frances. Yes. . . . 
 
 Michael., And we'll watch youth rise in them as 
 
 we grow old together? 
 
 Frances. Yes. ... 
 
 Michael. It ought to be wonderful ! 
 
 The Curtain Falls 
 
94 
 
 THE GIPSY TRAIL 
 
 NOTES ON PRODUCTION 
 
 It is not essential that the first act be set exactly 
 as described in the stage directions. It will be 
 sufficient if the entrances, windows and furniture 
 be placed as shown in the scene-plot^ The stock 
 scenery of any theatre can be lashed together for 
 the house wall, and the ends of the porch can be 
 masked with shrubbery. It is not essential that the 
 porch be elevated by a platform, although if this is 
 available it will add considerably to the effect. 
 
 "The Gipsy Trail," words by Rudyard Kipling, 
 music by Tod B. Galloway, is published by Theodore 
 Fresser Co., 1712 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa. 
 
 "The Bandolero," words and music by Leslie 
 Stuart, is published by G. Schirmer, New York 
 City. 
 
 Both can be obtained from any good music store. 
 
 A spotlight should be placed in the entrance-hall 
 right, in Act II, and trained upon the armchair 
 down right, so that, in the . dark scene, it will fall 
 upon Frances and Michael. But where a spot- 
 light cannot be obtained, a small table may be placed 
 beside the armchair down right, with a small tables 
 lamp on it, which can be turned on by Michael 
 immediately after his entrance and will throw its 
 light upon Frances' face during this scene. 
 
 At the end of Act II it will be found best to 
 drop the curtain the moment Ned's idea has reg- 
 istered with the audience and they begin to laugh. 
 "On Soider Lake" has generally been found the 
 most effective cue for the curtain. 
 
 If a tandem bicycle is not obtainable for use in 
 Act III, a seat can be attached to, the front of an 
 ord'inary bicycle. 
 

 
 
 
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