. S 635 .29 J195 Copy * The Rhodes Scholar BY ROBERT CAMPBELL. PRICE 25 CENTS Eldridge Entertainment House Franklin, Ohio • .---- .- .-■•■_ • .. - ... TWO PLAYS FOR BOYS By SEYMOUR S. TIBBALS. Mr. Tibbals has been unusually successful in fur- nishing boys' plays that introduce' characters true to life. While the plays are strong and forceful in the lessons they teach, clean comedy predominates and the boys like them. *t "The Millionaire Janitor A comedy in two acts. Here is a rollicking play for eight or more boys with plenty of action. Just the thing for a Boys' Class or Junior Y. M. C. A. Easily staged and costumed. Opportunity for intro- duction of musical numbers and recitations. By in- troducing such features the play may be used for an entire evening's entertainment. Price 25 Cents "Up Caesar's Creek" A splendid play for any number of boys. The characters are real boys and the play^ deals with their experiences while camping up Caesar's Creek the per- formance closing with a -minstrel show in camp. Cos- tumes and scenery are not elaborate and the play may be produced on any stage. Price 25 Cents These comedies are protected by copyright, but permission for amateur production is granted with the purchase of the book/ ELDRIDGE ENTERTAINMENT HOUSE Franklin, Ohio The Rhodes Scholar A College Drama in 4 Acts. By ROBERT CAMPBELL Copyright, 1915, Eldridge Entertainment House ELDRIDGE ENTERTAINMENT HOUSE FRANKLIN, OHIO CAST OF CHARACTERS Henry Barker, a Senior and the Rhodes Scholar. Mr. Otis Barker, Father of Henry. Hiram Jenks, a New Boy from the Rural District. Mr. Silas Jenks, Father of Hiram. Jack Williams, a Sophomore who is wise to the ways of the World. Ralph Waldo Montmorcy, a Dude. Billy, a Small Boy with Original Ideas. Miss Nell Andrews, Mrs.. Miles' niece and Billy's sister. Miss Mame Binks, a Maid of All Work. Mrs. Susanna Jane Miles, an Impressionable Widow and Keeper of the Boarding House. Miss Berta Morris, an Athletic Girl. Mary Philips Ruth Carroll Two College Girls. Place — Clinton College. Time — The first Zy 2 months of school. Time in Presentation — About two hours. QQI.D 4259S TMPS2-008795 DEC20i5 iJ COSTUMES AND PERSONALITIES Henry Barker — Slender, medium height, rather dash- ing. Act I — Light suit of a late model; hat; suitcase. Act II — May wear same suit as in Act I; cap, carries school books. Act III — White jersey; white flannel trou- sers ; school cap. Act IV — Black suit. Henry should at all times be dressed very well, and in the height of fash- ion. Careful attention should be paid to shoes, hose, ties, etc. Otis Barker — Very, dignified, and with a cultured, schol- arly air. Represented as being about 55 years of age. Gray hair. Dark, well fitting suit ; black hat ; cane. Hiram Jenks — Fat, awkward. Very "countryfied" in Acts I and II ; complete transformation in Acts III and IV. Act I — Checked suit of an old model, a size too small; high standing collar; bright red tie; very heavy shoes ; small straw or felt hat. Carries carpet bag. Act II — Costume same, with possible slight alterations. Act III — Dressed in the height of college fashion; latest model suit; collar, shoes, etc. Very "sporty." May wear white flannel suit and school cap. Act IV — Dark suit of the same late cut. Silas Jenks — Exaggerated farmer type. Tall, spare, age about 50, gray hair, goatee, raspy voice. Should wear black coat of ancient pattern, gray trousers, high collar, bright tie, heavy shoes, old hat. Carries carpet bag. Jack Williams — Dashing, self-important, "sporty." Dressed at all times in the height of college fashion. Ralph Waldo Montmorcy — Small; has very afifected air; talks with English drawl and lisp. Act III — Wears tennis costume; carries racquet. Act IV — Dress suit; carries monocle. Billy — Small, represented as being 11 or 12 years old. Dressed in ordinary costume. Nell Andrews — Pretty, something of a coquette. Act I — Pretty morning gown. Acts II and III — School cos- tume; carries books. Act IV — Party dress. Maine Binks — Slangy, chewing gum type. Acts I, II and IV — Regular maid's costume, including apron and cap. Act III — Street dress of clashing colors ; very flashy. Hat in keeping; long gloves and parasol. Mrs. Miles — Age about 40. Dressed in rather old- fashioned style, especially in Act IV, where a prim, tight- fitting black should be worn. Berta Morris — Breezy, athletic type. Act III — Tennis suit ; carries racquet. Act IV — -Party dress. Mary, Ruth — Party dresses. The Rhodes Scholar. ACT I. Time — The opening of the scholastic year. Scene — The parlor of the boarding house. Mame is discovered on the stage busily engaged in dusting the furniture and chewing gum vig- orously. Mame. Well, another one of these here college semes- ters is opened up, which jist means that I'll have to work about twict as hard as any ordinary self-respectin' lady would do. Say, I wonder what sort of a kindergarten of innocents we'll have a-hanging out here anyhow. (Pause, during which she strings the gum out of her mouth and gathers it back.) I wonder if any of them will get sweet on me. (Gum action.) They most gener- ally do. But I never could keep a college beau very long, — men is so fickle. (Very brickly as she resumes her work.) Well, I do hope and pray that that fresh Jack Williams don't come* back, nohow. He was decent enough at first, and used to bring me candy and flowers and take me to the picture show and all, but after a while he got so hateful and stuck-up that he gave me a tired feeling. If there's anything on earth — . (Enter Jack, R.) Jack. Why hello, Mame. Glad to see you old girl. Looks natural for you to be around. (Walks over with outstretched hands.) Mame. (Rising from her stooping position and re- gar ding him with a freezing stare.) I would appreciate it exceedingly, Mr. Williams, if you would address me as Miss Binks. Jack. Oh, why Mame — . Mame. And the less you address me at all, sir, the better I would be pleased. (Resumes work vigorously.) 6 The Rhodes Scholar Jack. (Laughing.) All right, Miss Binks. You have no idea how it pains my poor heart to receive such a cold reception after being away all summer, but I guess I will live through it. Tell Mrs. Miles that I'm fixing my room up. Ta-ta. (Exit L. y throwing her a kiss.) Mame. Well of all fresh creatures that thing is just about the limit. (Ring at door bell.) Mrs. M. (Off stage). Mamie-e-e, oh, Mamie. Mame. Yes Mam. Mrs. M. Answer that door bell. Mame. (Hastily arranging dress and hair.) Yes, Mam. Mrs. M. And if anyone wants me, tell them Til be down in a few minutes. Mame — Yes, Mam. (Exit, R.) (Re-enter Mame, R., with Mr. Silas Jenks and son, Hiram.) Mame. Mrs. Miles she'll be down in a little while; have a seat. (Exit, L.) Silas J. (Carefully adjusting his son's tie, smoothing dozvn his hair, etc.) Now look here, son, I ain't never had no edication, but Brother Jones he says as how it's a absolute necessity for the risin' generation, so I want you to git one, do you hear. Hiram. Yes, Pap. Silas J. Git everything that's comin' to you and every- thing you need, and jist so long as you don't waste noth- ing I guess I can foot the bills. I don't reckon I'm Com- mitteeman of Possum Center for nothin', by Heck. (Voice approaching, singing. Enter Billy L.) The Rhodes Scholar 7 Billy. Huh dee. Silas J. How dee do, little man. Billy. Howdy, are you all going to board here? Silas J. Hiram he's goin' to school and I want him to stay here. Think you'll like him? (Billy looks at Hiram, but does not answer.) Hiram % Well, why don't you say? Billy. Aunt Jane spanks me when I tell stories, and I don't want to hurt your feelings. Aunt Jane will be down in a minute.- She's putting on her hair. She always takes it off when she goes to bed. (Enter Mrs. M., L., in time to hear this last speech.) Mrs. M. William Edward Andrews, leave the room at once, sir. Billy. But, Aunt Jane, you told me to always enter- tain folks when I found them in the parlor, and — . Mrs. M. That will do; you may go. (Exit Billy, L.) Good morning, sir; you'll have to excuse Billy. He's one of my greatest trials. During my poor dear hus- band's lifetime he was not so hard to manage, but now I sometimes wish I had not taken him to raise. But you must pardon me, sir; I should not trouble you with our family affairs. You wish to see about finding board for your son? Silas J. Wall, yes Mam. Silas Jenks is my name, Mam; Silas Jenks of Possum Center, and this here is my son, Hiram. (They exchange greetings and are seated.) Parson Jones he 'lows as how a edication's a indispensability these days. He says take a chap and edi- cate him and he'll get so's he can do most anything. Mrs. M. (Sighing deeply.) That's what my poor, dear husband used to say. Silas J. Now Hiram here aint never been no count on the farm, — always was kind o' puny like, and I sor- ter 'lowed as how he ought to make a good scholar, seein' as he aint fit for nothin' else. Mrs. M. Oh I'm sure he will, sir. He has such a high 8 The Rhodes Scholar and intelligent-looking forehead; just like my poor dear husband. Silas J. Urn — wall, yes, Mam, I suppose he has. He had his hair cut yistidday. But what I wanted to do was to get Hiram a good place to stay. Since his mother died last June, he's always been — . Mrs. M. (Impulsively and with clasped hands.) Oh sir, are you laboring under the shadow of bereavement too? You don't know T how I sympathize with you. Silas J. (Moving his chair a bit further away and looking slightly nervous.) Yes, Mum ; that's kind in ye, Mum ; thank ye, Mum. Hem ! Hem ! But as I was sayin', the president up to the school he said as how you run a good house, and Hiram he—. Mrs. M. Well, Mr. Jenks, I do try to do the best in my power. During the lifetime of my poor, dear hus- band I lived as a lady should. I never thought then that I would ever be keeping a boarding house. But we poor mortals never know what we'll come to. (Cries into the corner of her apron.) Silas J. (Patting the air in the direction of Mrs. Miles' shoulder.) Thar now, Mum; I wouldn't carry on so. I've knowed some boarding house keepers that was real nice wimmen, I have so. And I'll be real pleased to have Hiram stay here. Now about what will his board bill be? Mrs. M. Well, sir, it seems almost a disgrace to be charging people for staying in one's house, and in the lifetime of my poor, dear husband I never would have thought of doing such a thing, but we must adjust our- selves to our circumstances, so I usually charge the boys $75 for each semester. Silas /. (In deep thought.) Uh huh. Mrs. M. Perhaps you would like to see the room. It's just to your right up the hall stairs. I'll run up and open the curtains. (Exit, L.) The Rhodes Scholar 9 Silas J. (As he and Hiram prepare to ascend,) Son, I don't hardly see the use o' you havin' a semester. I bought ye a good suit and a pair o' shoes before we left home, and yer Aunt Hanner knit ye three pairs o' socks, and I don't just know that ye'll need anything else. But if the boys here have semesters I'll get ye one too, even if it does cost §75. I won't let nobody say that the son o' the Committeeman o' Possum Center lacked any o' the modern conveniences, by Heck. (Exeunt Silas J. and Hiram, L.) (Door bell rings and Mame ushers in Mr. Otis Barker and Henry.) Mame. Jest set down, you two. Mrs. Miles she's showin' a couple o' country rubes over the premises, but I guess she'll be back in a few minutes. Gee* but them is hay-seeds, Mister. ( Coquet tishly.) You know I've been livin' in this here college town for so long that I can tell a educated party the minute I set eyes on him. I says to myself when I seen you two, there's a couple o' real swells, I says, and I hope they board here, I says. But Gee, if Mrs. Miles would ketch me a-talkin' to you, she'd—. (Hasty exit, L.) Henry. Don't you feel puffed up and complimented, Dad? Too bad she didn't stay long enough for us to thank her, though. Otis B. She is rather an interesting specimen. But be serious a moment, son, I want to talk to you. Henry. I'll be as serious as I can, Dad, but it's an awfully hard job. Otis B. Listen. You have been wondering why I moved you away from the f rat house into a private board- ing place, and you have been wondering why I have taken the pains to come up here to school with you this year and see that you get settled properly, haven't you? Henry. Why yes, Dad, it did seem sort o' queer. Mighty good of you though. 10 The Rhodes Scholar Otis B. Well, listen and I'll tell you. (Pause.) Twelve years ago last December your older brother was awarded the Rhodes scholarship from this state. You knew that, didn't you? Henry. Yes, I had heard of it. Otis B. Three months later he died. Both your mother and myself have always been passionately fond of edu- cation, and when Ralph received that scholarship we felt that we had reached the happiest moment of our lives. And when he died, our grief at losing him was increased by the fact that our family had been deprived of the op- portunity of being represented in that little band of young men who comprise the very flower of our country's in- tellect. Henry. I was just a little shaver then, wasn't I, Dad. Otis B. Yes, you were about nine years old. You looked very much like Ralph; you had his ways and ac- tions. And as you came up through the grammar school and high school standing at the head of your class all the time, I began to think that perhaps my dream would not be denied me after all. You are now entering on your senior year at college. Three months from now the examinations for the Rhodes scholarship will be given. You have ninety days in which to freshen up. I want you to stay here where you won't be disturbed and work harder than you've ever worked before. Pass your ex- aminations and I'll do my best to get you the appoint- ment. What do you say? Henry. (After a pause.) Dad, you're a brick. (Shak- ing hands.) It's the hardest thing in the world for me to be serious and work, but I'll try, as much for your sake as anything. Otis B. Well, I don't believe that landlady is coming and I'll have to catch my train. I ordered you a room several weeks ago, though, so I suppose it's ready. Good- bye now, son, and work hard. (Exit, R.) Henrv. Work hard. What do I know about work? The Rhodes Scholar 11 But I must get that scholarship for the sake of mother and Dad. By George, I will do it! {Enter Mrs. M., L.) Mrs. M. Why how do you do, sir. This is Mr. Barker, I suppose? Henry. Yes, and this is Mrs. Miles ; I'm glad to meet you. Mrs. M. Your father wrote and ordered a room for you and I gave you the best one in the house. It has a great big window on the south and it gets all the sun there is. My poor, dear husband used to say that one could study better if his room was bright and sunshiny. Poor fellow r , he isn't enjoying sunshine now. (Weeps.) Henry. But perhaps — ah — he has an abundance of — ah — artificial heat. Mrs. M. Beg pardon, sir? Henry. I say I'm sure Til like my room very much, and I'm sure my stay — . Nell. (At door.) Pardon me, Aunty, but you are wanted ta the phone. (Henry turns around, sees the girl, and stares at her. Mrs. Miles and ^J ell leave the room, L.) Henry. Good night, am I asleep or not? I guess not! But believe me, that was a good looking maiden. And she said "Aunt." Guess she must live here. Am I lucky? Oh no! I guess it's up to me to find out a few things. (Hurries to door, and being occupied with papers in his pocket nearly falls over Billy, who is backing in on his hands and knees, leading a small kitten.) Billy. Why don't you watch where you're going? Do you think this is a football game? Henry. Oh I beg your pardon, old chap. Didn't mean to do it, I'm sure. By the way, you live here, do you? Bilty. (Much interested in his pet.) Uh huh. Henry. What do they call you?' Billy. (Still interested.) Billy. 12 The Rhodes Scholar Henry. Say, Billy, I've come here to stay all winter; don't you think we'd better get to be good friends? (Billy looks at Henry, but does not anszt'er.) Say, Billy. Billy. Huh? Henry. There's an awfully pretty girl lives here, isn't there ? Billy. How do you know? Henry. I saw her a few minutes ago. What's her name, Billy? Billy. (Very meditatively.) They're selling the best bananas down town now for fifteen cents a dozen. Henry. Billy, you're a diplomat. You ought to be filling a position of state. (Gives him some money.) What did you say her name was? Billy. I said it was Helen Farris Andrews ; I call her Nell for short. Henry. Nell! Gee,' that's a pretty name. Does she live here? Billy. Uh huh, she's my sister. We stay with Aunt Jane. Henry. Your Sister? Well, Billy, you and I have just got to be good friends. Suppose we go down town and see if they haven't got some ice cream they don't want, and on the way you'll tell me about Nell, won't you? (Exeunt, R.) CURTAIN. The Rhodes Scholar 13 ACT II. Time — Next morning, just after breakfast. Scene — Same as Act I. Enter Hiram, L., wiping his month and with a toothpick. Hiram. They've got the dog-gondest funniest grub, and the dog-gondest way o' eatin' it here at this place that I ever seen. Who ever heard o' eatin' oranges with a spoon, and I'll bet Dad's old muley cow wouldn't touch that wad o' dried grass that Mrs. Miles called shredded wheat biscuit. Biscuit! Land o' Goshen, if that's the best biscuit they can make — . I wish I had a couple o' slices o' fried ham and a plate o' hominy, by Heck. That beefsteak would make good chewing gum for a buzz saw. I'm so hungry I could eat — . {Enter Jack, L.) Jack. Hello there, Skinny. I had an idea I would find you in here. Hiram. Mornin'. Jack. Now look here, you infant beef trust, Mrs. Miles said you were to be my room mate, didn't she? Hiram. Uh huh. Jack. Never say "uh huh" to a superior class man. Say "yes, sir." Hiram. Yes, sir. Jack. Well, that's better. Perhaps you'll learn a few things in the course of an eon or so. But good night, to think that Jack Williams, the president of the Sopho- more class, has got to room with it. Verily the gods do fill to overflowing my cup of bitterness. But if I've got to live for nine months in company with this lump of ignorance, I might as well try to infuse into it some of the cardinal principles of civilization. Say, you. Hiram. What do you — I mean sir? Jack. What part of this mundane sphere do you claim as your place of nativity? Hiram. What — I mean sir? 14 The Rhodes Scholar Jack. Ye gods, note the ignorance of the creature. I said where do you hail from? Hiram. Oh, Possum Center; Pap he's committeeman. Jack. Possum Center, oh pickles ! Well, I guess we must make the best of it. Now see here, Jenks, I want to have a little private and confidential talk with you for your own good. Hiram. Yes, sir. Jack. Now listen. Fm a pretty important man on this campus. I'm president of the Sophomore class, and the Sophs are by far the best class in school. Well what I wanted to say was this: it wouldn't be right for a man in my position to have a room mate who could pose as the only original rube in captivity, so I'm going to make a few suggestions which I expect to be carried out. Do you understand? Hiram. Yes, sir. Jack. In the first place we'll take up the matter of clothes. That suit of yours ought to be in a museum ; its a relic of the days of barbarism. Hiram. Why what's the matter with it? Pap got it just the other day and paid $9.98 for it, and they threw in a pair of suspenders. Jack. I thought so ; but my dear boy, the fashions in vogue at Possum Center are hardly the same as the ones here, so you will please furnish yourself with two new suits, one for school and the other for dress occasions. Do you hear? Hiram. (Resignedly.) Yes, sir. Jack. And now something else. Paper collars went out of date the year after Columbus discovered America, I think it was, and that tie of yours would scare a train off the track. Those shoes are hardly the kind for a college man, and as for that hat you wear, I strongly advocate your taking it out and burying it. Make a note of all these little matters, and govern yourself accord- ingly. Hiram. I guess Dad will stand for it. The Rhodes Scholar 15 Jack. Then there's something else. I — well, I am something of a ladies' man myself, and as my room mate you will have to know a few things along the line of society. (Actions of consternation by Hiram.) Now suppose you and I were walking down the street and we met a crowd of college girls, what would you do? Hiram. (After a pause and consideration.) Run. Jack. If you did, I'd kick you all the way home. You must walk by them on the outside of the walk and tip your cap like this. See? Now suppose I represent the young ladies, let's see what you would do. (Hiram very awkwardly goes through the performance.) Shades of Socrates, I'd be everlastingly disgraced ! You get up be- for the looking glass' and practice tipping your cap an hour a day, do you hear? Hiram. I don't think I'll ever learn how. Jack. Oh yes you will ; you've got to. And there's just one thing more. You've got to find you a girl some- where. Hiram. Oh Mr. Williams, I'll do anything else, but please don't make me go with a girl. Please, I can't do it. Jack. I can't help it, my young Adonis, you've got it to do. You can't be a college boy and not have a girl. Keep your lamps open and freeze on to one; see? (Exit, R.) Hiram. Me git a girl ! Land o' Goshen I don't believe I want to go to college. But Pap said I had to be edi- cated, and Williams said I couldn't be edicated and not have a girl, so I guess I'll have to hunt one up. But good land, what girl would I want to go with? (Pause.) And I wonder what girl would want to go with me. Now that girl what works here is a right likely lookin' critter. I wonder — . (Enter Mame, L.) Good land! Mame. Why good mornin' Mr. Jenks, I didn't expect to have the pleasure o' findin' you in here. Will I bother you if I clean things up a little? Hiram. No, Mum, I was jest lettin' my breakfast set- tle. 16 The Rhodes Scholar Mame. Yes, a few moment's quiet after a meal is sech a aid to digestion. But we workin' ladies never have no time to loaf if we was goin' to die. Hiram. (Sighing deeply.) It must be tumble to have to work all the time. Mame. Oh Mr. Jenks, you aint got no idea how fagged out and lonesome we do git. We git about as much at- tention paid to us as a lightning rod peddler. Hiram. (Pulling a sack of candy from his pocket and offering her a piece.) Oh now, Miss Binks, don't get so worked up. I like you real well, and I think you're the nicest kind of a girl. Mame. Oh, Mr. Jenks, you're so kind. You aint got no idea how them words of human sympathy cheer one up. I don't mind workin' myself to death if I know there's somebody who cares somethin' about me. Hiram. Don't you never get no time to rest up? Mame. Oh I have my Thursday evenings off, but all I can do is jest sit up in my room and mope, 'cause no- body never comes to see me nor take me anywheres. Hiram. Ain't they got no picture shows here, nor nothin' you can go to? We had one at Possum Center. Mame. Oh sure, there's the movies and vaudeville too, but of course no lady would go by herself, and I aint got no girl friends. Hiram. ( Swallowing desperately. ) Well — er — could you — I mean would it be all right — er — I mean could I take you next Thursday night? Mame. Why sure, Mr. Jenks, I'd be delighted to beat the band. I'm jest crazy about the movies. Hiram. Well, I've got to go to school now. Dr. Thompson said I had to registrate or something like that. Don't forget next Thursday night. (Exit, R.) Mame. Well, (gum action) he's a rube and he's fat and he's far from bein' handsome and swell looking, but he'll do for a beau as long as he don't get tight with the The Rhodes Scholar 17 cash. A lady in my position can't afford to be too hard to please. {Enter Nell and Henry, L., talking. M.ame looks at them critically a moment, then softly makes her exit, R.) Nell. Yes, this is my first year here at Clinton, Mr. Barker, and everything seems rather strange, you know. Henry. I believe Mrs. Miles said you had been attend- ing the Washburne Ladies College, didn't she ? Nell. Yes, but you know, Mr. Barker, a girls' board- ing school has its disadvantages and — . Henry. Well I should say it does. I know if I had to be shut up in a stupid old jail where I couldn't get the sight of a girl but about once a week — er — I mean — . {Enter Billy, L., with his books. He goes over to table and begins to write.) Nell. Oh you've given yourself away, sir. I'm afraid you're a dreadful flirt and a regular heart-breaker. Henry. Honest, Miss Andrews, cross my heart and hope to die if I'm not the most timid of mortal men. But I have a very strong appreciation for the beautiful, and how could you blame me for being in the dumps if I had to forego the sight of the most beautiful creatures that — . Nell. Oh there you go again. That's the way with you men; I know you, even if I have been exiled in a boarding school. You needn't think that we poor, weak women are entirely susceptible to flattery. Henry. There, I told you I was bashful and didn't know how to say the right things. I am always saying just the opposite from what I ought to. Won't you teach me the proper style of conversation to use when talking to a beautiful and charming young lady? Nell. Why, Mr. Barker, I'm afraid I'm not acquainted with that style. Henry. Well, then I'll be more than pleased if you teach me the kind you like. Nell. Teaching never was an accomplishment of mine ; besides, you might not prove an apt pupil. 18 The Rhodes Scholar Henry. Oh I'm sure — . Nell. No, you just think you're sure. But it's time for the first hour class now; if we don't hurry we'll be late. If you really want to learn, you may pay your tui- tion fee by carrying my books up to college and if you are real attentive you may acquire a few grains of wis- dom by absorption. {Exeunt Nell and Henry, R.) Billy. {Looking up from table.) Huh, I believe he wants to be big sis's feller, and I believe she wants him to be her feller. I don't know whether I want him to be or not. {Pulls coins from pocket.) Let's see. He's been here two days and has given me four nickles. If he stays the whole year I'll have enough to buy a goat. I guess it will be all right if he wants to go with her. {Sighs and starts out, L.) CURTAIN. ACT III. Tims: — The first week in November, and two two weeks before the Rhodes scholarship ex- aminations. Scene — A portion of the Clinton College cam- pus. Henry and Nell discovered seated on a bench. Students passing quietly to and fro at back of stage. Nell. Just think, Mr. Barker, we have been going to school two months now. It doesn't seem possible, does it? Henry. Yes, we have been here two months, and ac- cording to my idea, two months is a long enough time for a young lady to learn to call a fellow by his first name, especially if they board at the same place. Be- sides, I think "Henry" sounds a lot better than "Mr. Barker." What do you think about it, — Nell? Nell. Well I should think that would be a matter of The Rhodes Scholar 19 individual opinion; but if you really wish it, I shouldn't like to be stubborn. Henry. The time has gone by in a hurry, hasn't it? Two months ! Nell. I don't see how the time could hang very heavy on your hands. You don't do anything but play tennis all afternoon ; and you take me to the theater or a party or entertainment on an average of four nights a week. No, I would not say that you are seriously bored. Tell me, do you ever study? Henry. (Starting.) Study? Me study? Er — oh yes, I study a great deal. It's — so delightful to get up in the fresh morning hours. One's mind is so — er — clear, you know. {Hiram and Jack pass across, L.-R., and tip their caps.) Nell. Talk about the college being a potent factor in our civilization! It certainly has been the transforma- tion of Mr. Jenks. Henry. Old Tubby has come out of the sticks, hasn't he? (Enter Berta and Ralph Waldo, talking.) Berta. I tell you, Waldy, you can't hold your racquet that way and serve an out. Hold it well down toward the end of the handle and swing it this way. (She il- lustrates. Ralph dodges and tries to follow her ex- ample.) Nell. Why hello, Berta; good evening, Mr. Mont- morcy. Are you people out for a game ? I wish I knew how to play tennis. Ralph. Yes, it is a very delightful recreation, don't you know. I am a confirmed devotee of the sport. Miss Morris has kindly consented to show me a few of the finer points this afternoon. I am not what you would call an expert, but I certainly do enjoy playing. Berta, No, Waldy, you don't enjoy playing. What you enjoy is standing out in the middle of the court and 20 The Rhodes Scholar waving your racquet around like you were trying to flag a milk wagon. Nell. Oh I'm sure Mr. Montmorcy is a very graceful player. Ralph. Ah, thank you, Miss Andrews. Tennis ah — is very conducive to ah — developing a proper bodily poise, don't you know. Berta. Now, Waldy, that "proper bodily poise" is all right, and I admit you prance around on the court like a ballet dancer, but take it from me, that doesn't get you any place at all when it comes to having a score called itf your favor. Ralph. Why, Miss Morris, I don't play . tennis so much to ah — win, you know, as for the exercise any- way. Now I admit I haven't a very effective stroke — . Berta. No, Waldy, you haven't. I'll agree to that statement any day on the calendar. It may shock your dignity to some extent, but I feel it my duty to tell you that you put about as much force behind your strokes as a two-months-old kitten batting a spool. But you may improve, and if you ever get to the point where you can hit a straight ball over the net without doing a modifi- cation of the grizzly bear and the turkey trot, I shan't feel that I have spent my time in vain. (Adieus.) Come on, Waldy, it's time we were on the court. Now listen; let your first ball be just as hard as it wants to, but sure to always play the second one safe ; understand ? (Exeunt, L.) (During this conversation Henry has been sitting in a thoughtful, abstract mood. His attitude from now on is the same.) Nell. (Laughing.) Poor Mr. Montmorcy, I certain- ly pity him. Berta is a strenuous person to say the least, and her figures of speech are expressive even if they are rather startling. (Slight pause.) Oh, by the way, Henry, you promised to tell me the story of that play we are going to see tonight. I'm just crazy to hear it. The Rhodes Scholar 21 Henry. Oh I don't — I mean you wouldn't enjoy see-, ing it then. Nell. Yes I would, ever so much more. Henry. Oh, I have forgotten it. (Puts his head in his hands.) Nell. Henry! (He looks up.) Henry, what is the matter with you? You are as cross as a bear. (Rises to leave.) ' I don't like to stay with sulky people. Henry. Oh, pardon me, Nell. (Rises.) I — . Nell. Xo, sir, you .stay right here and finish your fit of pouts. I am perfectly able to walk home by myself, thank you. (Tosses her head and exit, R.) Henry. (Gazing helplessly after her.) Oh, help, what made her ask me if I ever studied ! Study ? Why I haven't opened a book for a month, and the Rhodes scholarship examinations are barely two weeks ofif. What makes me such an easy-going chap ? Why haven't I been boning up? But it's just like me. I put things ofif and put things off until it's too late to accomplish anything. Oh I'm not worth killing. I don't mind losing the schol- arship on my own account, but what will mother and father think? (He sinks to the bench and buries his face in his hands. Otis Barker slowly enters, R., sees Henry, and walks over to him. Henry raises his head and sees his father stand- ing in front of him.) Henry. Father! (He holds out his hand, but Otis B. disregards it.) Otis B. Son, (I,ong pause; Henry hangs his head.) today has brought me the greatest disappointment I have ever experienced. (Enter Billy, L., who stops to listen.) I ran down here this morning to see for myself how well you were getting in condition for the Rhodes examin- ations, and you know what I found. (Henry nods and sinks doiK.ni upon bench.) Your professors have all told me that your work is scarcely above passing, and I 22 The Rhodes Scholar learned from another source that you possibly have not studied three whole hours this term. Is that so? {Henry nods.)' I have also discovered from your landlady the reason. {Henry starts.) I learned that you have al- lowed a silly, frivolous, girl to influence you to such an extent that you forgot your promise to me, and have crushed the hopes w T hich your mother and I have cher- ished for years. Henry. Oh, I know I deserve all that's coming to me, dad, but you must not say anything about Nell. You don't know her ; you have never seen her or you wouldn't talk about her like that. Why dad, she is the sweetest and dearest creature that ever breathed; she is a thou- sand times too good for a worthless fellow like me, and — . Otis B. That will do, son. I see from your sense- less ravings that you are infatuated beyond hope. "The dearest, sweetest creature that ever breathed!" Do you mean to say that a girl can be anything but an adven- turous flirt — . Henry. Father ! Otis B. {Stopping Henry with a zvave of his hand.) — who would deliberately wreck a young man's prospects and the hopes of his parents simply that she might have a good time? Bah! Henry. But father — . Otis B. Listen, son. You have never received any- thing but the most careful rearing, the most favorable opportunities from your mother and myself. Although this was our duty as parents, we did look forward to some remuneration from you in the shape of a brilliant career. But it appears that you have ceased to care for us, ceased to think of your own future welfare, and that you would rather be a slave to a silly, childish infatuation than to be winning a name of honor and distinction for yourself. Henry. But listen, father. Otis B. Just one moment. The Rhodes examinations The Rhodes Scholar 23 are to be held in two weeks. You are going to take them. Henry. But I haven't a chance in the world to pass. I—. Otis B. I am sorry. That is your fault, however. But listen. You shall take the examinations, and if you do not pass them, (Pause.) you need not come home any more, and you need not write home any more. (Henry buries face in hands.) You could have passed the examinations if you had worked. As you have failed in your duty and have disregarded the rights of your parents, you must suffer the penalty. That is all. (Exit, L.) Henry. I need not come home unless I pass the Rhodes examinations. I need not come home. Oh I didn't know it meant that. I can't pass the exams to save my life — and not come home. Oh why did I ever meet Nell ! But I'm not sorry I met her, no I'm not. A fellow has a right to fall in love with a girl, and it's not fair in dad to be so hard with me. But I could have studied more. It's just my confounded laziness. Oh, I wish I knew what to do. And not go home — not go home. (Exit Henry, L. Billy has listened attentively to the entire conversation, and in the middle of Henry's last speech he runs off the stage, R. Several boys and girls pass across, and finally Hiram slowly enters, R., reading a letter, just as Mame enters, L.) Mame. (Aside.) I've been a-wantin' to have a pri- vate interview with this gink for two weeks ; here's my chanct. (She rushes up to Hiram, who tries to pass without speaking, but she halts him.) Hey, Mr. Jenks, I'd like to have a few moments' personal conversation with you. Hiram. Why really, Miss Binks, I'm in somewhat of a hurry, and possibly at some other time — . Mame. No, this time is jest as good as any. Look here, Hiram Jenks, I want to know why you have de- serted me like you have these last two or three weeks. 24 The Rhodes Scholar You aint been to see me, and you aint took me no plac^ for an age. Don't you like me no more, or have you jest been playin' with me all the time? I tell you, Hiram Jenks, I aint a lady to have my affections trifled with, I aint. Hiram. Why, Miss Binks, it's all a dreadful mistake. I am very sorry, I assure you, but really I didn't mean anything by my former attentions to you, and now I find that. on account of my social position and for other very good reasons our relations will have to be discon- tinued. As I said, I am very sorry, but it can't be helped. Good day. (He lifts his cap elaborately and exit, L.) Mame. (Following him with her eyes. Gum action.) Well, wouldn't that get your goat ! That's precisely what they all do. They are decent enough at first, but after a few weeks they get all stuck up and say their social posi- tions won't let them go with me any more. And to think o' this baby elephant addressin' me with all them big words, when two months ago he couldn't get up the cour- age to say, "Pass the butter." This here college life is sure spoilin' the youth of our country, but some day I'll find a gentleman who won't look down on a work lady. (Exit, R.) (Enter Nell and Billy, L., the latter talking excitedly and panting.) Billy. Thought I never would find you, sis. You ought to seen what I did. They was right here, an' he was all scared, an' his dad was jest as mad, an' he told him — . Nell. Billy Andrews, what are you talking about ? Billy. Why about Henry Barker an' his dad. Nell Henry? What about him? Billy. Why his dad come up an' give him the awful- lest cussin' out. Nell. Billy, haven't I told you not to use such words as that? But what was that you were trying to say? Sit The Rhodes Scholar 25 down here on this bench and tell me about it. Now take your time and wait till you get your breath. Billy. Well, I was comin' along here a few minutes ago, an' Henry was settin' here on this bench, an' his father was standin' there talkin' to him, an' he was as mad as the dickens — oh I mean he was awful mad, an' he said Henry couldn't pass some kind o' zamnations. Nell. Examinations ! Billy. Uh huh; street? No that aint it. Alley? No, road ! Some kind o' * road zamnations ; I don't know what it is. Nell. The examinations for the Rhodes scholarship? {Aside.) I didn't know he was working for them. (To Billy.) Go on. Billy. Uh huh, an' his dad said the reason he couldn't was because a silly frizzulous girl was — . Nell What! Billy. Uh huh; silly frizzulous girl was influencin' him an' wreckin' his future prospects. Nell Did he say that, Billy? Billy. Uh huh, an' I never saw him with any girl but you, so I thought I'd better tell you about it. But you aint a silly frizzulous girl, are you, sis ? Nell. No— that is, I don't know, Billy. Be still a moment and let me think. (Aside, after a pause.) Oh I wonder if I have done something terrible. But how was I to know ; why didn't he tell me he came here to study ? Billy* An' sis, he said that Henry had to take the zam- nations, an' Henry said he couldn't pass 'em, an' his dad said if he didn't he couldn't come home no more. Nell (Turning suddenly, taking Billy by the shoul- ders and shaking him.) Look at me, Billy Andrews; did he say that? Billy. Honest, sis, cross my heart an' hope to die, he did. Nell Oh, just think what I have done ! What must 26 The Rhodes Scholar he think of me? If he doesn't get to go home, it will be all my fault. Oh what shall I do, what shall I do ? (Enter Henry, R., with bowed head, and walking very slowly.) Billy. (Nudging Nell.) There he is now. Nell. (Running up and seizing Henry's arm.) Henry Barker, did you come here this year with the intention of studying for those Rhodes scholarship examinations? Henry. Why — er — Nell — . Nell. Tell me the truth, now. Henry. Well, I did think a little about it at first, but I gave up the idea quite a while ago. Nell. Yes, you gave it up because you wanted to make me have a good time. You gave it up because you wanted to take me places, and to keep me from getting lonesome. Oh your father was right when he said I was a silly, frivolous girl. But, Henry, I didn't know — . Henry. My father! how did you — . Nell. Billy heard you talking and told me all about it. He said if you did not pass the exams that your father would not let you come home. Was that so? Henry. Yes, Nell, that's what he said, but — Nell. Oh Henry, that is terrible. And it is all my fault, every bit of it. I know you must hate me for it, Henry, but really — . Henry. Hate you! Me hate you? Why, Nell, you know I love you better than anyone else on earth, and I don't care if I get chased away from home a hundred times, I'd keep on loving you just the same. I didn't mean to tell you about it till I graduated, but — . Nell. (Briskly.) Now Henry, this is neither the time nor the place for a tragic love scene. We've got to pull ourselves together and get you out of this scrape some way. I'm not entirely useless, and I'm going to show you that I can be something besides a silly, frivolous girl. Henry. Oh Nell — . The Rhodes Scholar 27 Nell. Come over here and sit down. Now let's see. Tell me exactly how you stand. Can you pass the exams with the two weeks' preparation you can get ? Henry. Not if my life depended on it. Nell. Well, what subjects are you sure you could pass in? Henry. Why I could get by in Greek and Latin, I guess, and English and history, too, I suppose, but it's math I'd flunk in. Honest, Nell, I don't know a thing about that. It would take a good tutor the whole two weeks to get enough in my head to get by, and of course there's no one with the ability who has the time, so — . Billy. {Who has been hanging around eagerly listen- ing. ) Why don't you teach him, sis ? You help me, and you're awful good. Nell. Billy, you are a little dear. I hadn't thought about it before, but I honestly believe I could. Listen,, Henry, math is my favorite study and I really- do know something about it. Yes, sir, that's just what I'll do. I'll coach you up so well that you can pass any math exam under the sun. Come on, let's begin. Henry. But, Nell — . Nell. Don't say a word, sir. You can pass those Rhodes scholarship examinations and you are going to do it. Come on, and I'll start you on the binomial theorem. {Exeunt Nell and Henry, L. Billy follows them past C, then hugs himself and starts out R.) CURTAIN. 28 The Rhodes Scholar ACT IV. Time — Four weeks later and two weeks after the Rhodes scholarship examinations. Scene — An informal forty-tzvo party in the parlor of the boarding house. As the scene opens Nell, Henry, Berta, Ralph, Hiram, Ruth, Mary and Jack are discovered just sitting down at the tables to play. Mrs. Miles has entered with the crowd. Jack. It sure is bully of you to let us come down here and play forty-two, Mrs. Miles. I haven't played for a long time, and IVe just been wishing I could get in a game. Mrs. M. Well, Mr. Williams, I certainly hope you and the rest of the crowd have a good time. As my poor, dear husband used to say, young people must have amuse- ment now and then, and although I am a poor, lone wo- man, w T ith a load of care and responsibility resting on my shoulders, there's nothing that gives me as much pleasure as watching a crowd of boys and girls enjoy themselves. It recalls the days when I was young and was not considered the least charming of all the young ladies. Jack. Least charming! Why I'm sure you were a regular belle when you were a girl, Mrs. Miles. Mrs. M. Ah, that's kind in you to say that, Mr. Wil- liams, and indeed several people have told me that I was not so very bad looking then, but, oh dear, how I have changed ! But don't let me keep you away from the fun, Mr. Williams. I'll just go over here in the corner and lenit and watch you. {Silent stage business at all times.) Ralph. Don't you know, Miss Morris, I believe forty- two is my favorite of all card games. Berta. ' Well, I'm glad to hear it. I rather like it my- self. Ralph. Yes, it's such a congenial game, don't you The Rhodes Scholar 29 know, and so intellectual too. It affords excellent mental exercise, don't you think, and I really believe it is a very effective brain developer. Berta. Well, I hadn't thought of it in that light be- fore, but maybe it is. In that case you are to be com- mended for playing it. (Crowd gives him the laugh.) Hiram. Henry, old top, you haven't told all of us about the exams you took yet. You don't know whether you passed or not, do you? Henry. Xo, but I'm. expecting to hear any time, now, and the nearer the time comes for me to hear, the more nervous I get. You can imagine what a quiet frame of mind I'm in at the present moment. Mary. Were the exams hard, Mr. Barker? Henry. Well, no — that is, they were all pretty easy except the math ; that was a stunner. You know I was always an awful bone head in math, and I don't know r whether I made it or not. Ruth. Oh, Mr. Barker, I do hope you get to go to Oxford. Ralph. So do I, Henry, old chap. I'm very much in love with the English customs, don't you know. They have a certain charm and elegance which our American institutions lack; don't you think so, Miss Morris? Berta. Xo I don't. I have never been over to that charming country, but I have seen some specimens of its cultured and elegant inhabitants and some other peo- ple who tried to imitate them, and I've come to the con- clusion that the little old United States are just about good enough for me. There, if you've got the double six, please exert your mental power sufficiently to drop it on that six-four. (Ring at door bell. Exit Mrs. Miles, R., and enter after a moment zvith Mr. Silas Jenks.) Mrs. M. The young people are having a little forty- two party tonight, Mr. Jenks; do you play? Silas J. Waal, no Mum, I guess not. I used to play authors onct, but I almost fergit how. I didn't calculate 30 The Rhodes Scholar to find you all playin' cards ; I thought you didn't do nothin' else at college but study. Thought I'd drap down and see Hiram a little while. I reckon he aint down here, is he ; I low as how he's mindin' his books. Hiram. Why sure, dad, here I am. Don't you know me? Silas J. Wall I swan ! What have ye been doin' to yerself ? Hiram. Oh I'm a college boy now, dad, and I have to sport up a little, you know. Don't you think I look real swell when I'm all dolled up this way? (Poses in front of him.) Silas J. Waal land o' Goshen ! Maybe you're gittin' edicated, but I don't know. Hiram. Dad, let me introduce you to some of my friends. This is Miss Philips ; Miss Andrews ; Mr. Barker ; and over there are Miss Morris ; Miss Carrol ; Mr. Montmorcy, and my room mate, Mr. Williams. Silas J. Good evenin'. I shore am delighted to see all you folks. I had a little different idea about the way o' gettin' a edication, but maybe I was wrong. Mrs. M. This is only one of their little holidays, Mr. Jenks. They really do study sometimes. But since you don't play forty-two, you must sit over here and enter- tain me. Silas J. Yes, Mum ; I'd be delighted. Ralph. (In loud whisper to Berta.) Mr. Jenks, seni- or, is a good example of the strong sturdy yeomanry of our country, isn't he? Berta. Maybe he is, but he looks like a plain every- day rube to me. There, watch what you're doing; trumps led. (Enter Mame, L., with plate of fudge which she passes around. As she leaves she turns up her nose at Hiram and he throws her a kiss.) Berta. Ralph Waldo Montmorcy, when it comes to boneheads, you are the only original; all others are base The Rhodes Scholar 31 imitations. What in the name of the seven sleeping sis- ters do you mean by playing your double five when Henry played the highest trump. You certainly make me feel all tired out. Ralph. Oh, pardon me, Miss Berta. That was hardly the proper thing to do now, was it? But really, don't you know, I didn't have my mind on what I was doing. I was thinking of those charming lines of Browning — . Berta. Oh somebody choke him quick. No, Ralph Waldo, you didn't have your mind on what you were doing, but then I guess there's a reason. {Knock at door, R. } Mrs. M. answers it, and is handed a telegram for Henry.) Mrs. M. A telegram for you, Henry. Jack. Maybe it's word from your exams, Barker. (All stand around Henry. He tears the telegram open, reads it, and a broad grin comes over his face.) Henry. Here, Nell, read it out loud. Nell. (Reads.) "Dear son: Your examinations up to the required standard and your appointment assured. Congratulations. Otis Barker." Oh, Henry 1 (All crowd around congratulating him. While they are doing this Otis Barker enters ,R.) Otis B. Good evening, young people. You didn't expect me to follow my telegram so quickly, did you? Henry. (Running over and shaking hands.) Father! Otis B. Yes, son, I came to congratulate you in per- son. Your exams were of the highest rank. I was espe- cially surprised at your grade in math for I knew that was your weak point. I am glad to see that you can forget a foolish infatuation when you care to, and con- centrate your mind so well. I am proud of you. Henry. Thank you, dad. And now I would like to in- troduce you to the young lady who, by her faithful coach- ing, made possible my pass in math, — the silly, frivolous girl with whom I have been infatuated, and who has at last promised to be my wife, — Miss Nell Andrews. 32 The Rhodes Scholar Otis B. The girl coached you, did you say? Well you certainly have got your old dad in a hole. But per- mit me to beg your pardon for what I said about you in my ignorance, Miss Andrews, and allow me to say further, that now that I have seen you I can understand how Henry forgot to study for his examinations, and I don't blame him one bit. Now I suppose the most ap- propriate thing for me to do would be to give you my blessing, so I do, it with all my heart. (The others start to congratulate the two, when Silas Jenks and Mrs. Miles leave the sofa and come forward.) Silas J. Wall, we all don't like to be too forward, but we calculate that now in the midst of all this jollifica- tion will be as good a time as any to say what we want to: Me and Mrs. Miles here, havin' considered the mat- ter from all angles, have about come to the conclusion j;hat we'll hitch up for the rest of our days, too. Ralph. Oh, how perfectly romantic! Nell. Oh Aunty, congratulations. Mrs. M. Yes, that's what we have decided to do. I don't know whether my poor, dear husband would ap- prove of it or not, but I can't think he would have wanted me to remain a poor, lone widow when I have a chance to get a good home. (All crowd bound congratulating.) Jack. You people are what I call real sports. We'll fix up a big double wedding, and if we don't do things up in dandy style then I'm not president of the Sopho- more class. Silas J. I agree with ye to a "T," young man. It aint no more than right to my community that there should be a little extry doin's when the Committeeman of Possum Center gets married, by Heck. CURTAIN. A HIT ON YOUR NEXT PROGRAM! Something Out of The Ordinary In High-Glass Humorous Songs* MUSICAL SKETCHES FOR YOUNG LADIES By Harry C, Eldridge These fill .an urgent need in supplying musical numbers with action, for any secular program, for girls or ladies of any age. Clever words and singable music combined to make novel numbers for your entertainment. m THE HAT OF OTHER DAYS. Everyone knows how ridiculous the changing styles make out-of- date hats appear. The song is based on this fact, and the appearance of these "hats of other days" will cause loads of merriment. i CANT B8 A THINS WITH MY HAIR SINCE IT'S WASHED." Did you ever hear the above expression ? They all say it. This song is for a merry group of girls who have trouble in keeping their hair in bounds. A jolly song. REDUCED TO $1.89. The figures in a dry goods show window are indignant at having to par- ticipate in so many "reduction sales," and, revolting, walk off the stage after telling their troubles in song. The eccentric motions of these figures make a very laughable number. THE WINNING WAYS OF GRANDMA'S DAYS. Sung in costume, this portrays the many welcome and pleasing- costumes of "ye olden times." Di- rections for minuet included. Very enjoyable. Asy one of the above seat pasted on receipt sf 25 ceats. 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