Bird in Hand: A Play in One Act: by Laurence Housman

Samuel French: Publisher 28-30 West Thirty-eighth St.: New York Samuel French, Ltd. 26 Southampton Street, Strand LONDON PRICE 35 CENTS

Copyright, 1916

By LAURENCE HOUSMAN

CAUTION——Amateurs and Professionals are hereby warned that “BIRD IN HAND,” being fully protected 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 agent, will be liable to the penalties by law provided. Application for the right to produce “BIRD IN HAND” must be made to Samuel French, 28-30 West 38th St., New York City.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

BIRD IN HAND.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

BIRD IN HAND

Scene:—You are looking into the study of a Scientist—a large room lined with books and specimen cases. At the back are two upright windows, through which one sees a green bowery garden, suggestive of quiet and seclusion. In one window stands a case of stuffed birds, in the other a microscope. Near the center of the room is a ponderous writing-table, above which hangs an adjustable light, presided over by a large green shade. Adjoining the writing-table is a smaller one, on which stands a typewriter. All about the room, on tables and systematically arranged, and suggestive of the strict order imposed by a meticulous mind. There is one door to right, another to left, the latter leading to an inner chamber. On the writing-table lie papers and a portable speaking-tube. A telephone, a waste-paper basket, and a revolving book-stand are within easy reach of the Professor’s chair, while behind it is a screen partly covering the door leading to the inner chamber. On the opposite side, between the other door and the window, stands a large chest. It is morning, and through half-lowered green blinds sunlight streams over the replete and comfortable interior, touching to brightness the polished metal of the microscope, and the plumage of the stuffed birds.

At the small table, on a chair less comfortable than the one at the writing-desk sits an old gentleman in an affluent dressing-gown of deep rich tones, dividing his attention between a bowl of “Benger’s Food” and the typewriter, at which he clicks with portentous gravity and occasional pauses in the fingering. He is evidently inexpert, perhaps through short-sightedness; but the typewriter helps him to feel, even in his study, that his words are destined for print and the laying-down of the scientific law for the generations to come after.

The clock on the chimney-piece, a skeleton of severe design, with the workings of its metal bowels immodestly exposed, strikes eleven. This seems to be a signal to a mind methodically trained. The Professor consults his watch, starts, looks reproachfully at the clock, then quits the typewriter, picks up his bowl of Benger, and spooning from it on the way goes to the speaking-tube, which having unstopped, he breathes into. The exertion sets him coughing; but he does this, like most other things, patiently and methodically. After listening at the tube he speaks down it, and you hear a bisected conversation.

Professor Braintree. Is that you, Miss Tuckey?—Yes, I’m ready for you—I’m ready, I say—if you will, please. Yes. (He starts to put on the stopper again; then, as an after-thought)—Oh! Miss Tuckey—Are you there?—Tut! Tut! Why does the woman hurry so? (He gets up a little testily to remove his Benger bowl to a side-table, and progressing with very short steps places it unsecurely on a projecting book whence it falls and breaks. He accepts the fact philosophically so far as infirmity will allow; but there is a gentle querulousness in his tone as he says—) There, there! Oh dear!—(And leaving the fragments to lie, returns to his place. There he stands for a moment, and looking back reproachfully, removes from his eyes the highly magnifying reading-glasses which were the cause of the mishaps. He replaces them by another pair which permit a wider range of vision. Through these he is able to contemplate the entrance of Miss Tuckey, a subdued machine of a woman who accepts, without kick of any kind, the mould she has been poured into.)

Miss Tuckey. Good-morning, Sir.

(Like a well-fed fish catching at a fly from mere habit, the Professor engulfs and returns the salutation by an inaudible movement of the lips.)

Professor. Miss Tuckey, there is something broken over there, will you please see it removed? And will you kindly make a note to write to Messrs. Spink and Wedge, and say that these new glasses don’t suit me—I find them very trying to the—(About to say “temper,” he substitutes)—to the eyes. And I must ask you to fetch those proofs which came yesterday. I tried to catch you just now, but you had gone.

(In this statement there is a note of rebuke for a too precipitate obedience to summons. But by the foresight of Miss Tuckey, the proofs are there; she deposits them in front of him.)

Professor. Oh, very well. Thank you. Any letters? (Those also she deposits, in two heaps, the business ones opened, the private and personal untouched) When did these come?

Miss Tuckey. Most of them last night, sir, after you had gone to bed.

(The Professor, tentatively inspecting them, remembers that he must change his glasses again. The magnifying lens proves informative.)

Professor. Ah! here is one from Miss Elfrida, I see.

Miss Tuckey. (As she collects and removes the fragments of the Benger’s Food bowl) That only came this morning.

Professor. Wasn’t she to be back to-day?

Miss Tuckey. Yes. They are expecting her quite soon. About twelve, I believe. (The Professor looks at his watch, and then remembers that he has fault to find with the clock, and incidentally with her)

Professor. That clock is three quarters of a minute slow, Miss Tuckey. (Miss Tuckey at once goes to correct it) It should now be at four and a quarter minutes past. A clock that loses time is so disturbing—especially when it strikes. It puts me out of my stride for the rest of the day. (He begins looking at his correspondence) And now, if you will attend to me! (Miss Tuckey is already standing meekly to attention) You have your notebook?

Miss Tuckey. Yes, sir.

Professor. Take this, then! (He consults once more the letter which he has picked up from his opened correspondence)—“Mr. James Pomeroy.” (I think it is Pomeroy)—He writes on good note-paper with a crest; I suppose I must answer him. “Dear Sir”—Oh! while I think of it, make a note that the extra plates for the new edition of “Objective Science” have not come through as advised; and they must not go to press till I have passed them. What have you got?

Miss Tuckey. “Mr. James Pomeroy, Dear Sir.”

Professor. No, better make it “Sir.” These parasitic correspondents ought not to be encouraged. “I beg to acknowledge receipt”—no, “I have to acknowledge”—have—“the receipt of your letter”—date so and so. “With the proposition therein set forth, I cannot find myself in agreement. The limits of sensory receptivity are patent to every scientist.”

Miss Tuckey. The limits of what?—I beg pardon.