Act 1 — ACT I
Reading edition
Headquarters of the Army.
MILES (in bed):
What ho, there! orderly—I say, I say! Bring in my breakfast. What’s the time o’ day? What? six o’clock!—and day’s already broke? I’m too late to escape him. Holy smoke! I think I hear his footstep on the stair— But no, it is not his: there is no blare Of a great trumpet strenuously blown— That veritable tuba mirum known To have sounded once the charge at Kettle Hill (After ’twas made) and to be sounding still.
ORDERLY:
Perhaps he will not come.
MILES:
Perhaps, perhaps— Yet well I know those War Department chaps Have told him of my novel plan that places The Army on a military basis. Ne’er mind the breakfast; I’ll get up and fly Before the sun’s another minute high. If I can by a masterly retreat Escape him trust me to come back and eat.
ORDERLY:
There’s some one, sir, a-tryin’ to break in.
MILES:
O Lord, forgive my every little sin! Seeing that I was going to be late Developing my Plan, he would not wait, He’s risen with the lark, alas, and brought His answer to my unperfected thought. He always was forehanded. [Enter President.]
PRESIDENT:
I’ve no time To let the punishment await the crime. Take that, and that, and that! (beating him.)
MILES:
Of course, of course; I’m firm in judgment, but I yield to force. “Submission is a military virtue,” The Regulations say, “howe’er it hurt you.” I’ll now submit to buffets with sobriety, And, later on, my view of their propriety, Together with some pertinent suggestions Touching important military questions.
PRESIDENT:
You may, and touching civil ones to boot; Submit them, though, to Secretary Root. [Enter Root.]
MILES:
Yes, but ’twould hearten me if you’d agree To signify your mind to him, not me. Seeing him lame I’ll know the views I deem Correct are held by you in light esteem.
ROOT:
Don’t rub your bruises, man; that’s mutiny!
PRESIDENT:
And it demands official scrutiny. I’ll summon a court-martial, sir, to “fire” you; And if it finds you guiltless I’ll retire you. You huff me anyhow. Dashnation, man, The battle spirit, like a black-and-tan Ranch dog, sits up and howls within my breast, And it’s O, to bust a bronco in the West! Fetch me that broomstick, soldier. Golly me! I must ride something or I die.
ROOT (on hands and knees):
Ride me.