Scene I.—A room at the Dolphin Inn. Evening.

Enter Whetstone with Bluegrass in black dress as his shadow. Each with guitar and song-book.

Bluegrass.

A day and night,—and now another day hath waned for our recuperation; and our adventures have flown on lightning wings to Cornville. Now do we start on new emprise.

Whetstone.

Major Bluegrass, this serenade must be played on the hard-pan. Put me through to-night, and I’ll make you half-owner of the Cornville Eagle.

Bluegrass.

Trust me, I’ll be your musical secretary! With the Eagle and Ninon, I could soar through life like a bird.

Whetstone.

And I’ll soar with Violet. Why, hello! I’ve forgotten all about Susan. Where’ll I leave Susan?

Bluegrass.

Susan! Your housekeeper! Why, what takes you back to Cornville at such a sky-crisis as this? The great point in a flight of romance is never to approach earth. Susan! Why, Susan will tarry here below and superintend the cuisine, so that you and Violet may have a warm repast when you come down from your sky-parlor.

Whetstone.

I wonder what Susan will say when I bring home my bride.

Bluegrass.

As one good man should say to another, first bridle your bride.

Whetstone.

Why, Major, Susan and I were young together, and we loved, or thought we did. She wanted to marry, I wanted to wait; consequence, compromise. I engaged her as my housekeeper. There’s romance for you!

Bluegrass.

’Tis an ancient parallel.

Whetstone.

In our serenade, what shall I do?

Bluegrass.

The guitar you hold you cannot play; hence I’ll do the mechanical upon the strings, while you twit the circumambient air from the bridge musical of your instrument. And if you’d prove me with a double burden, I’ll bear both words and music; in which event you’ll give the color and visible gesture of description. Stand you beneath some close-leaved tree, where the night overlaps, and I’ll be concealed near you in the shrubbery. Later, I’ll emerge behind you, as your true shadow.

Whetstone.

All right, I’ll give the motions. Now, let’s see what we have in the song-book. [Opening song-book.] Here’s the Midnight Serenade; and Beauteous Lady I Adore Thee. That’s business. Here’s a whole grist of meeting songs: [reading] Meet Me at the Lane; Meet Me by Moonlight; Meet Me, Darling, in the Dell; Meet Me down by the Sea; Meet Me in the Arbor; Meet Me in the Twilight. Where’ll this end? Meet Me ’neath the Slippery-Elm Tree. Meet Me in the Willow-Glen. Why, Major, the earth is covered with meeting-places. But wait! [Examining book and pondering.] What book-carpenter did this work? Here’s Black-Eyed Susan—[aside] Susan has brown eyes—[aloud] sandwiched between Paddle your own Canoe and the Pirates’ Chorus.

Bluegrass.

He was a ship-carpenter who did his work ship-shape.

Whetstone [reading].

Comin’ thro’ the Rye, Comin’ thro’ the Rye,—that sounds homelike. Major, my boy, sing and play while I act it.

Bluegrass sings and plays Comin’ thro’ the Rye, while Whetstone accompanies with pantomime.

Bluegrass.

Demosthenes the Athenian, being interrogated, replied that action makes the orator. I may add that it makes the singer.

Whetstone.

You’re right. [Examining song-book.] Here’s a whole nest of love-songs: Love, Beautiful Love; Love in a Cottage; Love Launched a Ferry-boat.

Bluegrass.

’Tis not ferry-boat, but fairy boat.

Whetstone [reading].

Love is at the Helm.

Bluegrass.

That’s when love’s at sea.

Whetstone [reading].

Love is like the Morning Dew.

Bluegrass.

We’re approaching land again.

Whetstone [reading].

Love’s Perfect Cure.

Bluegrass.

We don’t need it.

Whetstone [reading].

Love’s the Greatest Plague.

Bluegrass.

Hold on! yes, we do.

Whetstone [reading].

Love Me Little, Love Me Long; Love, Love, oh, what is Love? Major, my boy, that settles it. We must find out. Hurrah! I feel like a new man! Let’s be going! If I fail, Northlake shall not have a dollar. Violet’s the only collateral he can put up. If I don’t get her, I’ll take the next train to Cornville and marry Susan on the spot. She’s been a good housekeeper to me these many years; and once when I was sick she bathed my feet in hot water and mustard, and put a hot flannel around—I think it was my throat; and her elder-blossom tea can’t be beaten.

Bluegrass.

Do you falter?

Whetstone.

No; I’ll have what I want. You remember the bay colt that cost me five thousand dollars? People thought I was a fool, but I wasn’t.

Bluegrass.

You were a horse diplomat.

Whetstone.

Exactly. I saw points, and now the colt has a great record. I see points about that girl Violet that no one else sees. She’s an extraordinary girl, a thoroughbred, and I’ll back my judgment with my money.

Bluegrass.

What if she don’t take kindly to you?

Whetstone.

Watch me closely, and you’ll see me win her to-night. What’s the use of money, if you can’t get—points, my boy, when you want them? And yet—

Bluegrass.

And yet what?

Whetstone.

And yet Susan has points too. She can roast a goose splendidly,—and that elder-blossom tea! But enough of this. Away to serenade.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.—A dining-ball in Northlake’s Villa. Pompey and Hannibal arranging dining-table.

Pompey [merrily].

Yah! yah! I say, Hannibal, Lake Shore’s g’wone up. I make pile money on dat happy shore, shure. Stocks am de ting to put de money in de stockin’.

Hannibal [gloomily].

So! so! I lose pile money on dat Hudson Ribber. My banker telegram fo’ moh margin every fifteen minutes fo’ foh hours. De agony of dem hours I can nebber tell you, Pompey. De telegram-wire, and de tongue of lightnin’, holler, Moh margin! Hudson Ribber g’wone down,—moh margin! I and de ole woman scrape and scrape, and empty de big stockin’ bank dat de old woman hab under de bed fo’ de rainy day; still it holler, Moh margin! And den de old woman raise de washtub ’gainst her lawful husband. I nebber tink dat ribber railroad could sink so fast. Pompey, it am de fashion to condumdole wid your misfortunate neighbor; how much you condumdole wid me, Pompey?

Pompey.

You hear me, chile! I lose moh money on dat Hudson Ribber dan you ebber see.

Hannibal.

Why, honey, how am dat? You hab no Hudson Ribber stock.

Pompey.

I was g’wone down de ribber on de canal-boat, when I losed it. Yah, yah!

Hannibal.

Pompey, you am too friv’lous and vis’nary fo’ de bus’ness man,—fo’ de stock op’rator.

Pompey.

Hannibal, I hab de call on you. Now let us confabulate togedder like sensible people. Ober two hours ago, I see de mess’nger boy bring de telegram. It ware from Mr. Northlake’s banker, and it read: You made five hundred thousand dollars to-day on Lake Shore stock. Now you hab seen Mr. Northlake cast down, way down,—tremendously, moh dan usual, fo’ ’bout a month,—way down, ’cause he lose all his own and Miss Violet’s fortune speculatin’,—way down; but when he read dat, he smile like de little chile; and he say to me: Pompey, dere’ll be a surprise-party yere to-night. Spread de banquet fo’ de guests. And now we doin’ it, ain’t we?

Hannibal.

I’m glad ob dat, fo’ Miss Violet’s sake, and de tings she gibs me; but dis am de point I must determinate before de limbs work easy: Ware am de margin g’wone dat I don’t hab,—de one thousand seven hundred and ninety-seven cents?

Pompey.

Dat, chile, am g’wone ware de weasel’s g’wone wid de egg.

Hannibal.

Dat am a big weasel to get away wid one thousand seven hundred and ninety-seven cents. I’ll write my banker, shure, in de mornin’ ’bout de wrong p’ints he gibs me. Dat’s my p’intin’ ’pinion ’bout him. Maybe he’ll loan me it back again,—dat one thousand seven hundred and ninety-seven cents.

[Exeunt.