SOLDIER. Look 'ere, soldier; shake 'ands! I don't want to see a girl cry, this day of all, with the sun shinin'. I seen too much o' sorrer. You an' me've been at the back of it. We've 'ad our whack. Shake!
THE MAN. Who are you kiddin'? You never loved 'er!
THE MAN (_fiercely_). I'll fight you for her.
SOLDIER (_slowly_). Soldier, you done your bit, an' I done mine. It's took us two ways, seemin'ly.
THE MAN (_with clenched fists_). I don't want 'is charity. I only want what I can take.
SOLDIER. Daise, which of us will you 'ave?
THE GIRL (_covering her face_). Oh! _Him._
SOLDIER. You see, soldier! Drop your 'ands, now. There's nothin' for it but a laugh. You an' me know that. Laugh, soldier!
(THE GIRL _springs to him and stops his mouth._)
SOLDIER. It's no use, soldier. I can't do it. I said I'd laugh to-day, and laugh I will. I've come through that, an' all the stink of it; I've come through sorrer. Never again! Cheer-o, mate! The sun's shinin'!
THE GIRL. Jack, don't think too 'ard of me!
SOLDIER (_looking back_). No fear, old pretty girl! Enjoy your fancy! So long! Gawd bless you both!
(_He sings and goes along the path, and the song_--
I'll be right there to-night Where the fields are snowy white; Banjos ringin', darkies singin'-- All the world seems bright!--
THE GIRL (_looking down the path, with her hands clasped_). The sun 'as touched 'im, Jim!
[Footnote 1: This play is fully protected by copyright and may be used only with the written permission of, and the payment of royalty to, Norman Lee Swartout, Summit, New Jersey. Included by permission of the author and Mr. Swartout.]
THE MANAGER BLUE HOSE YELLOW HOSE 1ST HERALD 2D HERALD POMPDEBILE THE EIGHTH, KING OF HEARTS (pronounced Pomp-_di_biley) THE CHANCELLOR THE KNAVE OF HEARTS URSULA THE LADY VIOLETTA SIX LITTLE PAGES
(THE MANAGER _appears before the curtain in doublet and hose. He carries a cap with a long, red feather._)
THE MANAGER (_bowing deeply_). Ladies and gentlemen, you are about to hear the truth of an old legend that has persisted wrongly through the ages, the truth that, until now, has been hid behind the embroidered curtain of a rhyme, about the Knave of Hearts, who was no knave but a very hero indeed. The truth, you will agree with me, gentlemen and most honored ladies, is rare! It is only the quiet, unimpassioned things of nature that seem what they are. Clouds rolled in massy radiance against the blue, pines shadowed deep and darkly green, mirrored in still waters, the contemplative mystery of the hills--these things which exist, absorbed but in their own existence--these are the perfect chalices of truth.