The Little Guiggols
[I understand that there is a dearth of the kind of horrible little plays which the public really wants. It ought not to be difficult to meet that want. Nearly everybody I know is good at dialogues but can’t do plots; personally I teem with plots, but am not so good at dialogue. So I propose to present you with the ground plan—thescenario—of a few really sensational, thrilling and, on the whole, unpleasant playlets, and you can do the rest.]
[I understand that there is a dearth of the kind of horrible little plays which the public really wants. It ought not to be difficult to meet that want. Nearly everybody I know is good at dialogues but can’t do plots; personally I teem with plots, but am not so good at dialogue. So I propose to present you with the ground plan—thescenario—of a few really sensational, thrilling and, on the whole, unpleasant playlets, and you can do the rest.]
I
THE MISSING STAR
(Based on an old legend, and also, I am sorry to say, onfact.)
THE scene is the interior of a small tent at a country fair. Through the open door can be seen the back of Bert, who is shouting madly, “Walk up! Walk up! Now showin’—the Performin’ Fleas! Edward! Edward! Does everything but talk. Walk up! Walk up!” Seven or eight people file sheepishly into the tent and stand reverently in front of the small table under the single bright light—a soldier and hislove, two small boys, a highly respectable mater and paterfamilias, with Reginald in an Eton collar, also a young man who may be a barrister, or possibly one of those writing fellows. They do not look at each other;they are ashamed.
The red velvet curtain is drawn across the door of the tent, muffling the wild noises of the fair.
Mr. Slint, the little showman, adjusts his gold pince-nez and speaks; the audience close round the table and crane their necks. Mr. Slint speaks in the patronizing, almost contemptuous, tones of the expert lecturer who has something unique to offer.
Mr. Slint(quietly). I now show you the Performing Fleas. The fleas are common fleas, trained by myself. Perseverance and patience is alone required.
The Writing Fellow(intelligently). You never use the whip?
Mr. Slint(taking no notice). Now the nature of the flea is to ’op; it isnotthe nature of the flea towalk. I ’ave trained the fleas to walk. I will now show you the flea as newly captured. Being still untrained, ’e still ’ops, you see.
He produces a miniature kennel, to which is attached “by a ’uman ’air” an undeniable flea. The flea hops gallantly, but is clearly impeded from doing its best jumps by the human hair.
We are now shown a second flea which is “only half-trained.” He has certainly forgotten how to hop. Indeed he seems to be suffering from congenital inertia. He scrambles a centimetre or two and sometimes makes a sort of flutter off the ground, but he rather suggests a solicitor learning to fly than a flea learning to walk.
Mr. S.I will now show you the flea when fully trained.
He opens a small cardboard box which seems to be full of toy four-wheelers and hansom-cabs. They are made of some metal, brightly painted, with substantial metal wheels. One of these vehicles is placed on the lighted board and begins to move. It is drawn by Eustace. It moves at a steady pace towards the materfamilias.
Reginald(suddenly, in a high piping voice). How does he feed them, mother?
The Materfamilias.Hush, dear.
Mr. S.(impassive). The fleas are fed on the ’uman arm. (An after-thought) My own.
Reginald(an imaginative child). Does he feed them one at a time or all together, mother?
The M.F.Hush, dear.
Mr. S.I will now show you Edward, champion flea of the world.
Edward is indeed a magnificent creature. He is drawing a light racing hansom and he shows anamazing turn of speed. Eustace with his heavy old four-wheeler has a long start, but in a moment Edward is up with him; he has passed him.
Reginald (breathlessly). Mother, he’srunning!
And so he is. He is making a bee-line for the M.F.Will he reach her?No. Mr. Slint has coolly picked up Edward’s hansom and is showing him to the spectators through a magnifying-glass. The limelight is thrown on to Edward’s swarthy features and by an ingenious use of the cinema we are now shown a striking “close-up” of Edward’s expression as he is passed round before the people in the tent, hanging in his tiny collar at the end of the human hair. Rage, hatred, mortification, boredom, and what can only be described as the lust for blood are indicated in turn by the rolling eyes, the mobile lips. And, as he passes before the M.F., he wears a look of thwarted ambition which makes one shudder.
Now comes the final spectacle. Out of the little box Mr. Slint rapidly takes cab after cab and sets them on the white board, line abreast. Each cab is drawn by a single devoted flea. On the right of the line is Edward, on the left is Eustace. In perfect order the fleas advance, dressing by the right....
It is a moving sight. There is something verysinister in that steady, noiseless, calculated progress—for I need not say that the fleas are movingawayfrom Mr. Slint: they are moving with machine-like precision towards Reginald. No, they have changed direction. Edward has given them “Right incline!” They are moving with machine-like precision, silent, inexorable, cabs and all, towards the materfamilias.
R.(Shrilly, still worried). Do they have to be unharnessed for meals, mother?
The M.F.Hush, dear.
Mr. Slint purrs on about his patience and perseverance. Suddenly there is a stir on the right of the line; there has been an accident; Edward’s wheels are locked with the careless four-wheeler’s on his left. A scurry, a sharp cry from Mr. Slint and Edward has disappeared.
Mr. Slint acts promptly. The door of the tent is barred. He announces to the cowering spectators that a valuable artiste is missing and that those present are to be searched before leaving. (He suspects foul play.)
Suddenly he makes a dart at the M.F. and from her shoulder—oh, horror!—he takes aThing. “Larceny!” he cries; “I mean abduction. Quick Bert, the police.”
The Paterfamilias.Spare her, sir. She is a mother.
A policeman(entering). Now then, what’s this ’ere?
Mr. S.(moved by who knows what chivalrous impulse). Madam, I have wronged you. This is not Edward. It is one of yours. (He replaces the Thing.)
The M.F.(shrieking). Oh, oh! Theshameof it!
Reginald.Iknow, mother! Put it on the table. If it’s Edward it will walk: if it’s one of—if it’s not, it will hop.
The Thing is placed solemnly upon the table. All crowd around and watch for the issue. The flea does not walk. On the other hand it does not hop. Nothing happens. The flea is dead.
So no one will ever know.
The M.F. swoons away....
CURTAIN