through by twelve o’clock.

Enter Yardsley and Barlow.

Yardsley.  Ah! here we are at last.  The wreckers have arrove.  Where’s Perkins?

Barlow.  Taken to the woods, I fancy.  I say, Bob, don’t you think before we begin we’d better give Perkins ether?  He’ll suffer dreadful agony.

Enter Mrs. Perkins, wiping her eyes.

Mrs. Perkins.  How do you do, Mr. Barlow? and you, Mr. Yardsley?  So glad to see you.  Thaddeus will be down in a minute.  He—ah—he forgot about the—the meeting here to-night, and he—he put on his dress-coat.

Yardsley.  Bad thing to lift a piano in.  Better be without any coat.  But I say we begin—eh?  If you don’t mind, Mrs. Perkins.  We’ve got a great deal to do, and unfortunately hours are limited in length as well as in number.  Ah! that fireplace must be covered up.  Wouldn’t do to have a fireplace in a conservatory.  Wilt all the flowers in ten minutes.

Mrs. Perkins (meekly).  You needn’t have the fire lit, need you?

Barlow.  No—but—a fireplace without fire in it seems sort of—of bald, don’t you think?

Yardsley.  Bald?  Splendid word applied to a fireplace.  So few fireplaces have hair.

Mrs. Bradley.  Oh, it could be covered up without any trouble, Bessie.  Can’t we have those dining-room portières to hang in front of it?

Yardsley.  Just the thing.  Dining-room portières always look well, whether they’re in a conservatory or a street scene.  (Enter Perkins.)  Hello, Thaddeus!  How d’ y’?  Got your overalls on?

Perkins (trying to appear serene).  Yes.  I’m ready for anything.  Anything I can do?

Bradley.  Yes—look pleasant.  You look as if you were going to have your picture taken, or a tooth pulled.  Haven’t you a smile you don’t need that you can give us?  This isn’t a funeral.

Perkins (assuming a grin).  How’ll that do?

Barlow.  First-rate.  We’ll have to make you act next.  That’s the most villanous grin I ever saw.

Yardsley.  I’ll write a tragedy to go with it.  But I say, Thad, we want those dining-room portières of yours.  Get ’em down for us, will you?

Perkins.  Dining-room portières!  What for?

Mrs. Perkins.  They all think the fireplace would better be hid, Thaddeus, dear.  It wouldn’t look well in a conservatory.

Perkins.  I suppose not.  And the dining-room portières are wanted to cover up the fireplace?

Yardsley.  Precisely.  You have a managerial brain, Thaddeus.  You can see at once what a dining-room portière is good for.  If ever I am cast away on a desert island, with nothing but a dining-room portière for solace, I hope you’ll be along to take charge of it.  In your hands its possibilities are absolutely unlimited.  Get them for us, old man; and while you are about it, bring a stepladder.  (Exit Perkins, dejectedly.)  Now, Barlow, you and Bradley help me with this piano.  Pianos may do well enough in gardens or pirates’ caves, but for conservatories they’re not worth a rap.

Mrs. Bradley.  Wait a moment.  We must take the bric-à-brac from the top of it before you touch it.  If there are two incompatible things in this world, they are men and bric-à-brac.

Mrs. Perkins.  You are so thoughtful, though I am sure that Mr. Yardsley would not break anything willingly.

Barlow.  Nothing but the ten commandments.

Yardsley.  They aren’t bric-à-brac; and I thank you, Mrs. Perkins, for your expression of confidence.  I wouldn’t intentionally go into the house of another man and toss his Sevres up in the air, or throw his Royal Worcester down-stairs, except under very great provocation.  (Mrs. Perkins and Mrs. Bradley have by this time removed the bric-à-brac from the piano—an upright.)  Now, boys, are you ready?

Bradley.  Where is it to be moved to?

Yardsley.  Where would you prefer to have it, Mrs. Perkins?

Mrs. Perkins.  Oh, I have no preference in the matter.  Put it where you please.

Yardsley.  Suppose you carry it up into the attic, Barlow.

Barlow.  Certainly.  I’ll be glad to if you’ll carry the soft pedal.  I’m always afraid when I’m carrying pianos up-stairs of breaking the soft pedal or dropping a few octaves.

Yardsley.  I guess we’d better put it over in this corner, where the audience won’t see it.  If you are so careless that you can’t move a piano without losing its tone, we’d better not have it moved too far.  Now, then.

[Barlow, Yardsley, and Bradley endeavor to push the piano over the floor, but it doesn’t move.

Enter Perkins with two portières wrapped about him, and hugging a small stepladder in his arms.

Bradley.  Hurry up, Perkins.  Don’t shirk so.  Can’t you see that we’re trying to get this piano across the floor?  Where are you at?

Perkins (meekly).  I’m trying to make myself at home.  Do you expect me to hang on to these things and move pianos at the same time?

Barlow.  Let him alone, Bradley.  He’s doing the best he knows.  I always say give a man credit for doing what he can, whether he is intelligent or not.  Of course we don’t expect you to hang on to the portières and the stepladder while you are pushing the piano, Thad.  That’s too much to expect of any man of your size; some men might do it, but not all.  Drop the portières.

Perkins.  Where’ll I put ’em?

Yardsley.  Put them on the stepladder.

Perkins (impatiently).  And where shall I put the stepladder—on the piano?

Mrs. Perkins (coming to the rescue).  I’ll take care of these things, Thaddeus, dear.

Bradley.  That’s right; put everything off on your wife.  What shirks some men are!

Yardsley.  Now, then, Perkins, lend us your shoulder, and—one, two, three—push!  Ah!  She starts; she moves; she seems to feel the thrill of life along her keel.  We must have gained an inch.  Once more, now.  My, but this is a heavy piano!

Bradley.  Must be full of Wagnerian music.  Why don’t you get a piano of lighter quality, Perkins?  This isn’t any kind of an instrument for amateur stage-hands to manage.

Perkins.  I’ll know better next time.  But is it where you want it now?

Yardsley.  Not a bit of it.  We need one more push.  Get her rolling, and keep her rolling until she stands over there in that corner; and be careful to stop her in time, I should hate to push a piano through one of my host’s parlor walls just for the want of a little care.  (They push until the piano stands against the wall on the other side of the room, keyboard in.)  There!  That’s first-rate.  You can put a camp-chair on top of it for the prompter to sit on; there’s nothing like having the prompter up high, because amateur actors when they forget their lines, always look up in the air.  Perkins, go sit out in the hall and imagine yourself an enthusiastic audience—will you?—and tell us if you can see the piano.  If you can see it, we’ll have to put it somewhere else.

Perkins.  Do you mean it?

Mrs. Bradley.  Of course he doesn’t, Mr. Perkins.  It’s impossible to see it from the hall.  Now, I think the rug ought to come up.

Mrs. Perkins.  Dear me! what for?

Yardsley.  Oh, it wouldn’t do at all to have that rug in the conservatory, Mrs. Perkins.  Besides, I should be afraid it would be spoiled.

Perkins.  Spoiled?  What would spoil it?  Are you going to wear spiked shoes?

Barlow.  Spiked