ERNEST WARREN.

“Dandy Dick” was performed 171 times between the first night and the 22d of July, when, the old theatre being demolished, Mr. Clayton took a temporary lease of Toole’s Theatre, and transferred the play thither, where it ran 75 nights more.

A company had already been sent out, under the auspices of the Court management, to perform “Dandy Dick” in the provinces; but, when the play was withdrawn from the London boards, Mr. Clayton set out himself with a company, and it was during this tour that he died at Liverpool.

In America Mr. Daly produced “Dandy Dick” with Miss Ada Rehan in Mrs. John Wood’s part, but no very great success was achieved; whereas in Australia its reception was so enthusiastic that it ran for quite an unusual time both in Melbourne and Sydney. In the character of the Dean, Mr. G. W. Anson achieved perhaps the greatest of his Australian successes, and Mr. Robert Brough made his mark as the policeman.

Malcolm C. Salamak.

December, 1892.

DANDY DICK.

THE FIRST ACT.

The morning-room in the Deanery of St. Marvells, with a large arched opening leading to the library on the right, and a deeply-recessed window opening out to the garden on the left. It is a bright spring morning, and an air of comfort and serenity pervades the place.

Salome, a tall, handsome, dark girl, of about three-and-twenty, is sitting with her elbows resting on her knees, staring wildly into vacancy. Sheba, a fair little girl of about seventeen, wearing short petticoats, shares her despondency, and lies prostrate upon the settee.

Salome.

Oh! oh my! oh my! oh my!

Sheba.

[Sitting upright.] Oh, my gracious goodness, goodness gracious me!

[They both walk about excitedly.

Salome.

There’s only one terrible word for it—it’s a fix!

Sheba.

It’s worse than that! It’s a scrape! How did you ever get led into it?

Salome.

How did we get led into it? Halves, Sheba, please.

Sheba.

It was Major Tarver’s proposal, and I believe, Salome, that it is to you Major Tarver is paying attention.

Salome.

The Fancy Dress Masked Ball at Durnstone is promoted by the Officers of the Hussars. I believe that the young gentleman you have impressed calls himself an officer, though he is merely a lieutenant.

Sheba.

[Indignantly.] Mr. Darbey is certainly an officer—a small officer. How dare you gird at me, Salome?

Salome.

Very well, then. When to-night we appear at the Durnstone Athenæum, unknown to dear Papa, on the arms of Major Tarver and Mr. Darbey, I consider that we shall be equally wicked. Oh, how can we be so wrong?

Sheba.

Well, we’re not wrong yet. We’re only going to be wrong; that’s a very different matter.

Salome.

That’s true. Besides, there’s this to remember—we’re inexperienced girls and have only dear Papa. But oh, now that the Ball is to-night, I repent, Sheba, I repent!

Sheba.

I sha’n’t do that till to-morrow. But oh, how I shall repent to-morrow!

Salome.

[Taking an envelope from her pocket, and almost crying.] You’d repent now if you had seen the account for the fancy dresses.

Sheba.

Has it come in?

Salome.

Yes, the Major enclosed it to me this morning. You know, Sheba, Major Tarver promised to get the dresses made in London, so I gave him our brown paper patterns to send to the costumier.

Sheba.

[Shocked.] Oh, Salome, do you think he quizzed them?

Salome.

No; I sealed them up and marked outside “To be opened only by a lady.”

Sheba.

That’s all right. I hate the plan of myself in brown paper.

Salome.

Well, of course Major Tarver begged to be allowed to pay for the dresses, and I said I couldn’t dream of permitting it, and then he said he should be most unhappy if he didn’t, and, just as I thought he was going to have his own way, [bursting into tears] he cheered up and said he’d yield to a lady. [Taking a large account from the envelope.] And oh! he’s yielded.

Sheba.

Read it! Don’t spare me!

Salome.

[Reading.] “Debtor to Lewis Isaacs, Costumier to the Queen, Bow Street. One gown—period French Revolution, 1798—Fifteen guineas!”

Sheba.

[Sinking on her knees, clutching the table.] Oh!

Salome.

“Trimmings, linings, buttons, frillings—Seven guineas!”

Sheba.

[Hysterically.] Yah!

Salome.

That’s mine!

Sheba.

[Putting her fingers into her ears.] Now for mine, oooh!

Salome.

[Reading.] “One skirt and bodice—flower girl—period uncertain—Ten guineas.”

Sheba.

Less than yours! What a shame!

Salome.

“Trimmings, linings, buttons, frillings—Five guineas! Extras, Two guineas. Total, Forty pounds, nineteen. Ladies’ own brown paper patterns mislaid. Terms, Cash!”

[They throw themselves into each other’s arms.

Salome.

Oh, Sheba!

Sheba.

Salome! Are there forty pounds in the wide world?

Salome.

My heart weighs twenty. What shall we do?

Sheba.

If we were only a few years older I should suggest that we wrote nice notes to Papa and committed suicide.

Salome.

Brought up as we have been, that’s out of the question!

Sheba.

Then let us be brave women and wear the dresses!

Salome.

Of course we’ll do that, but—the bill!

Sheba.

We must get dear Papa in a good humor and coax him to make us a present of money. He knows we haven’t been charitable in the town for ever so long.

Salome.

Poor dear Papa! He hasn’t paid our proper dressmaker’s bill yet, and I’m sure he’s pressed for money.

Sheba.

But we can’t help that when we’re pressed for money—poor dear Papa!

Salome.

Suppose poor Papa refuses to give us a present?

Sheba.