badly. He speaks very loudly.] Hello!
MAUD. [Peeping at him over top of paper and speaking
hesitatingly.] H-h-hello!
FITZSIMMONS. [Gruffly.] You are a queer one, reading a paper
upside down.
MAUD. [Lowering newspaper and trying to appear at ease.] It’s
quite a trick, isn’t it? I often practise it. I’m real clever at
it, you know.
FITZSIMMONS. [Grunts, then adds.] Seems to me I have seen you
before.
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67
MAUD. [Glancing quickly from his face to portrait and back
again.] Yes, and I know you–You are Robert Fitzsimmons.
FITZSIMMONS. I thought I knew you.
MAUD. Yes, it was out in San Francisco. My people still live
there. I’m just–ahem–doing New York.
FITZSIMMONS. But I don’t quite remember the name.
MAUD. Jones–Harry Jones.
FITZSIMMONS. [Hugely delighted, leaping from chair and striding
over to her.] Sure. [Slaps her resoundingly on shoulder.]
[She is nearly crushed by the weight of the blow, and at the same
time shocked. She scrambles to her feet.]
FITZSIMMONS. Glad to see you, Harry. [He wrings her hand, so
that it hurts.] Glad to see you again, Harry. [He continues
wringing her hand and pumping her arm.]
MAUD. [Struggling to withdraw her hand and finally succeeding.
Her voice is rather faint.] Ye-es, er . . . Bob . . . er . . .
glad to see you again. [She looks ruefully at her bruised fingers
and sinks into chair. Then, recollecting her part, she crosses
her legs in a mannish way.]
FITZSIMMONS. [Crossing to desk at right, against which he leans,
facing her.] You were a wild young rascal in those San Francisco
days. [Chuckling.] Lord, Lord, how it all comes back to me.
MAUD. [Boastfully.] I was wild–some.
FITZSIMMONS. [Grinning.] I should say! Remember that night I
put you to bed?
MAUD. [Forgetting herself, indignantly.] Sir!
FITZSIMMONS. You were . . . er . . . drunk.
MAUD. I never was!
FITZSIMMONS. Surely you haven’t forgotten that night! You began
with dropping champagne bottles out of the club windows on the
heads of the people on the sidewalk, and you wound up by
assaulting a cabman. And let me tell you I saved you from a good
licking right there, and squared it with the police. Don’t you
remember?
MAUD. [Nodding hesitatingly.] Yes, it is beginning to come back
to me. I was a bit tight that night.
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68
FITZSIMMONS. [Exultantly.] A bit tight! Why, before I could get
you to bed you insisted on telling me the story of your life.
MAUD. Did I? I don’t remember that.
FITZSIMMONS. I should say not. You were past remembering
anything by that time. You had your arms around my neck –
MAUD. [Interrupting.] Oh!
FITZSIMMONS. And you kept repeating over and over, “Bob, dear
Bob.”
MAUD. [Springing to her feet.] Oh! I never did! [Recollecting
herself.] Perhaps I must have. I was a trifle wild in those
days, I admit. But I’m wise now. I’ve sowed my wild oats and
steadied down.
FITZSIMMONS. I’m glad to hear that, Harry. You were tearing off
a pretty fast pace in those days. [Pause, in which MAUD nods.]
Still punch the bag?
MAUD. [In quick alarm, glancing at punching bag.] No, I’ve got
out of the hang of it.
FITZSIMMONS. [Reproachfully.] You haven’t forgotten that right-
and-left, arm, elbow and shoulder movement I taught you?
MAUD. [With hesitation.] N-o-o.
FITZSIMMONS. [Moving toward bag to left.] Then, come on.
MAUD. [Rising reluctantly and following.] I’d rather see you
punch the bag. I’d just love to.
FITZSIMMONS. I will, afterward. You go to it first.
MAUD. [Eyeing the bag in alarm.] No; you. I’m out of practice.
FITZSIMMONS. [Looking at her sharply.] How many drinks have you
had to-night?
MAUD. Not a one. I don’t drink–that is–er–only occasionally.
FITZSIMMONS. [Indicating bag.] Then go to it.
MAUD. No; I tell you I am out of practice. I’ve forgotten it
all. You see, I made a discovery.
[Pauses.]
FITZSIMMONS. Yes?
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69
MAUD. I–I–you remember what a light voice I always had–almost
soprano?
[FITZSIMMONS nods.]
MAUD. Well, I discovered it was a perfect falsetto.
[FITZSIMMONS nods.]
MAUD. I’ve been practising it ever since. Experts, in another
room, would swear it was a woman’s voice. So would you, if you
turned your back and I sang.
FITZSIMMONS. [Who has been laughing incredulously, now becomes
suspicious.] Look here, kid, I think you are an impostor. You
are not Harry Jones at all.
MAUD. I am, too.
FITZSIMMONS. I don’t believe it. He was heavier than you.
MAUD. I had the fever last summer and lost a lot of weight.
FITZSIMMONS. You are the Harry Jones that got sousesd and had to
be put to bed?
MAUD. Y-e-s.
FITZSIMMONS. There is one thing I remember very distinctly.
Harry Jones had a birth mark on his knee. [He looks at her legs
searchingly.]
MAUD. [Embarrassed, then resolving to carry it out.] Yes, right
here. [She advances right leg and touches it.]
FITZSIMMONS. [Triumphantly.] Wrong. It was the other knee.
MAUD. I ought to know.
FITZSIMMONS. You haven’t any birth mark at all.
MAUD. I have, too.
FITZSIMMONS. [Suddenly springing to her and attempting to seize
her leg.] Then we’ll prove it. Let me see.
MAUD. [In a panic backs away from him and resists his attempts,
until grinning in an aside to the audience, he gives over. She,
in an aside to audience.] Fancy his wanting to see my birth mark.
FITZSIMMONS. [Bullying.] Then take a go at the bag. [She shakes
her head.] You’re not Harry Jones.
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70
MAUD. [Approaching punching bag.] I am, too.
FITZSIMMONS. Then hit it.
MAUD. [Resolving to attempt it, hits bag several nice blows, and
then is struck on the nose by it.] Oh!
[Recovering herself and rubbing her nose.] I told you I was out
of practice. You punch the bag, Bob.
FITZSIMMONS. I will, if you will show me what you can do with
that wonderful soprano voice of yours.
MAUD. I don’t dare. Everybody would think there was a woman in
the club.
FITZSIMMONS. [Shaking his head.] No, they won’t. They’ve all
gone to the fight. There’s not a soul in the building.
MAUD. [Alarmed, in a weak voice.] Not–a–soul–in–the
building?
FITZSIMMONS. Not a soul. Only you and I.
MAUD. [Starting hurriedly toward door.] Then I must go.
FITZSIMMONS. What’s your hurry? Sing.
MAUD. [Turning back with new resolve.] Let me see you punch the
bag,–er–Bob.
FITZSIMMONS. You sing first.
MAUD. No; you punch first.
FITZSIMMONS. I don’t believe you are Harry –
MAUD. [Hastily.] All right, I’ll sing. You sit down over there
and turn your back.
[FITZSIMMONS obeys.]
[MAUD walks over to the table toward right. She is about to sing,
when she notices FITZSIMMONS’ cigarette case, picks it up, and in
an aside reads his name on it and speaks.]
MAUD. “Robert Fitzsimmons.” That will prove to my brother that I
have been here.
FITZSIMMONS. Hurry up.
[MAUD hastily puts cigarette case in her pocket and begins to
sing.]
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71
SONG
[During the song FITZSIMMONS turns his head slowly and looks at
her with growing admiration.]
MAUD. How did you like it?
FITZSIMMONS. [Gruffly.] Rotten. Anybody could tell it was a
boy’s voice –
MAUD. Oh!
FITZSIMMONS. It is rough and coarse and it cracked on every high
note.
MAUD. Oh! Oh!
[Recollecting herself and shrugging her shoulders.] Oh, very
well. Now let’s see if you can do any better with the bag.
[FITZSIMMONS takes off coat and gives exhibition.]
[MAUD looks on in an ecstasy of admiration.]
MAUD. [As he finishes.] Beautiful! Beautiful!
[FITZSIMMONS puts on coat and goes over and sits down near table.]
Nothing like the bag to limber one up. I feel like a fighting
cock. Harry, let’s go out on a toot, you and I.
MAUD. Wh-a-a-t?
FITZSIMMONS. A toot. You know–one of those rip-snorting nights
you used to make.
MAUD. [Emphatically, as she picks up newspapers from leather
chair, sits down, and places them on her lap.] I’ll do nothing of
the sort. I’ve–I’ve reformed.
FITZSIMMONS. You used to joy-ride like the very devil.
MAUD. I know it.
FITZSIMMONS. And you always had a pretty girl or two along.
MAUD. [Boastfully, in mannish, fashion.] Oh, I still have my
fling. Do you know any–well,–er,–nice girls?
FITZSIMMONS. Sure.
MAUD. Put me wise.
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72
FITZSIMMONS. Sure. You know Jack Sylvester?
MAUD. [Forgetting herself.] He’s my brother –
FITZSIMMONS. [Exploding.] What!
MAUD. –In-law’s first cousin.
FITZSIMMONS. Oh!
MAUD. So you see I don’t know him very well. I only met him
once–at the club. We had a drink together.
FITZSIMMONS. Then you don’t know his sister?
MAUD. [Starting.] His sister? I–I didn’t know he had a sister.
FITZSIMMONS. [Enthusiastically.] She’s a peach. A queen. A
little bit of all right. A–a loo-loo.
MAUD. [Flattered.] She is, is she?
FITZSIMMONS. She’s a scream. You ought to get acquainted with
her.
MAUD. [Slyly.] You know her, then?