WAITING FOR AN OMNIBUS IN THE LOWTHER ARCADE ON A RAINY DAY.

A Farce,

IN ONE ACT.

BY

JOHN MADDISON MORTON,

(Member of the Dramatic Authors’ Society),

AUTHOR OF

Away with Melancholy, From Village to Court, Whitebait at Greenwich, To Paris and Back for Five Pounds, The Woman I Adore, A Capital Match, The Two Bonnycastles, Who Stole the Pocket-book, Your Life’s in Danger, The Midnight Watch, Going to the Derby, Box and Cox, Done on Both Sides, Poor Pillicoddy, Young England, The King and I, My Wife’s Second Floor, Double-Bedded Room, Wedding Breakfast, The Milliners’ Holiday, The Irish Tiger, Who’s the Composer, Who do they take me for? The Attic Story, Brother Ben, Who’s my Husband? Slasher and Crasher, Old Honesty, &c.

THOMAS HAILES LACY,

WELLINGTON STREET, STRAND,

LONDON.

First Performed at the Royal Adelphi Theatre, on Monday, June 26th, 1854.

Characters.

Pedestrians, &c.

Time in Representation—50 minutes.

Costumes.

O’WALKER. Black frock coat, white trousers, white hat.

BROWN. Brown coat, nankeen trousers.

SCHNIPPS. Eccentric dress.

BEADLE. Brown suit with gold binding.

MRS. JELLICOE. Silk dress, velvet mantle and bonnet.

FANNY. Walking dress.

PATTY. Blue muslin dress, red scarf, and white bonnet.

[3]

WAITING FOR AN OMNIBUS.

SCENE.—Interior of the Lowther Arcade. The Strand Entrance supposed to be at L. side; shops and stalls with goods exposed running across at back of stage; PEDESTRIANS, male and female children walking to and fro at L., a number of people standing, others make their way in with umbrellas up, which they put down and join the PROMENADERS; the BEADLE of the arcade occasionally seen; heavy rain heard.

MRS. J. (without, L.) Now, gentlemen, stand aside—don’t quite block up the way if you please! (forces her way through crowd, L., followed by FANNY; they have their parasols up, which they immediately put down) Mercy on us! here’s a day! this is something like rain.

FANNY. (L.) Yes, mamma, very like it indeed.

MRS. JELLICOE. (R.) However, now we are safe under cover, my dear, suppose we see what we’ve got to do to-day. First, there’s the upholsterer’s; then the milliner’s; then the jeweller’s; then the printer’s——

FANNY. The printer’s—what for?

MRS. J. What for! why, to order the wedding cards to be sure!

FANNY. Lor, mamma!

MRS. J. (imitating) Lor, mamma! just as if you’re not ready to jump out of your wits for joy all the time! I’m sure when I was engaged to your papa, I was so happy, I did nothing but cry all day long for weeks together: but, perhaps I was more in love with the late lamented Jellicoe, than you are with Mr. O’Walker?

FANNY. I like Mr. O’Walker very well, mamma; he’s agreeable enough—very amusing—very attentive—sufficiently good-looking——

MRS. J. And very genteel! And then, he’s very well to do in the world; in short, Fanny, it’s a very desirable match for you in every respect; and if we can only persuade cousin Brown to be of the same opinion——

FANNY. Surely, mamma, I can get married without the consent of this cousin Brown that you are always talking about?

MRS. J. Of course you can, my dear; but Barbican Brown is a rich old bachelor, and your godfather into the bargain—I shall never forget him on the memorable occasion of your christening—the tender yet half-reproachful tone in which he said “don’t kick up such a row, you little brat,” as you lay squalling in his arms;[4] and I must say, my dear, you did misbehave yourself in a variety of ways.

FANNY. Well, this godpapa of mine certainly must have taken a very violent interest in me indeed, considering that he has never seen me since.

MRS. J. Simply because your poor papa went out of business shortly after and settled at Brentford, and cousin Barbican went into business and settled in London; we really must go over to his little place at Holloway this evening, we shall be sure to catch him at home, and then we’ll see if between us we can’t coax him to come down with something handsome on your wedding day. (violent rain heard) Dear, dear, I declare it rains harder than ever; I really think, Fanny, we had better put off our shopping and our intended visit to cousin Barbican till to-morrow, and get into a Brentford omnibus and go home at once.

FANNY. Very well, mamma, but do let us take one stroll up and down the Arcade first. I suppose there’s no harm in it?

MRS. J. Harm! Do you suppose I should be here if everything wasn’t perfectly respectable? For goodness’ sake put that silly notion out of your head—and take care of your pockets.

MRS. JELLICOE and FANNY lounge out at R., looking at shops as they exeunt; violent rain again heard and noise of voices L., in dispute.

VOICE. (outside) Now then—where are you pushing?

O’WALKER. (without) I’m pushing my way into the Arcade—at least, I am trying to do it!

O’WALKER, with a green cotton umbrella over his head, forces his way through CROWD, L.

O’WALKER. Isn’t it a remarkable fact, that people no sooner get under cover out of the rain than they immediately congregate in a dense mass to prevent other people getting under cover out of the rain—I don’t know why they should, but they do! Here’s a day! never mind, I’ve no doubt the country wants rain, the turnips especially: somehow or other, turnips always seem to want rain—I don’t know why they should, but they do! and if they do, all I can say is, they’ve got it—consequently, it’s all for the best; and although my new twelve-and-ninepenny boots do feel for all the world like a couple of wet sponges, I think of the agricultural interest and am silent.

The BEADLE here approaches, and touching his hat to O’WALKER, points to his open umbrella, and then walks on.

O’WALKER. (astonished) Now, that man evidently means something; he wouldn’t touch his hat to me for nothing—I don’t know why he shouldn’t, but he wouldn’t!

BEADLE again approaches O’WALKER, R., points to his open umbrella, smiles, touches his hat, and about to retire.

O’WALKER. (beckons to him) My good friend, perhaps I ought to[5] know you? you may have been the cherished companion of my childhood, or the friend of my bosom in after years? if so, I’m ashamed to say I’ve forgotten you—now, what is it?

BEADLE. Umbrella, sir!

O’WALKER. Well?

BEADLE. Don’t rain here, sir—under cover, sir—needn’t keep it up, sir!

O’WALKER. (suddenly) Of course—ha! ha! ha! As you say, it doesn’t rain here—I don’t know why it shouldn’t, but it doesn’t! I’m obliged to you. (shutting up his umbrella) The fact is, I’ve so much to think of I really haven’t time to think of anything. In the first place, I’m going to be married—that’s a trifle to begin with, isn’t it? Are you married? (BEADLE nods) And how do you like it? Is matrimony an article you approve of in the long run? In short—do you recommend it?

BEADLE. (in a low tone and with a significant wink) Try it!

Exit, L.

O’WALKER. He says “try it!” therefore, he does recommend it! Not that I exactly liked the tone in which he said “try it!” I mean to try it. I shouldn’t like to know who wouldn’t with such a charming little wife as I’m going to have, a sweet unsophisticated creature from the peaceful and picturesque village of Brentford, with health on her cheek, innocence in her heart, and £2,000 in her pocket. Now that £2,000, added to what I shall bring, will make a total of £2,000; for I don’t mean to say a word about the ninety-seven pounds ten, left me last week by my uncle Samuel—no, that ninety-seven ten I consider the property of my creditors; I gave it yesterday morning to my friend Dibbs to invest in the three per cents, with the full determination of paying my debts with the interest. I made the calculation last night, and find that in thirty-seven years I shan’t owe one shilling in the world: if that isn’t a moral satisfaction for a man, I don’t know what is! Dear me! now I think of it, I went out in such a hurry

this morning that I hadn’t time to read my letters. (taking letters out of his pocket and opening them) Oh, from Jacob Jones, Dibbs’ head clerk, to tell me he’s invested my ninety-seven ten, I suppose! Holloa—what’s this? (reads) “Sorry to say Dibbs is done up”— Dear me! how very sudden—poor Dibbs. (reading again) “and means to make a bolt of it to-morrow”— That’s to-day! well, I can’t blame Dibbs if he does; perhaps it’s the best thing Dibbs can do. (reads) “with all the money he can lay his hands on”— Of course, every man has a right to do what he likes with his own, and so has Dibbs. (reads) “all the money he can lay his hands on—yours included”— Mine! my ninety-seven ten! that scoundrel Dibbs! (reading again hurriedly) “he means to be off by the rail”— Jacob’s a clever fellow! (reads) “but I don’t know which”— Jacob’s an ass! (reads) “but this I do know, that if you want to get your money back”— Want my ninety-seven ten? Of course I do! “be at his house in Arabella Row, Pimlico, before three

o’clock and you’ll nab him.” Before three o’clock— (hastily pulls[6] out watch) come, I’ve plenty of time, that’s one comfort—I’ll jump into a cab at once, drive to— Stop—I’ve only got a fourpenny-piece in my pocket, and I don’t suppose any cabman would take me two miles and a half for that—I have it, I’ll jump into a Pimlirow Omnibus—get down at the corner of Arabellaco, and come down upon Dibbs like a thunderbolt. (looking out) Ah! yes—there’s an omnibus! here! stop! conductor!

Puts up his umbrella and forces his way through CROWD at L.—and then heard outside.

Here! Pimlico! stop! stop!

Re-enter MRS. JELLICOE and FANNY from R.

MRS. J. Rain or not, we must go now, my dear; indeed we must!

O’WALKER. (outside) Now then, if you’ll allow me.

Re-enters, with his umbrella up.

Full, of course; and, strange to say, there wasn’t a lady would get outside to accommodate me. They positively refused, every one of them—I don’t know why they should, but they did!

FANNY. (seeing him) Why, I do declare, mamma, there’s Mr. O’Walker!

MRS. J. So it is! How fortunate, to be sure! My dear Mr. O’Walker!

O’WALKER. Mrs. Jellicoe! Miss Fanny, too! (passing his umbrella, which is still open, from one hand to the other as he shakes hands with them) I was that moment thinking of you—I was indeed, my dear Mrs. Pimlico—I mean Jellicoe. (aside) That ruffian Dibbs! (aloud) And how’s my Arabella—I mean my Fanny? (aside, and looking at his watch) A quarter to two.

MRS. J. Here’s a dreadful day, Mr. O’Walker; but it can’t be helped.

O’WALKER. No—I believe the only thing to be done is, what they do in Spain when it rains.

MRS. J. And what’s that?

O’WALKER. Why, they let it rain!—I don’t know why they should, but they do!

MRS. J. Ha, ha, ha!—you’re a funny creature! besides, as the old joke says, it suits the ducks.

O’WALKER. Not mine! (showing his splashed trousers)

FANNY. Ha! ha!

O’WALKER. Don’t laugh, Miss Fanny; ducks are no joke I can tell you, and so you’ll find when the washing bills come in—after we are married; by-the-bye, suppose we wash at home? I appeal to you, Mrs. Jellicoe—you’re a woman of experience in household matters, you’ve been washed by other people, and you’ve washed yourself—now which do you recommend?

MRS. J. You’ll find washing at home a great nuisance.

O’WALKER. Perhaps; but I’d put up with a great deal for two pair of ducks a-week.

MRS. J. Suppose we get the home first? By-the-bye, we’ve just[7] seen such a love of a loo table— (taking O’WALKER’S arm) haven’t we, Fanny?

O’WALKER. Have you though?

FANNY. Yes, John Horatio, and such a darling sideboard. (taking O’WALKER’S arm)

O’WALKER. You don’t say so; and I’ve got my eye on such a duck of a bedstead.

MRS. J. Fie, Mr. O’Walker.

Here the BEADLE again comes in, L., goes up to O’WALKER, points to his open umbrella, smiles, touches his hat, and retires.

O’WALKER. (suddenly recollecting and shutting up his umbrella) Thank you!

MRS. J. Now, my dear Mr. O’Walker, let’s talk of business. Have you seen a house that you think you would like?

O’WALKER. Fifty! there isn’t a house in Grosvenor Square that I shouldn’t like amazingly!

MRS. J. Now let’s talk seriously, if you please. Of course, when a man marries, he must expect to lay out a little money at starting.

O’WALKER. I perfectly agree with you, and what’s more, I don’t care how little.

MRS. J. In short, as the late lamented Jellicoe would have said, you must come down with the dibbs.

O’WALKER. (suddenly) Dibbs! (pulling out his watch and looking at it, then looking suddenly off at L.) There goes one!—here!—stop! stop!

Puts up his umbrella and runs out, L.—noise of voices in dispute outside as before.

O’WALKER. (without) Stop! Conductor!

MRS. J. Why what can be the matter with Mr. O’Walker?

FANNY. How very odd!

O’WALKER. (without) Will you allow me? Thank you!

Re-enters, L., with his umbrella up.

Full again! the Conductor wanted me to get on the roof of his vehicle and sit upon a sort of knife board—I don’t know why I shouldn’t, but I wouldn’t! (to MRS. J.) My dear Mrs. Jellicoe, I beg ten thousand pardons—but I thought I saw a friend pass—a friend I haven’t seen since—since I saw him last—but as you were very properly observing just now—by-the-bye, what were you very properly observing just now?

MRS. J. I was going to say that you ought to take a small house, furnish it comfortably, and then, with Fanny’s little fortune and your own income—by-the-way, I think you said your income was about——

O’WALKER. Yes—more or less—but that’s the average.

Here BEADLE comes in again, L., goes up to O’WALKER, points to his umbrella, touches his hat, and again retires; O’WALKER hastily puts down his umbrella.

MRS. J. (to BEADLE) Worthy man, would you be so kind as to stop the first Brentford omnibus?

[8] BEADLE. Certainly, ma’am.

Goes out at L.

MRS. J. (L.) Oh, Mr. O’Walker, when you were a traveller to a wholesale house in the oil and varnish line, and used to come down to Brentford once a week for orders, little did I think you would ever be my son-in-law. And how does the business get on, eh?

O’WALKER. (C.) My dear Mrs. Jellicoe, you don’t imagine I’m the sort of man to settle down in oil and varnish all my life? Bless you, I cut it a long time ago.

MRS. J. Indeed! And what are you doing now?

O’WALKER. Why the fact is, I’ve tried my hand at a good many things: I thought it prudent not to make too great a dash at starting, so I began by doing a trifle in the coal and potatoe line—then I took an early breakfast house—then I started a penny publication——

MRS. J. A weekly one?

O’WALKER. Yes, so weakly that it didn’t live above a fortnight. At last, I hit upon a brilliant idea—what do you think it was? I turned doctor.

MRS. J. A doctor? Then I suppose you walked the hospitals, as they call it?

O’WALKER. Not all of ’em; I walked through Saint Thomas’s one day with a friend of mine.

FANNY. (R.) Oh, then you’re not a member of the profession.

O’WALKER. Oh no, my dear, I’m not one of your regular Materiars Medicars—I’m what ignorant and prejudiced people call a quack; but I don’t care what they call me as long as my boluses go down.

MRS. J. Boluses!

O’WALKER. Yes—O’Walker’s Beneficial Bolus! Sold in boxes at thirteen pence halfpenny, two-and-threepence, four-and-sixpence, and nine shillings—this is a nine shilling one. (pulling a very large pill box out of his pocket)

MRS. J. Good gracious! And how did you come to think of it?

O’WALKER. By study, Mrs. Jellicoe—by intense study. I shut myself up in my room for three months, and the result of that confinement was a bolus.

MRS. J. And what do they cure?

O’WALKER. Everything—if you only take plenty of ’em! I used to make ’em up myself at starting, but so eagerly were they swallowed that now I’ve got three men and a boy up to their elbows in boluses all day long. Now, I’ll explain my system: these boluses are so composed that the more you take of ’em the worse you get—still you persevere—and when you’re as ill as you can be you leave ’em off, and from that moment you begin to get well; I don’t know why you should, but you do—that’s my system! But enough of business—now for pleasure. When is the happy day to be? Fanny, my fond one, my fair one, when will it be your happy lot to call me yours?

FANNY. (R.) Ask mamma!

MRS. J. Come and dine with us to-morrow, Mr. O’Walker, and[9] we will talk about it. (suddenly and solemnly) I hope your moral character will bear the strictest scrutiny, Mr. O’Walker. You say you have no debts?

O’WALKER. (proudly) If you doubt my word, Mrs. Jellicoe, I refer you to my milkman.

FANNY. (tenderly) And I’m the only woman you ever loved?

O’WALKER. The only one—except my mother.

BEADLE appears, L.

BEADLE. (L.) The Brentford ’bus, ladies!

MRS. J. Come along, Fanny. We shall see you to-morrow, Mr. O’Walker. Now, Fanny.

O’WALKER opens his umbrella, and escorts the LADIES off, L.

BEADLE. (picking up reticule which MRS. JELLICOE has let fall) Holloa, the old lady has dropped her ridicule, and there goes the ’bus!

Re-enter O’WALKER, L., with his umbrella up.

O’WALKER. Ha, ha, ha! it’s too bad—but I can’t help laughing.

BEADLE. (as before—pointing to O’WALKER’S umbrella, touching his hat, &c.; O’WALKER puts umbrella down) Please, sir, one of the ladies dropt this article—perhaps you’ll take care of it, sir?

O’WALKER. (taking the reticule) Of course—here! (feels in his pocket—then puts his hand into the reticule, takes out purse, and gives the BEADLE money) I always make a point of rewarding honesty—there’s half-a crown for you! (puts purse in his pocket—BEADLE touches his hat, and retires) As I said before, I can’t help laughing; that poor innocent little Fanny, too, flattering herself she’s the only woman I ever loved. If she could only see a catalogue of my tender attachments, she’d find herself about the hundred and sixteenth on the list—that dear Patty Peckover, for instance. I do believe I should have married that Patty Peckover if she hadn’t had so many cousins in the Life Guards; but she was a good-hearted soul—she never would have treated me as Miss Amelia Jones has done. When I think of the number of cubas I’ve smoked in that woman’s little back parlour, and the bill I owe that woman for those cubas, that woman’s ingratitude quite shocks me! Here’s a letter she wrote me yesterday. (taking out letter and

reading) “Perfidious monster”—that’s so like Amelia Jones, that is—“you’re going to be married, are you? Don’t deny it, hideous wretch that you are;” that’s Amelia Jones all over, that is—(reading)—“but I’ll be revenged: listen—I have kept your letters, miscreant!” that’s a favourite expression of Amelia Jones’s, that is—(reading)—“and to-morrow they shall be in the hands of your intended. So tremble, viper! and believe me to remain as usual—your fond and affectionate—Amelia.” Now any one would imagine that Amelia Jones was an exceedingly ill-used young woman—but it’s no such thing. I went to her shop in Little Windmill Street this evening, prepared to offer her a shilling a piece for my letters, she wasn’t at home—so I went into her little back parlour, and there, lying open upon the table, and staring me in the face, was[10] this letter (showing letter)—beginning with “Loveliest of Amelias,” and winding up with “Your fondest of Browns.” Now here’s a woman who’s got a Brown—a mysterious Brown—a Brown who