Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays
Chapter 256 : THE BOY. You bet I ain't. I know pretty well when Christmas is comin', by th

THE BOY. You bet I ain't. I know pretty well when Christmas is comin', by the way I got to hustle, an' the size of the boxes I got to carry.

Seems as if my legs an' me would like to break up pardners.h.i.+p. I got to work till midnight every night, an' I'm so sleepy I drop off in the cars whenever I get a seat. An' the girls is at the store so early an' late they don't get time to cook me nothin' to eat.

THE WOMAN. Be ye hungry, Timmie?

THE BOY [_diffidently and looking at the floor_]. No, I ain't hungry now.

THE WOMAN. Be ye shure, Timmie?

THE BOY. Oh, I kin go till I git home.

THE WOMAN. Mother, can't you find something for him to eat?

THE OLD WOMAN. To be shure, to be shure. [_Bustling about._] We always kapes a full cupboard to thrate our neighbors wid whin they comes in.

[_She goes to the empty safe and fusses in it to find something. She pretends to be very busy, and then glances around at the boy with a sly look and a smile._] Ah, Timmie, lad, what would ye like to be havin', now? If you had the wish o' yer heart for yer Christmas dinner an' a good fairy to set it all afore ye? Ye'd be wis.h.i.+n' maybe, for a fine roast duck, to begin wid, in its own gravies an' some apple sauce to go wid it; an' ye'd be thinkin' o' a little bit o' pig nicely browned an' a plate of potaties; an' the little fairy woman would be bringin' yer puddin's an' nuts an' apples an' a dish o' the swatest tay. [_The Boy smiles rather ruefully._]

THE WOMAN. But, mother, you're not gettin' Tim something to ate.

THE BOY. She's makin' me mouth water all right. [_The Old Woman goes back to her search, but again turns about with a cunning look, and says to the boy:_]

THE OLD WOMAN. Maybe ye'll meet that little fairy woman out there in the counthry road where ye're takin' the roses! [_Nods her head knowingly, turning to the safe again._] Here's salt an' here's pepper an' here's mustard an' a crock full o' sugar, an', oh! Tim, here's some fine cold bacon--fine, fat, cold bacon--an' here's half a loaf o' white wheat bread! Why, Timmie, lad, that's just the food to make boys fat! Ye'll grow famously on it. 'Tis a supper, whin ye add to it a dhrop o' iligant milk, that's fit for a king. [_She bustles about with great show of being busy and having much to prepare. Puts the plate of cold bacon upon the table where stands the stunted bit of an evergreen-tree, then brings the half-loaf of bread and cuts it into slices, laying pieces of bacon on the slices of bread. Then she pours out a gla.s.s of milk from a dilapidated and broken pitcher in the safe and brings it to the table, the Boy all the while watching her hungrily.

At last he says rather apologetically to the woman._]

THE BOY. I ain't had nothin' since a wienerwurst at eleven o'clock.

THE OLD WOMAN. Now, dhraw up, Timmie, boy, an' ate yer fill; ye're more thin welcome. [_The boy does not sit down, but stands by the table and eats a slice of bread and bacon, drinking from the gla.s.s of milk occasionally._]

THE WOMAN. Don't they niver give ye nothin' to ate at the gran' houses when ye'd be takin' the roses?

THE BOY. Not them. They'd as soon think o' feedin' a telephone or an automobile as me.

THE WOMAN. But don't they ask ye in to get warm whin ye've maybe come so far?

THE BOY. No, they don't seem to look at me 'zacly like a caller. They generally steps out long enough to sign the receipt-book an' shut the front door behin' 'em so as not to let the house get col' the length o'

time I'm standin' there. Well, I'm awful much obleeged to ye. Now, I got to be movin' on.

THE OLD WOMAN. Sthop an' cilibrate the Christmas wid us. We ain't started to do nothin' yet because the girls haven't come--they know how [_nodding her head_]--an' they're goin' to bring things--all kinds o'

good things to ate an' a branch of rowan berries--ah, boy, a great branch o' rowan wid scarlet berries s.h.i.+nin' [_gesticulating and with gleaming eyes_], an' we'll all be merry an' kape it up late into the night.

THE BOY [_in a little fear of her_]. I guess it's pretty late now. I got to make that trip an' I guess when I get home I'll be so sleepy I'll jus' tumble in. Ye've been awful good to me, an' it's the first time I been warm to-day. Good-by. [_He starts toward the door, but the Old Woman follows him and speaks to him coaxingly._]

THE OLD WOMAN. Ah, don't ye go, Michael, lad! Now, bide wid us a bit.

[_The Boy, surprised at the name, looks queerly at the Old Woman, who then stretches out her arms to him, and says beseechingly:_] Ah, boy, ah, Mike, bide wid us, now ye've come! We've been that lonesome widout ye!

THE BOY [_frightened and shaking his head_]. I've got to be movin'.

THE OLD WOMAN. No, Michael, little lamb, no!

THE BOY [_almost terrified, watching her with staring eyes, and backing out_]. I got to go! [_The Boy goes out, and the Old Woman breaks into weeping, totters over to her old rocking-chair and drops into it, rocks to and fro, wailing to herself._]

THE OLD WOMAN. Oh, to have him come an' go again, my little Michael, my own little lad!

THE WOMAN. Don't ye, dearie; now, then, don't ye! 'Twas not Michael, but just our little neighbor boy, Tim. Ye know, poor lamb, now if ye'll thry to remember, that father an' Michael is gone to the betther land an' us is left.

THE OLD WOMAN. Nay, nay, 'tis the fairies that took thim an' have thim now, kapin' thim an' will not ever give thim back.

THE WOMAN. Whisht, mother! Spake not of the little folk on the Holy Night! [_Crosses herself._] Have ye forgot the time o' all the year it is? Now, dhry yer eyes, dearie, an' thry to be cheerful like 'fore the girls be comin' home. [_A noise is heard, the banging of a door and footsteps._] Thim be the girls now, shure they be comin' at last. [_But the sound of footsteps dies away._] But they'll be comin' soon.

[_Wearily, but with the inveterate hope._]

[_The two women relapse into silence again, which is undisturbed for a few minutes. Then there is a knock at the door, and together in quavering, reedy voices, they call, "Come in," as before. There enters a tall, big, broad-shouldered woman with a cold, discontented, hard look upon the face that might have been handsome some years back; still, in her eyes, as she looks at the pallid woman on the bed, there is something that denotes a softness underneath it all._]

THE OLD WOMAN. Good avnin' to ye! We're that pleased to see our neighbors!

THE NEIGHBOR [_without paying any attention to the Old Woman, but entirely addressing the woman on the bed._] How's yer cough?

THE WOMAN. Oh, it's jist the same--maybe a little betther. If I could on'y get to the counthry! But the girls must be workin'--they haven't time to take me. Sit down, won't ye? [_The Neighbor goes to the bed and sits down on the foot of it._]

THE NEIGHBOR. I'm most dead, I'm so tired. I did two was.h.i.+n's to-day--went out and did one this mornin' and then my own after I come home this afternoon. I jus' got through sprinklin' it an' I'll iron to-morrow.

THE WOMAN. Not on Christmas Day!

THE NEIGHBOR [_with a sneer_]. Christmas Day! Did ye hear 'bout the Beckers? Well, they was all put out on the sidewalk this afternoon.

Becker's been sick, ye know, an' ain't paid his rent an' his wife's got a two weeks' old baby. It sort o' stunned Mis' Becker, an' she sat on one of the mattresses out there an' wouldn't move, an' n.o.body couldn't do nothin' with her. But they ain't the only ones has bad luck--Smith, the painter, fell off a ladder an' got killed. They took him to the hospital, but it wasn't no use--his head was all mashed in. His wife's got them five boys an' Smith never saved a cent, though he warn't a drinkin' man. It's a good thing Smith's children is boys--they can make their livin' easier!

THE WOMAN [_smiling faintly_]. Ain't ye got no cheerful news to tell?

It's Christmas Eve, ye know.

THE NEIGHBOR. Christmas Eve don't seem to prevent people from dyin' an'

bein' turned out o' house an' home. Did ye hear how bad the dipthery is?

They say as how if it gits much worse they'll have to close the school in our ward. Two o' the Homan children's dead with it. The first one wasn't sick but two days, an' they say his face all turned black 'fore he died. But it's a good thing they're gone, for the Homans ain't got enough to feed the other six. Did ye hear 'bout Jim Kelly drinkin'

again? Swore off for two months, an' then took to it harder'n ever--perty near killed the baby one night.

THE WOMAN [_with a wan, beseeching smile_]. Won't you please not tell me any more? It just breaks me heart.

THE NEIGHBOR [_grimly_]. I ain't got no other kind o' news to tell. I s'pose I might's well go home.

THE WOMAN. No, don't ye go. I like to have ye here when ye're kinder.

THE NEIGHBOR [_fingering the bed clothes and smoothing them over the woman_]. Well, it's gettin' late, an' I guess ye ought to go to sleep.

THE WOMAN. Oh, no, I won't go to slape till the girls come. They'll bring me somethin' to give me strength. If they'd on'y come soon.

THE NEIGHBOR. Ye ain't goin' to set up 'til they git home?

THE OLD WOMAN. That we are. We're kapin' the cilebratin' till they come.

THE NEIGHBOR. What celebratin'?

THE OLD WOMAN. Why, the Christmas, to be shure. We're goin' to have high jinks to-night. In the ould counthry 'tis always Christmas Day, but here 'tis begun on Christmas Eve, an' we're on'y waitin' for the girls, because they know how to fix things betther nor Mary an' me.