Perkins (rising with difficulty).  As fast as we can, my dear.  We’ve been taking lessons, you know, and can’t move as rapidly as the rest of you.  We’re a trifle—­ah—­a trifle tired.  Yardsley, you tow Bradley into the dining room; and, Barlow, kindly pretend I’m a shawl, will you, and carry me in.

Bradley.  I’ll buy a wheel to-morrow.

Perkins.  Don’t, Brad.  I—­I’ll give you mine.  Fact is, old man, I don’t exactly like feeling like a bird.

[They go out, and as the last, Perkins and Bradley, disappear stiffly through the portieres, the curtain falls.

A DRAMATIC EVENING

CHARACTERS: 

Mr. Thaddeus Perkins, a victim. 
Mr. Edward Bradley, a friend in disguise. 
Mr. Robert Yardsley, an amiable villain. 
Mr. John Barlow, the amiable villain’s assistant. 
Mrs. Thaddeus Perkins, a martyr. 
Mrs. Edward Bradley, a woman of executive ability. 
Jennie, a housemaid.

The scene is placed in the drawing-room of Mr. and Mrs. Thaddeus Perkins, of New York.  The time is a Saturday evening in the early spring, and the hour is approaching eight.  The curtain, rising, discovers Perkins, in evening dress, reading a newspaper by the light of a lamp on the table.  Mrs. Perkins is seated on the other side of the table, buttoning her gloves.  Her wrap is on a chair near at hand.  The room is gracefully over-furnished.

Mrs. Perkins.  Where are the seats, Thaddeus?

Perkins.  Third row; and, by Jove!  Bess (looking at his watch), we must hurry.  It is getting on towards eight now.  The curtain rises at 8.15.

Mrs. Perkins.  The carriage hasn’t come yet.  It isn’t more than a ten minutes’ drive to the theatre.

Perkins.  That’s true, but there are so many carriage-folk going to see Irving that if we don’t start early we’ll find ourselves on the end of the line, and the first act will be half over before we can reach our seats.

Mrs. Perkins.  I’m so glad we’ve got good seats—­down near the front.  I despise opera-glasses, and seats under the galleries are so oppressive.

Perkins.  Well, I don’t know.  For The Lyons Mail I think a seat in the front row of the top gallery, where you can cheer virtue and hiss villany without making yourself conspicuous, is the best.

Mrs. Perkins.  You don’t mean to say that you’d like to sit up with those odious gallery gods?

Perkins.  For a melodrama, I do.  What’s the use of clapping your gloved hands together at a melodrama?  That doesn’t express your feelings.  I always want to put two fingers in my mouth and pierce the atmosphere with a regular gallery-god whistle when I see the villain laid low by the tow-headed idiot in the last act—­but it wouldn’t do in the orchestra.  You might as well expect the people in the boxes to eat peanuts as expect an orchestra-chair patron to whistle on his fingers.