A Rattling Irish Farce.

CHARACTERS.

Patrick Grady,
Denis Hallorahan,
Bridget Grady.

Scene.—Ordinary room. Tables and chairs, L. Wash-tub, C, by door. Cradle, R, and churn. Curtain rises. Discloses Bridget at table.

Bridget. Shure, an’ it’s the terrible loife I’m lading. There’s me husband, Patrick Grady, always off av a night to Casey’s, getting blind drunk, an’ rowling an’ cavortin’ a home in the morning, a swearing that he’s in wid the gang, an’ that they’re goin’ for to run him for alderman. A foine alderman it is that he will make, with his shirt paping out av his coat, an’ divil a sock to his fut. Faith, I belave he’s goin’ ter the bad, intirely. He’s gettin’ so mighty high chuned av late that he’ll soon be a riding down town in a stage, instead av standing on the rear end av a truck. Oh, bad cess to the day that ivir I married him.

[Enter Denis.

Den. Well, Bridget?

Brid. It isn’t well at all, brother Denis.

Den. Where’s Patrick?

Brid. Ax me something aisier. Down to Casey’s, I suppose, setting on top av a beer keg an’ swaring that he’s the man that’s going to put Cleveland out av the White House.

Den. On a drunk again?

Brid. Whin isn’t he on a drunk? Shure I’d be afther fearing that he was ill if he should come home sober.

Den. It’s a bad business, Bridget.

Brid. Ye are right. Ye see he’s got his head crammed wid politics.

Den. Politics, is it?

Brid. Yis; he went an’ pawned the stove to raise a banner wid. Shure he thinks that he’ll be Congressman afore long, an’ ruin the prospects av his childer intirely.

Den. Will he be home soon?

Brid. I’m expecting him every moment. Oh, Denny, I wish ye would rayson wid him.

Den. So I will, Bridget. His conduct, be heaven, is scandalous in the extreme!

Brid. But don’t be too hard wid him. Patrick manes well.

Den. I’ll thrate him dacent. [Aside.] I’ll kick the devil’s left lung out av him if he gives me any av his unpolite conversation.

[Noise outside. Enter Patrick, staggering. Throws hat on floor, and reels front.

Pat. May I inquire, Missus Grady, who’s a been putting grease on the front piazzy?

Brid. Nobody, Patrick.

Pat. (Severely.) Don’t yer lie to me, Missus Grady. I may be suffering undher a fit av despair, but I am not drunk, and I have me feelings. Shure, an’ I fell complately down on that front piazzy.

Brid. Ye don’t know what ye are saying, Patrick.

Pat. (Looking at Denis.) How long since you have been buying cigar signs to stick up in your drawing-room, Missus Grady?

Brid. Why, that’s your brother Denis.

Pat. (Advancing.) Faith, an’ it is! Denny, me boy, give me your flipper. Have ye a Henry Mud consaled wid you?

Den. I don’t smoke.

Pat. Yer don’t? Yer a Murphyite, are ye? An’ may I ax what sent ye here?

Brid. He heard what a drunken husband his sister had, and he came down to see about it.

Pat. Ah—ha! he did? Well, it’s my opinion, Missus Grady, that he’s drunk as an owl himself, and isn’t agreeable company for gintlemin like mesilf.

Den. I never drink, an’ it would be better, Patrick, if you never touched the whisky.

Pat. Nayther I do. It’s a nob that I am. A gallon bottle of dam shame, an’ put it down on the slate.

Den. Well, I mane it would be a dale better if ye left alcoholic stimulants alone.

Pat. Alcoholic stimulants, is it? Missus Grady, are ye aware that yer brother spakes Frinch? It’s the great temperance man that he is who praches for love an’ not money.

Den. But, Patrick, think av the shame it causes your wife for you to walk home intoxicated every night av your life.

Pat. I niver walk home. Bedad Assemblyman Murphy pushed me around to me residence this avening in his barouche—he peddles oranges out av it in the daytime. Ah, the assemblyman’s a great man. He’s got a pull in the ward, and he’s going to get me a political job a kaping the sparrows from flying away wid the City Hall.

Den. But your wife and children are a-starving in the manewhile.

Brid. That’s so, Patrick.

Pat. Will yer shut up, Bridget? yer want ice-crame and sponge cake fer lunch, I suppose. The next thing yer’ll be sinding out afther broiled quail in a box afther yer get to bed. It’s too toney, you’re getting, entirely.

Den. Is that the way to spake to your wife?

Pat. Whose wife is she?

Den. Yours, worse luck; but she’s my sister.

Pat. Shure, it wasn’t her fault, poor thing. Perhaps yer would be plased to have me buy her a pianny an’ get her a velocipede to amuse herself wid while I’m at work?

Den. You’re drunk, Patrick, and yer can’t see me argyment.

Brid. That’s thrue.

Pat. Will ye be still, Bridget? I’m drunk, am I, Mister Hallorahan? Av coorse I am; it’s elated wid joy that I am, because of the war in Europe. It’s agoin’ to mend the times in this country, an’ we’ll all git paid for being gentlemen, every man of us. Oh, I have the head for a senator.

Brid. You’re looney, Pat.

Pat. Missus Grady, if ye don’t shut up I’ll be forced to be on the lookout fur another wife, on account av yer suddent death.

Brid. Patrick, your cruel words will drive me wild with grief.

Pat. Thin we’ll send ye to play Hamlet.

Den. Talk gently to your wife, Pat; she’s a woman.

Pat. Yer don’t mane it. Well, did yer imagine I didn’t know that? I have frequent opportunities av seeing women afore. There’s Widow Leary, for occasion.

Brid. Widdy Leary, she’s a fine crathur! A female skeleton, that paints herself up like a brick house, an’ hasn’t the shape av a barrel.

Pat. The Widow Leary recognizes a fine man when she sees him. She tould Father Riordan that I had the natest fut av any man for blocks around.

Brid. She did, did she?

Pat. I’m a givin’ it to ye wid directness, Bridget.

Brid. When I catch her I’ll kill her. Thrying to intice me lawful wedded husband away, the cork-legged ould scarecrow.

Pat. That will do. Ye ought to be elated to think that ye have sich a voluptuous-appearing husband, and ought to be continted to humor him, especially whin he’s got sich influence wid the bys. Do ye know the “Garvey Musketeers,” Denis?

Den. Yis.

Pat. Shure, they’ve axed me to turn out wid them to carry their target instead of a nagur. Perhaps yer would condescind to ax me for a place in the post office now?

Brid. Are ye goin’ to turn out wid those blaggards?

Pat. Don’t yer be after alluding to the Garvey Musketeers as blaggards, Missus Grady. They are gintlemen; divil a wan av them works for a living.

Brid. They’re not off av the Island long enough.

Pat. Perhaps they are not cheeney enough for yer.

Brid. They’re a lot of rowdies, Pat. Why don’t you join the Father Matthy’s?

Pat. Would ye hear the woman? she’s putting on frills enough for an inspector’s wife. Wouldn’t yer like me to buy meself a little white apron an’ turn out wid the masons?

Den. Pat, can’t you listen to rayson?

Pat. Av coorse.

Den. Is it sensible or raysonable for you to be flying around wid the boys and laving your poor wife at home? Suppose some man should run off wid her.

Pat. Begorra, I’d jump on his chest till he spit blood, so I would.

Den. Now promise me you’ll stay at home more nights.

Brid. Yes, Pat, do, and jine the T. A. B’s.

Pat. Shure, Casey would drape his saloon in black if I did.

Brid. The curse of St. Patrick light on Casey. [She rises and approaches Pat, tickles him under the chin.] Then, Patsey, darlint, sign the pledge.

Pat. But it will spoil me hould in the ward. Who ever heard av a temperance politician.

Den. Drop politics an’ stick to bricklaying, Pat.

Pat. Well, I believe I will. From this hour Pat Grady, Iskwire, drinks no more! [Aside—at his own expense.] Bridget, shoulder that broom an’ we’ll give the leddies an’ jintlemen in front “Sons of Temperance,” T. A. B., and yer, Denis, jine in the chorus.

(All form group at front of stage and sing. At end of song flat closes in.)

[THE END.]