ing description of the wonderful increase in the circulation upon publishing Ida Tarbell's "Life of Lincoln," when he heard a kind of hoarse groan behind him. In the midst of a sentence he turned and questioned, "Oh! is my time up?" With compressed lips the outraged president bowed her head three times like a nodding elephant. Then Mr. McClure: "Young ladies, I

got switched off my subject. I was going to talk about Joan of Arc; but it is too late now. I am very glad to have met you. I am not in the habit of making speeches, but I did what I could. It is a warm morning, young ladies."

At the reception that followed, the young ladies gathered around McClure and plied him with questions. They

99

forgot, for the time being, all about commencement, all about diplomas, all about everything but the romance of a real man's struggle with the world and the sequel of his remarkable courtship. The human-interest story was to them more than the finest academic oration would have been, tho Demosthenes or Cicero had been there to deliver it.

W

HY René Viviani, who formed a ministry in Paris most dramatically the other day, was recognized so recently and so completely as the supreme living master of speech is not readily explained to those who have not heard the man. The eloquence of Viviani did not burst freshly upon the world, seeing that he has talked in public many years. Nor is his Italian name a new one to the political public abroad. All of the world knew, since first he emerged among the deputies with his talk, that he possessed, in the sarcastic phrase of the unfriendly Paris Gaulois, a prodigious gift of words. But somehow his genius as an orator shone with unwonted brilliance all at once when he had turned forty-five. Not that his vocabulary seemed more copious or his gesture finer or his varying mood additionally infectious. René Viviani had managed to integrate his capacities at last, to discharge in one volley, as the Figaro asserts, the artillery of a personality too scattered heretofore.

Personality, then, enforces the Viviani eloquence and explains it, informing it with a Latinity in which strength and artistry blend to render this statesman at fifty-one a prodigy. As Mozart exemplifies to the Rappel the typical boy prodigy, it sees in

Viviani a prodigy matured, the genius who arrives late. The very bulk of the new Premier is large and elegant, we read, by which is not meant that Viviani is a giant physically but that he is heavy -a man of very large shoulders, a gravid ear, large girth at the waistline, full hips, a nose protuberant and a tremendous, changing, harmonious, flowing voice. The Lanterne calls his voice a kaleidoscope of sound, changing its effects in ever new combina

tions but always recognizable as Viviani. It is a voice with tears in it, asserts the Eclair, and there are times when it seems to bleed. Or it rushes upon one like the tempest, and it can be a procession with lutes and garlands. Orpheus had such a voice when he called Eurydice from Hell, suspects the Homme Libre. But, laments the Gaulois, what an enormous penalty France has paid for the privilege of listening to it! The voice of Viviani

charms the republic

to its ruin.

The Italian eye of Viviani, an eye like that in the portraits of medieval dukes of Ferrara, does work formerly allotted to the lungs. By this the Figaro means that instead of roaring his indignation at the wrongs of labor, Viviani flashes it through a look. His eyes can gleam across the largest hall, a point that proves the Florentine origin of the man. He was born,

to be sure, in the north of Africa, suggesting, altho his parents were from France, a touch of the Moor in his swarthiness of skin and something of the Spaniard in a grand deportment. The grizzling hair crowns the face poetically, like bays. Viviani is thus precisely such a figure as one expects to see step out of its frame in the Borghese gallery. He carries an atmosphere with him. He is something more than a mere voice,

a mere manner.

Altho he took to the law and shone at the bar of Paris, René Viviani, to the Gaulois, is an artist primarily and always. The fact is puzzling to all who know him as the workingman's friend, which is, in a way, his political tag. René Viviani, our contemporary unkindly explains, never did a day's work in his life unless we are to take seriously his platform furies and his war on religious faith. The passion of the man is for art and no one in all France has studied it so carefully. He knows the name and the works of every living French painter of distinction. He visits the theaters with a conscientious assiduity. No poet has risen to renown at Paris in our time without a gracious word from him, spoken not when honor came but when the recognition of the world was halting or withheld. In his own obscurity, when an inadequate stipend was eked out by contributions to the Paris press, René Viviani exploited an exquisite style in praise of painters and poets who are now immortal. He is essentially the man of taste, the discerning critic, rich in phrases that last. His judgment of a picture is received without question and the poet he praises becomes famous. Along among the men who are powers in French politics, René Viviani is a power as well in French art and French literature. This means far more in France than it would mean in almost any other country of the globe. The Frenchman can grow as passionate over a literary or artistic dogma as others grow over political doctrines or economic theories, and the political leader who is an authority on such matters has a grip on the French heart that must be very useful indeed when he enters upon a contest for political supremacy.

In his early twenties, this man of genius was very radical, markedly Socialistic. He urged the collective ownership of all the means of production and distribution in words that embarrass him cruelly now when Jean Jaurès resurrects them with fury in the chamber of deputies. To Jean Jaurès the apostasy of René Viviani is a display of turpitude comparable with Lucifer's, the character sketch in the Humanité viewing the Premier, from. that standpoint, as the angel who has fallen lowest. The lust of Viviani, we read, is for power. He yearns for fame, the applause of multitudes and for such things he sacrifices the Socialism in which he believes and the workingmen whose votes brought him opportunity. He has long since ceased to represent a metropolitan constituency and sits for a rural district in which, says the Débats, his speeches are too beautiful to be understood. Yet he calls himself a Socialist in terms of a definition made by himself that

describes opportunism to his old associates in the Jaurès camp.

Charm of manner enables René Viviani to foil his foes completely. An irresistible charm, it is never overdone, seeming, rather, says the Matin, natural and a part of the man. He is a living illustration of the Spanish proverb that courtesy is the political witchery of great personages. Viviani, in his mode of life, retains all the ease of the Bohemianism that was his in the early days of the Pétite République, for which he wrote not only political pieces but preposterous romances in the Ponson de Terrail style. His intimacy with artists and their ways reflects itself in his talk, prone to reek of the studio, and in a careless but tasteful mode of dress. He no longer affects the flowing necktie and turndown collar of the Socialist. He has not the pomaded and perfumed elegance of Caillaux nor the strict correctness of Deschanel, the best-dressed man in France, nor does he kiss the hands of actresses, as he should have done when attending in his official capacity the rehearsals of great theatrical events. Yet he was too dainty to be able to eat garlic with the late Frederic Mistral altho he is southern enough to delight in spaghettis, salads and the very black coffces that are handed about with cigarets at public functions. He is credited with an amazing genius for knowing everybody. His judgment in discerning ability is pronounced infallible, no man in public life having had his prodigious luck in starting successful careers for others. This is inferred to be the secret of his unexampled influence over rising young men in so many walks of life. Of Viviani it has been said that he can achieve more in the chamber of deputies by merely waving his hand than any other politician could do through the most stupendous oration.

This new Premier is affirmed in all French dailies to be the most "definite enemy" that religion has in the whole third republic. To the anticlerical press he incarnates the atheism of the hour, a French atheism, we are reminded by the London Telegraph, a sort of esthetic worship of reason rather than an active hostility

to God. René Viviani is described as destitute of spirituality in both the Pauline and Thomistic senses. He never says his prayers, altho reared piously by a typically Roman Catholic mother who had dreams of seeing him a bishop.

the

Viviani, nevertheless, resents charge that he despises religious faith. Before the true Christian, he declares, he can stand "respectful and uncovered." His religion sustains analogies with Victor Hugo's, and that most national of all the French authors in

fluenced Viviani profoundly in his. youth. He is said to regard Hervieu as the supreme French playwright today. At the claims made for M. Paul Bourget as the greatest living French novelist, René Viviani is said to shrug his shoulders.

The serious defect in the brilliant personality of the new Premier, according to the Gaulois, which recognizes in him a most extraordinary talent, too, is lack of thoroness, a tendency to improvize, to makeshifts. He lives from hour to hour on the splendid expedients and the more splendid phrases he invents. His political life reflects thus his intellectual life and both are replicas of his private fortune, uncertain to this day, seeing that he remains poor in spite of many handsome fees. His appearance as Pre

mier means to our monarchical contemporary that France has fallen into the hands of talkers. He is the greatest orator the republic boasts, not even excepting Jean Jaurès. His simplicity and sobriety of phrase can rival at times the perfection of the late Waldeck-Rousseau, who was likewise, we are assured, a sophisticated rhetorician. There was a difference. WaldeckRousseau happened to be a bourgeois false to his order, whereas Viviani emerged from the ranks of the social revolutionists. He was a Socialist of the extreme school, and in fighting for the destruction of the existing order, laments the Gaulois, he won his fame. The horror of the situation is explained by the ignorance of Viviani respecting every factor in his political policy. Ignorant of finance, knowing nothing of administration, unlearned in economics, without a trace of religion, coming from nowhere and looking at life through the haze of his artistic temperament, he rules with exquisite phrases, from the wealth of which we are invited to study what follows as characteristic:

"Together-our forefathers first, our seniors next and we the last of allhave we addressed ourselves to this task of anticlericalism, this task of unreligion. From the soul of the people all faith in a life to come has been uprooted, torn out by ourselves. The delusion, the unreal vision, of a paradise above is gone.

We have our word for him who halts his lagging footsteps at the setting of the sun, for him who, crushed beneath the labor of his day, sheds tears of wretchedness and misery. 'Behind those rolling clouds at which you gaze so wistfully yet in such high hope,' we say to that wretch, 'there are vain dreams only and no heaven.' Magnificent, indeed,, was the gesture with which to the eyes of that extinguishing in the sky golden gleams we put out the lights of heaven,

man

never to be rekindled there again. And like the infatuated fools we are we say our task is ended, tho it has but begun!"

P

URE gayety and simple sentiment, rather than any serious outlook upon American life, have been the essential fea

tures of the most popular plays of the past theatrical season. Clever, lively characterization of types, descending at times to frank caricature, seems to have attracted the theatergoing public to a far greater extent than the drama of ideas. "Peg o' My Heart," "Grumpy," "Kitty Mackay," "Potash and Perlmutter" and "A Pair of Sixes" have essentially a wide and elemental appeal. If the season on the stage, comments the New York Evening Post in an editorial, has been one of knockabout farce and light sentiment, while the season of 1913-14 in American life has been one of business depression, I. W. W. demonstrations, child-labor agitation, minimum-wage agitation, and tenement-house-improvement agitation, the connection may still be present. "It may be that people have gone to the theater to forget the problems of the day. It may be that we are gay at the present moment as people were gay on the eve of the French Revolution. But in any case it is well to admit that the problems of life are not always literally translated into the drama."

to amuse.

Harvey J. O'Higgins and Harriet Ford have carried the same note of care-free, sophisticated comedy into the realm of the detective drama, usually a field of naïve melodramatics. "The Dummy," described as a "detective comedy," is being presented at the Hudson Theater by the Play Producing Company. Its purpose is frankly But it offers as well a new portrait of the child of the city streets. This portrait is cheery, optimistic, hopeful, diametrically opposed to the tragic, criminal, pathetic figures one is apt to find in the reports of charity organization societies. Barney Cook ("the dummy") is a bit too clever, perhaps, even for the son of a New York policeman. In a certain sense, he is the super-boy, containing the sum total of all the wisdom of the New York adolescent. But this fault may be the I result of a surplus of observation on the part of his creators rather than a poverty of it.

Incompatibility has caused the Trumbell Merediths to separate. They agree that each shall have their little daugh

BOY DETECTIVE

ter Beryl six months out of the year. But at the end of the first six months the disappointed young mother, intent upon devoting her life to the care of the child, cannot bring herself to give Beryl over to the man she no longer loves. One day while Beryl is playing in Central Park in the care of her nurse she is kidnapped. Mrs. Meredith, certain that the child has been stolen by her husband, applies to Walter Babbing, a detective, to rescue her daughter. Meredith himself, a wealthy young New Yorker, is convinced that his wife is hiding the child from him.

Putting his subordinates to work upon clues, Babbing gets evidence indicating that the little girl is in the hands of a band of kidnappers directed by one Cooper, who is directing their movements from the Hotel Antwerp. Babbing engages a suite at that hotel to watch Cooper's movements. Therefore he advertizes for an office-boy whom he can disguise as a bell-boy in order to gain access to a key to the kidnappers' telegram cipher code. Barney Cook, a sixteen-year-old messenger-boy, succeeds in gaining access to the great detective, inspired by the glorious ideal of becoming another Nick Carter. His cleverness in outwitting other applicants for the job interests Babbing.

BABBING. Why do you want to be an office-boy?

BARNEY. I don't-I want to be a detectuf.

BABBING. Oh, you want to be a detectuf-do you?

BARNEY. Yes, and I t'ought maybe you'd gimme a chance after you'd got to

know me.

BABBING. Been reading Nick Carter stuff, have you?

BARNEY. Yes, an' I know 'bout Sherlock Holmes, too.

BABBING. Well, if I ever hear you mention either one of them in my office, I'll fire you.

BARNEY. Are you goin' to take me on? BABBING. Maybe. You've got one thing to recommend you so far that fact that you were able to follow me up here.

BARNEY. I guess I shadowed you, didn't I?

BABBING. Yes, like a fish after bait. I'd have lost you quick enough if I hadn't been looking for a boy.

BARNEY. I didn't think you seen me. BABBING. In this business when you don't know what a thing means, you pre

tend you don't notice it so you can watch it better, see?

BARNEY. Yes, sir.

BABBING. How much a week have you been making?

BARNEY. 'Bout six dollars, countin' tips.

BABBING. That's a good deal, eh? BARNEY. Well, it don't go far whenyou're growin'. It's no joke when you come to buying pants.

BABBING. Legs are all right for an office-boy-you'll need 'em. The thing you don't need is a tongue. You're got to learn to keep your mouth shut. Think you can do it?

BARNEY. Yes, sir, an' I can talk deef and dumb.

BABBING. Deaf and dumb? BARNEY. Yes-wit' my fingers. BABBING. Sit down over there and practice being deaf and dumb a while.

Mrs. Meredith calls upon Babbing to implore him to rescue her child from her husband. As the detective

has summoned him to the hotel that morning, Mrs. Meredith retires to another room. From Meredith, who presently enters, Babbing learns that Cooper and his gang have already made overtures for a large ransom. He then calls the unhappy mother, and informs. the parents that their child is in the hands of a band of professional kid

nappers.

In the meantime he has sent Barney, dressed as a "bell-hop," to Cooper's room with a fake telegram sup-posed to have been sent from Chicago,. with a request for an answer. He has. instructed Barney to try to get some clue to the cipher code. Barney returns with Cooper's code-book, and the key to the cipher is discovered. Sending one of his men for a duplicate copyof the book, the stolen book is returned.. In an effort to ascertain the where-abouts of little Beryl Meredith, Babbing tells one of his aides he has de-cided to have Barney kidnapped as the deaf-mute son of a Chicago millionaire..

BABBING. Do you get me?
FISHER. Well, not exactly.

BABBING. Look here. We'll send a cipher telegram to our Chicago office to be wired back here to Cooper, as if it came from his gang, telling him that a deaf-and-dumb boy, son of wealthy par-ents, is coming here on a certain train to be taken to the Deaf and Dumb Institution to get lessons in lip-reading, and that he'll be in the care of a rather stupid man answering your description- (Bar

ney gets up smiling at Fisher, who glares back at him.)

BABBING. and if Cooper can pick him up it will be as easy as kidnapping a clam. That's the idea. We'll work out the details. You'll get on the train at Albany, with Barney, and see that you leave him in the Grand Central waiting room when you go to look after your baggage. He'll have to be outfitted with clothes and a suit-case like a millionaire's son. He'll attend to that. You get the dictionary. I've got to go back to the office. (Exit Fisher. Babbing goes to table and puts papers in bag as he talks.) Barney, get out of that disguise. (Barney begins to pull off his coat.) have to watch out with these people, you understand? They're dangerous. No matter what happens, don't make any outcry. If you get into a tight place, the fact that you're deaf and dumb may be all that will save you from serious trouble.

BARNEY. (Putting coat over back of chair.) Gee! Will dey gi' me de t'ird de-. gree?

BABBING. They may try to pump you. If they do, be as stupid as you know how. You're not supposed to be more than half-witted any

You'll

One of the gang, Sinker Simonson, greedy for money, has entered into negotiations with Mrs. Meredith. Believing that she has the ransom money on her person, he has brought her to Spider Hart's house in a taxi-cab. Hart refuses to participate in Simonson's plot. They quarrel, and Sinker Simonson returns to his taxi-cab. Hart finally succeeds in deciphering a telegram (his code-book having been stolen by Barney) sufficiently to learn that they are being watched by Babbing and his men. Simonson presently returns with Mrs. Meredith, whom he thrusts into the room. Spider and Rose

"I'LL STICK!"

SPIDER. (To Geoghan.) Get his gun, Pat! (Geoghan takes it from Babbing's hip-pocket and quickly levels it at Babbing, who stops struggling.) GEOGHAN. Got it! Easy there now or I'll blow your nut off.

SINKER. (Back of Babbing.) his hand-cuffs.

Here's

SPIDER. (With Sinker forcing Babbing's hands behind him.) Put 'em on 'm. SINKER. (Snapping them on.) Good as if he was measured for 'em.

SPIDER. I guess that'll hold you for a while, Mr. Babbing!

BABBING. So, you've heard of me, have you?

SPIDER. Yes, and I'll know you next time. Look after the woman, Rose!

In the second act we find Barney, in the guise of the deaf-and-dumb scion of a wealthy family, playing with little Beryl Meredith in the closed gamblinghouse of Spider Hart. Hart and his wife Rose are trying to find a new tenant for the house, which has been closed by the police. Pat Geoghan, a gambler and a member of the kidnapping gang, has discovered a possible tenant for the house, a gambler from the West who wishes to open a house in New York. He is brought in to inspect the premises, and we discover that the half-drunken gambler is Babbing himself in disguise.

Babbing begins to inspect the house.

vigorously deny that Beryl is in the house. Just as the terrified mother is about to leave, she discovers Beryl's doll on the floor. She screams loudly, and rushes to the door in an attempt

to search the house.

MRS. MEREDITH. Beryl! Beryl! (Struggling with Sinker, she succeeds in opening door. Babbing is seen through open door, as if about to enter, Geoghan behind him.)

MRS. MEREDITH. Mr. Babbing! ROSE, SPIDER, GEOGHAN AND SINKER. Babbing!

MRS. MEREDITH. (With a move toward Babbing.) They've got Beryl! She's here! (At the same instant Geoghan thrusts Babbing into the room. Sinker and Spider spring on him. Rose seizes Mrs. Meredith, covering her mouth as she puts her on sofa.)

BABBING. (Struggling with them.) What's the matter with you?

away?

ROSE. She's dead to the world!

BABBING. (Cheerfully.) Well, boys, you've got me on your hands now, haven't you?

SPIDER. Tie him up! GEOGHAN. Throw him in the chair! (Forcing him to big chair of table. Sinker pulls chair toward him.) Go on-get into it-it's as good first as last. (Taking off leather belt.) Here-tie him by the ankles. We'll use this.

I need a new one anyway. (On his knees he straps Babbing's feet together.)

SINKER. We ought to have a rope to hitch him up with.

ROSE. (Snatching scarf from small table.) Here, use this. (Sinker puts it through Babbing's arms and secures him to chair.)

GEOGHAN. (Still on knees.) I suspected this feller the moment I laid eyes on him. SPIDER. (Sarcastically.) Yes I remember you said so. You and Sinker ought to start a correspondence school for crooks and take the first lessons yourselves.

BABBING. Well, what are you scared of? Just came to make a little call on you. Think I'm going to run GEOGHAN. (Rising.) Ye'e come to stay a while, I can tell you that! (Preparing handkerchief for gag.) couple o' days start on you! SPIDER. Yes, but we're goin' to get a

BABBING. Better leave me the lease of

the house when you go.

SINKER. Plug his jaws! SPIDER. He's probably got some of his men around here.

GEOGHAN. We'll have to make our getaway over the roofs.

SINKER. (In front of Babbing.) Here take your bit-take your bit. If you get hungry, you can chew the rag!

GEOGHAN. (Back of Babbing, tyinghandkerchief.) There's the mighty deSure tective with his mouth stopped! without that, he'll be as helpless as Sampson without his hair.

ROSE. What are we going to do with this woman?

SPIDER. Carry her upstairs.

SINKER. (As he and Geoghan go up to Mrs. Meredith.) The way that dame lied to me!

GEOGHAN. Here, give her to me. (Lifting her.) How much does she weigh? Get your shoulder under her, Sinker, get your shoulder under her. SPIDER. When you get her upstairs dope her, an' lock her in! GEOGHAN. Them white slave movies got nothin' on dis. (Sinker and Geoghan quickly carry her out.)

ROSE. (At door.) I'll bet that Dummy's the Jonah that got us into this mess! SPIDER. Rose, go upstairs and get yourself and the kids ready to travel and travel fast.

ROSE. What'll I take with me?

SPIDER. Nothing heavier than a toothbrush.

ROSE. Piggy! (She hurries out, closing door. Spider moves down and looks Babbing over, hesitates, feels across him for his pockets, finally takes out wallet from right-hand pocket, opens it, takes out bills, puts the wallet back in Babbing's pocket, counts the bills, and turns up stage, then looks back.)

SPIDER. Thanks, I'll borrow this for railroad fares. (Goes to sideboard, empties his glass, reaches underneath for box of cigars, puts cigars in his pocket, throws box on the floor, gives one more look over sideboard as if for another box of cigars, then looks toward Babbing, then goes down to him, hesitates, feels in his left-hand waistcoat pocket, then in coat pocket and finds the cigar he gave him, puts it in his own pocket.) Now, Mr. Babbing, if you need any exercise you can wink. (He pushes electric button in panel of door, then goes out without looking back, closing door. The stage is dark and still for an instant, then the

moves

door is opened. Barney appears with flash lamp. He into room, stumbles-"Gee!"-then throws light on Babbing who makes inarticulate sound.)

an

BARNEY. All right, Chief, I'm wit' you. Wait till I pull dis ting o' your face! (Tugging at gag.)

BABBING. (Free of it.) You dam' little fool, I don't need you. Get out of this

-get on your job!

you.

BARNEY. Can't I cut you loose? BABBING. No! They'll miss Quick! Stick to the girl! (Barney turns at door with the light on his face.) BARNEY. I'll stick. (He opens door, and goes out cautiously.)

Taking the two children with them, and accompanied by Geoghan, the Harts motor to their bungalow in the Catskills, planning to escape to Canada as soon as possible. Barney and Beryl, hungry, cold and sleepy, fall asleep in the window-seats, while the outlaws prepare supper and discuss plans to evade capture. Rose asks Spider how they will make their living in future. "I'm going to Canada and start a land-scheme up there in the Northwest," he replies. "You locate a townsite out in the bush, where land ain't worth more'n ten cents a mile. You form a land company made up of yourself and some of the boys. You get out your maps and your liter

ature an' you sell Main Street lots to eastern suckers at Fifth Avenue prices. The more you ask for them the easier they sell." Rose, ambitious to become respectable, exclaims: "For the love of Mike, hurry up an' start it. I want to see you earning an honest livin' again!" As they are planning their escape, they forget the presence of the two sleeping children, when suddenly Barney, who has played the part of the "dummy" thus far to perfection, "I'm a detectuf!" murmurs contentedly in his sleep:

SPIDER. I'll put him asleep! This game's up, kid. You explain yerselfor you start sayin' yer prayers! (He gives Barney a blow that sends him sprawling, then goes to the fireplace, and puts a big poker in the blaze. Beryl, at Barney's fall, wakes up and sits watching with frightened eyes.)

ROSE. Ain't he the limit!

SPIDER. Bring him to me, Pat. I'll make him talk, or I will burn his long tongue out. (Geoghan grasps Barney and drags him up. Beryl gives a frightened cry. Rose springs to her.)

ROSE. Piggy! If you're going to do anything like that, you take him out in the wood-shed.

makes

SPIDER. Aw, plug yer ears! (Beryl an outcry, clinging to Rose.) Take her upstairs. (Geoghan pulls Barney's coat off.)

don't you begin. What's detainin' you? GEOGHAN. Well, if you can talk, why

SPIDER. (Holding Barney by the collar, threateningly.) Are you goin' to talk? Er d' you want us to make you yell first.

BARNEY. I didn't know I could talk! SPIDER. (Twisting his ear.) You can hear a little too, eh?

BARNEY. I didn't know I could hear! SPIDER. You cut that out! What've you been playin' deaf an' dumb for?

BARNEY. (Rubbing his ear.) I ain't been playin' it. I've been deef an' dumb since I was a baby.

103

SPIDER. You have, eh? ROSE. What a little liar! BARNEY. No, I ain't, lady. I ust to be able to talk, but I had scarlet fever-an' when I got better I was a deef mute. It must 'a' come back to me in my sleep. SPIDER. Can you beat that? come from Chicago, don't you? BARNEY Yes, sir.

SPIDER. Father rich, eh? BARNEY. (Looking down clothes.) Yes, sir.

You

at his

SPIDER. What street did you live on in Chicago?

BARNEY. What's de matter wit' youse? D' you t'ink I'm givin' y' a spiel?

ROSE. Talks like an Eaton scholar, don't it?

GEOGHAN. Well, he talked better when he was dumb-I'll say that for him. SPIDER. Where'd you get that Bowery accent, Reginald?

BARNEY.

Which?

(Looking himself over.)

SPIDER. You come from the Bowery, kid. You can't con us.

BARNEY. Sure I do. I was adopted.
ROSE. Adopted!

BARNEY. Yes, ma'am.

got sick.

Just before I

ROSE. The lyin' little devil! An' I thought he was 'bout half-witted!

Barney finally convinces them that he was sent by Cooper as a spy upon his kidnapping colleags, that Cooper had told him to enact the part of a deaf-and-dumb boy, and that not even Simonson was aware of Cooper's plan to protect his own interests in the plot. "Where did Cooper pick you up?" asks Spider Hart.

BARNEY. Down in Hudson Street, where I was talkin' deef an' dumb on my hands-wit' Dummy Jordan on de corner o' Grove. An' he took me up to de Hotel Antwerp and dolled me all up like dis

an' he tol' me to make out I was de son of a Chicago millionaire dat he's snatched down in de Gran' Central Station if anybody asked me on deir fingers 'cause he tol' me I'd gotta be deef an' dumb. An' he tol' me I'd gotta listen to youse people an' watch out dat you an' Sinker didn't get away wit' de money fer de Meredith kid

ROSE. Piggy!

BARNEY. And if you tried to do any dirty work, I was to telegraph him room six forty-three at the Antworth-caus dat was his room

ROSE. Well, that's the thanks you get for mixing up with a dirty crook!

BARNEY. An' den he puts me in a taxi wit' 'im and takes me up to Central Park. I'm deef and dumb, and Sinker brings me An' he gets out an' Sinker gets in, an' down to your joint and Cooper promises me fi' dollars a day-an' he gives me fi' an' deres de money (showing it), an' he owes me twenty

ROSE. Well, that's about Cooper's size! GEOGHAN. I don't know now, that boy lies so easy. SPIDER. (Taking telegram from pocket.) He told you to telegraph him, did he?

BARNEY (Pulling book from pocket.) Yes, an' he gimme dis dictionary to do

it out of.