(She takes jug from dresser and goes off L. TED goes to HENSHAW, who backs away from him and picks up a chair with which to defend himself.)
TED. I’ve learnt a bit to-night. Ho, you crocodile! Ho, you whitewinged supplechre.
HENSHAW. I swear it’s a lot of lies. I believe she was suspicious and said all that just to try us.
TED. Likely, ain’t it. (loudly) Why, she swallowed it like a lamb.
HENSHAW. ‘Ush! She’ll ‘ear you. Let’s slip out while she’s gone, and I’ll put my own clothes on, and —
TED. Not me. I’m going to ‘ave a drink. Telling all these lies on your account has made me dry.
HENSHAW. Well, I’m going. I can’t stand this any longer. Tell her I’ve gone back to Scotland.
(goes out C as MRS. HENSHAW enters L. with jug of beer.)
MRS. HENSHAW. Why, where’s your friend? (brings glasses from dresser to table)
TED. Oh, he remembered ‘e’d got an appointment, in — in — Scotland, and ‘urried off.
MRS. HENSHAW. He might have said good-bye. Now I shan’t see ‘im and George together.
TED. His boat — er — train starts at — er — He’s just got time to catch it.
MRS. HENSHAW. Pity I was so ‘ong (pours him out a glass of ale), but it took a long time to draw.
TED. (takes a drink) Beer getting low?
MRS. HENSHAW. NO, I don’t think it’s getting low. Something ‘ad got stuck in the tap.
TED. (nodding)’Ops I expect. (drinks again)
MRS. HENSHAW. Black beetle I think. (TED puts glass down hastily and shudders) What, is it flat? Let me freshen it up for you. (advances with jug.)
TED. (firmly) No, thanks; not another drop. I’ve ‘ad one already this evening. (turns head, shudders and wipes mouth on his sleeve) Well, I must be going too. Got to be up early to-morrow.
MRS. HENSHAW. (in surprise) What, another beanfeast?
TED. (regarding her) Work! Good night. (crosses)
MRS. HENSHAW. GOOD NIGHT. (goes to open door C.)
TED. I’ll pop over the fence. I haven’t got the front door key.
MRS. HENSHAW. (AS TED GOES OFF L.) All right. Good night.
(She bolts the door after him and then bolts the door C. She puts the room to rights, talking as she does so.)
MRS. HENSHAW. There you are Mr. Alfred Bell George Henshaw. Now it’s my turn — I’ll do a bit o’ play-acting and see ‘ow you like it; and I don’t want no ‘usky voice neither. You can sleep in Scotland to-night for a change; and if you don’t like that try half o’ Ted’s bed.
(She brings candle from dresser and takes it to table. She yawns once or twice and glances at door C. There is a sound of a latch-key in the lock and the door is tried, but as it is bolted, it cannot be opened.)
Ah! There is my lord.
(HENSHAW knocks at the door C. MRS. HENSHAW opens it. HENSHAW stands by the door. He has resumed his own clothes.)
MRS. HENSHAW. (in high-pitched affected voice) Why! Good gracious, Mr. Bell! Did you miss your train?
HENSHAW. Bell? Bell! It’s me, Polly.
MRS. HENSHAW. GO away at once, Sir! How dare you call me by my Christian name? I’m surprised at you.
HENSHAW. It’s me, I tell you — George! (attempts to enter but is prevented by MRS. HENSHAW) —
MRS. HENSHAW. That’ll do, you can’t come in here. I’m not one of your bus ladies you know.
HENSHAW. I don’t know what you are driving at. What are you calling me Bell for?
Mrs Henshaw. Now, Mr Bell, I don’t want no nonsense. You go off ‘ome.
Henshaw. I’m George. I tell you-your ‘usband George.
MRS. HENSHAW. (APPEARING TO HESITATE AND peering at him) I’m sure I don’t know what to make of it. Ted Stokes brought round a man named Bell to-night, so like my husband that I can’t tell the difference. I don’t know what to do, but I do know this — I don’t let you in until I have seen you both together, so that I can tell which is which. I don’t mean to ‘ave no mistakes.
HENSHAW. (startled) Both together. I tell you I’m George. Look at me!
MRS. HENSHAW. I am looking but it’s no good. I can’t tell. I must see you both together.
HENSHAW. But where is this Mr. Bell?
MRS. HENSHAW. Well, if you’re not him he went off to Scotland ten minutes ago. If you’re George you’d better go and find him, and if you’re Alfred Bell you ought to be ashamed of yourself. (prepares to close the door)
HENSHAW. Wait a bit. Here’s Ted, he’ll tell you who I am. (beckons)
MRS. HENSHAW. Ted?
HENSHAW. (meekly) Yes, Polly.
MRS. HENSHAW. Well, of all the impudence! How dare you Polly me. How dare you carry on like this? What do you mean by it?
HENSHAW. It’s me. I tell you.
(TED STOKES appears by his side.)
TED. It’s him right enough; it’s your husband. Alfred Bell has gone back to Scotland.
MRS. HENSHAW. HOW dare you stand there and tell me them falsehoods, Ted Stokes. I wonder the ground don’t open and swallow you up. I’ll tell my dear husband of your goings on.
TED. I tell you this is George. Bring the candle up and ‘ave a good look at him.
MRS. HENSHAW. I don’t want any of your nonsense, Ted Stokes. It’s Mr. Bell, and if you don’t both go away I’ll call the police.
HENSHAW. If you can’t tell us apart, how do you know I’m Mr. Bell? Come now, answer me that.
MRS. HENSHAW. How do I know? How do I know! Why, because directly after you and Mr. Stokes ‘ad gone my husband came home.
HENSHAW. Came home?
Mrs. HENSHAW. “Yes, and don’t make so much noise, he’s gone up to bed.
HENSHAW AND TED.(agast and together) Gone up to bed?
(Both start. She pushes them out with the door, slams and bolts it, and taking up candle pauses at door R. and blows a kiss towards door C.)
CURTAIN.
THE GHOST OF JERRY BUNDLER
First produced, St. James’s Theatre, London, — 20, 1899.
Revived. Her Majesty’s Theatre, — 20, 1902. Same cast as above except Mr. Frank Gillmore, whose part was played by Mr. Charles Rock. The Herman Merivale Benefit Matinee.
Haymarket Theatre. Sept. 9, 1902. Ran 100 performances. Avenue Theatre. Dec. 20, 1902. Ran 38 performances
THE GHOST OF JERRY BUNDLER.
SCENE. — The Commercial Room in an old-fashioned hotel in a small country town. An air of old fashioned comfort is in evidence everywhere. Old sporting prints on the walls.
On the table up C. are half a dozen candlesticks, old-fashioned shape with snuffer attached. Two pairs of carpet slippers are set up within fender. Red curtains to window recess. Shutters or blinds to windows. Armchair and about six other chairs in the room. One old-fashioned settle. One small table. Clock. Decanter of water, half a dozen toddy tumblers. Matches, etc. The only light is a ruddy glow from the fire. Kettle on hob. Moonlight from R. of window when shutter is opened. Practical chandelier from ceiling or lights at side of mantelpiece. DOCTOR’S coat and muffler on chair up L., his cap on mantelpiece.
All lights out, dark stage. Opening music. Curtain rise — ticking of clock heard. Wind, then church clock chimes, the Lights come very slowly up, when the red glow is seen in the fireplace the low murmurs of the characters heard, and gradually get louder as lights come up to when SOMERS’ voice tops all.
(The stage occupied by all characters except GEORGE the waiter. Discovered, PEN FOLD, sitting in arm chair L. of fire, above it. DOCTOR LEEK standing above fire and leaning on mantleshelf HIRST sitting on settle below fire and nearest to audience. SOMERS seated on settle with him but above him. MALCOLM and BEL- DON on chairs R. C., facing fire. ALL are smoking, and drink from their respective glasses from time to time. SOMERS has just finished a story as Curtain rises.)
OMNES. Oh, I say, that sounds impossible, etc. SOMERS. Haunted or not haunted, the fact remains that no one stays in the house long. It’s been let to several tenants
since the time of the murder, but they never completed their tenancy. The last tenant held out for a month, but at last he gave up like the rest, and cleared out, although he had done the place up thoroughly, and must have been pounds out of pocket by the transaction.
MALCOLM. Well, it’s a capital ghost story, I admit, that is, as a story, but I for one can’t swallow it.
HIRST. I don’t know, it is not nearly so improbable as some I have heard. Of course it’s an old idea that spirits like to get into the company of human beings. A man told me once, that he travelled down by the Great Western, with a ghost as fellow passenger, and hadn’t the slightest suspicion of it, until the inspector came for tickets. My friend said, the way that ghost tried to keep up appearances, by feeling in all its pockets, and even looking on the floor for its ticket, was quite touching. Ultimately it gave it up, and with a loud groan vanished through the ventilator.
(SOMERS, MALCOLM and LEEK laugh heartily.)
BELDON Oh, I say come now, that’ll do.
PEN FOLD (seriously). Personally I don’t think it’s a subject for jesting. I have never seen an apparition myself, but I have known people who have, and I consider that they form a very interesting link between us and the after life. There’s a ghost story connected with this house, you know.
OMNES. Eh! Oh? Really!
MALCOLM (rising and going to mantelpiece, takes up his glass of toddy). Well, I have used this house for some years now. I travel for Blennet and Burgess — wool — and come here regularly three times a year, and I’ve never heard of it. (Sits down again on his chair, holding glass in his hand.)
LEEK. And I’ve been here pretty often too, though I have only, been in practice here for a couple of years, and I have never heard it mentioned, and I must say I don’t believe in anything of the sort, In my opinion ghosts are the invention of weak-minded idiots.
PENFOLD. Weak-minded idiots or not, there is a ghost story connected with this house, but it dates a long time back.
(GEORGE, the waiter, enters D. L. with tray and serviette.)
Oh, here’s George, he’ll bear me out. You’ve heard of Jerry Bundler, George?
GEORGE (C.). Well, I’ve just ‘eard odds and ends, sir, but I never put much count to ’em. There was one chap ‘ere, who was under me when fust I come, he said he seed it, and the Guv’nor sacked him there and then. (Goes to table by window, puts tray down, takes up glass and wipes it slowly.)
(MEN laugh.)
PENFOLD. Well, my father was a native of this town, and he knew the story well. He was a truthful man and a steady churchgoer. But I have heard him declare that once in his life he saw the ghost of Jerry Bundler in this house; let me see, George, you don’t remember my old dad, do you?
(GEORGE puts down glasses over table.)
GEORGE. NO, sir. I come here forty years ago next Easter, but I fancy he was before my time.
PENFOLD. Yes, though not by long. He died when I was twenty, and I shall be sixty-two next month, but that’s neither here nor there.
(GEORGE goes up to table C tidying up and listening.)
LEEK. Who was this Jerry Bundler?
PEN FOLD. A London thief, pickpocket, highwayman — anything he could turn his dishonest hand to, and he was run to earth in this house some eighty years ago.
(GEORGE puts glass down and stands listening.)
He took his last supper in this room.
(PENFOLD leans forward. BELDON looks round to L. nervously.)
That night soon after he had gone to bed, a couple of Bow Street runners, the predecessors of our present detective force turned up here. They had followed him from London, but had lost scent a bit, so didn’t arrive till late. A word to the landlord, whose description of the stranger who had retired to rest, pointed to the fact that he was the man they were after, of course enlisted his aid and that of the male servants and stable hands. The officers crept quietly up to Jerry’s bedroom and tried the door, it wouldn’t budge. It was of heavy oak and bolted from within.
(OMNES lean forward, showing interest.)
Leaving his comrade and a couple of grooms to guard the bedroom door, the other officer went into the yard, and, procuring a short ladder, by this means reached the window of the room in which Jerry was sleeping. The Inn servants and stable hands saw him get on to the sill and try to open the window. Suddenly there was a crash of glass, and with a cry, he fell in a heap on to the stones at their feet. Then in the moonlight, they saw the face of the highwayman peering over the sill.
(OMNES move uneasily.)
They sent for the blacksmith, and with his sledge-hammer he battered in the strong oak panels, and the first thing that met their eyes was the body of Jerry Bundler dangling from the top of the four-post bed by his own handkerchief.
(OMNES sit back, draw their breath, and are generally uneasy. Slight pause?)
SOMERS. I say, which bedroom was it? (Earnestly). PENFOLD. That I can’t tell you, but the story goes that Jerry still haunts this house, and my father used to declare positively that the last time he slept here, the ghost of Jerry Bundler lowered itself from the top of his four-post bed and tried to strangle him. —
BELDON (jumps up, gets behind his chair, twists chair round; nervously). O, I say, that’ll do. I wish you’d thought to ask your father which bedroom it was.
PENFOLD. What for?
BELDON. Well, I should take jolly good care not to sleep in it, that’s all. (Goes to back.)
(PENFOLD rising, goes to fire, and knocks out his pipe, LEEK gets by armchair.)
PENFOLD. There’s nothing to fear. I don’t believe for a moment that ghosts could really hurt one. (GEORGE lights candle at table.) In fact, my father used to say that it was only the unpleasantness of the thing that upset him, and that, for all practical purposes, Jerry’s fingers might have been made of cotton wool for all the harm they could do.
(GEORGE hands candle, gets to door and holds it open.)
BELDON. That’s all very fine, a ghost story is a ghost story, but when a gentleman tells a tale of a ghost that haunts the house in which one is going to sleep, I call it most ungentlemanly.
(BELDON places his chair to L. of table R. PENFOLD goes up to C. LEEK sits in arm chain BELDON goes to fire-place.)
PENFOLD. Pooh! Nonsense. (At table up C.).
(During his speech GEORGE lights one of the candles.)
Ghosts can’t hurt you. For my own part, I should rather like to see one.
OMNES. Oh, come now — etc.
PENFOLD. Well, I’ll bid you good-night, gentlemen, (He goes towards door L. GEORGE opens it for him; he passes out as they all say.)
OMNES. Good-night.
(HIRST rises, crosses to L. C.)
BELDON (up R., calling after him). And I hope Jerry’ll pay you a visit.
MALCOLM (rises, goes to fire). Well, I’m going to have another whisky if you gentlemen will join me. I think it’ll do us all good after that tale. George, take the orders.
(GEORGE comes down with salver to table R., gathers up glasses.)
SOMERS. Not quite so much hot water in mine. MALCOLM. I’ll have the same again, George. BELDON. A leetle bit of lemon in mine, George. LEEK. Whisky and soda for me, please.
HIRST. Whisky!
(GEORGE goes to table R., collects glasses, crosses to door L. speaks.)
GEORGE (to MALCOLM). Shall I light the gas, Mr. Malcolm? (At door.)
MALCOLM. NO, the fire’s very comfortable, unless any of you gentlemen prefer the gas.
OMNES. NO, not at all — etc.
MALCOLM. Never mind, George. ( This to GEORGE as no one wants the gas.) The firelight is pleasanter.
(Exit GEORGE for orders L.)
(BELDON gets C.)
MALCOLM (at fire). Does any gentleman know another — ?
SOMERS (seated R.). Well, I remember hearing —
BELDON (up C.). Oh, I say — that’ll do. —
(OMNES laugh.)
LEEK. Yes, I think you all look as if you’d heard enough
ghost stories to do you the rest of your lives. And you’re not all as anxious to see the real article as the old gentleman who’s just gone.
HIRST (looking to L.). Old humbug! I should like to put him to the test. (C.) (Bus.) I say, suppose I dress up as Jerry Bundler and go and give him a chance of displaying his courage? I bet I’d make the old party sit up. —
MALCOLM. Capital!
BELDON. A good idea.
LEEK. I shouldn’t, if I were you.
HIRST. Just for the joke, gentlemen (C.).
SOMERS. NO, no — drop it, Hirst.
HIRST. Only for the joke. Look here, I’ve got some things that’ll do very well. We’re going to have some amateur theatricals at my house. We’re doing a couple of scenes from “The Rivals,” Somers, (pointing to SOMERS) and I have been up to town to get the costumes, wigs, etc., to-day. I’ve got them up-stairs — knee-breeches, stockings, buckled shoes, and all that sort of thing. It’s a rare chance. If you wait a bit.
I’ll give you a full dress rehearsal, entitled “Jerry Bundler, or the Nocturnal Stranger.” (At door L.).
LEEK (sneeringly). You won’t frighten us, will you?
HIRST. I don’t know so much about that — it’s a question of acting, that’s all.
MALCOLM. I’ll bet you a level sov, you don’t frighten me.
HIRST (quietly). A level sov. (Pauses.) Done. I’ll take the bet to frighten you first, and the old boy afterwards. These gentlemen shall be the judges. (Points to LEEK and BELDON.)
BELDON (up C.). You won’t frighten us because we’re prepared for you, but you’d better leave the old man alone. It’s dangerous play. (Appeals to LEEK).
HIRST. Well, I’ll try you first. (Moves to door and pauses.) No gas, mind.
OMNES. NO! no!
HIRST (laughs). I’ll give you a run for your money.
(GEORGE enters, holds door open.)
(Exit HIRST.)
(GEORGE passes drinks round. Five drinks. SOMERS takes the one ordered for HIRST and puts it on the table R. BELDON sits R. C. GEORGE crosses to table, puts two drinks down, goes to fire and gives drinks, then up to table, puts tray down, takes up glass and begins to wipe it, gets down L. for lines.)
Works of W. W. Jacobs Page 290
