Eben. I should say so. And my son abandons his luxurious home, his highly respectable connections, for such society as this?
Clap. Lord bless you, young gentlemen have their little freaks, you know.
Eben. And so have old gentlemen too. I have a very sudden one myself. For how long has my son engaged this room?
Clap. Let me see; he has paid me for it up to six o’clock to-night.
Eben. And after that I suppose it will be to let.
Clap. Of course. Though probably he’ll keep it himself.
Eben. Hark you, Mr. Claptrap.
Clap. Clapboard, sir.
Eben. Mr. Clapboard, I want to hire this room myself. What does my son pay you?
Clap. Six dollars a week. Cheap enough.
Eben. All right. I’ll engage it for a week myself, for which I will pay you twelve.
Clap. But, sir, he has the first choice.
Eben. No, he hasn’t; he’s not of age. I am his guardian, and I want it myself; so here’s your money. At six o’clock I shall come and take possession.
Clap. But, Mr. Crotchet —
Eben. No more words are necessary. You keep a house for the entertainment of gentlemen who wish a quiet place in the country. You certainly cannot refuse so handsome an offer as I have made you.
Clap. But your son —
Eben. Has comfortable quarters at home, where he belongs. You can inform him of my appearance here, and of the bargain I have made. Tell him to go home and amuse himself; that I shall positively take up my quarters here at six o’clock. (Aside.) There’s something wrong here; “a tender attachment,” I’ll be bound; and I’m determined to find it out. (Aloud.) Good day, Mr. Claptrap. [Exit, R.
Clap. Clapboard, sir – Now here’s a nice mess! What will Mr. Horace say to this, after he has got everything comfortably arranged for his purpose, to be flustered in this manner. It’s too bad!
Enter Horace, R
Horace. I say, Clapboard, why don’t you light up your stairs? I nearly tumbled over an old chap just now, who was going down.
Clap. Old chap, indeed! Do you know who it was?
Hor. Haven’t the least idea.
Clap. Well, sir, it was your father.
Hor. My father? Whew! Then the old gentleman has found me out!
Clap. He certainly has; but he’s laboring under a terrible mistake. Some one has sent him an anonymous note, bidding him look after you, for you had formed a tender attachment.
Hor. A tender attachment? That’s some mischief of the fellows at Jobson’s. Well, what does he propose to do?
Clap. He’s engaged this room.
Hor. Engaged this room? Why, Clapboard, it’s mine – isn’t it?
Clap. Until six o’clock. If you’ll remember, that was the time for which you took it.
Hor. But I want it a week longer.
Clap. You’re too late. He’s engaged it, and paid for it; and will be here at six o’clock to take possession.
Hor. Clapboard, you’ve played me a shabby trick!
Clap. I couldn’t help it, sir; he thrust the money into my hands; said he was your legal guardian, and told me to send you home.
Hor. I’ll not go until my work is finished. Well, Clapboard, let him come; his stay shall be short.
Clap. What will you do?
Hor. That’s a question for consideration. Six months ago my father and myself differed with regard to my choice of a profession. He wished me to be a lawyer. I determined to be a painter. He was immovable in his choice. I was stubborn and sullen in mine. By mutual consent we dropped the discussion, agreeing not to renew it for a year. I was at once filled with the desire to produce something that would induce him to agree with me, believing that if I could show that I had talent, he would let me have my way. I immediately threw myself into the society of artists, and by that means gained an inkling of the rudiments of the profession, and I found I had some talent. But how to convince my father? I hit upon the idea of attempting a painting; something remarkable – a great allegorical national picture, “The Crowning of Liberty,” a magnificent idea! To carry it out, I required a studio and living models. I read your advertisement of “Bachelors’ Paradise;” came down, engaged a room, fitted it up, and looked around for models. But, alas! it was indeed a “bachelors’ paradise!” Not a female figure within three miles! Of course I was obliged to put up with the stock on hand; and with a soldier, a sailor, a tinker, and a tailor, as the only models to be obtained, I have been obliged to draw upon fancy to an alarming extent; and now it seems I am to be deprived of them by my meddling, inquisitive, good old daddy.
Clap. It’s too bad, Mr. Horace. I wish I could help you out of the scrape.
Hor. I wish you could. But as you can’t, suppose you go and hunt up my models, and let me get to work.
Clap. Certainly, sir; I’ll send them in at once.
[Exit, R.
(Horace takes off his coat and puts on breakfast jacket and smoking-cap, then goes off, L., and returns with an easel, which he sets up, L., then goes off, L., and brings in canvas, brushes, and palette; arranges the canvas on easel to face L., places chair L.)
Clap. (Outside, R., while Horace is arranging his picture.) Hallo, down there, Tinpan!