A Tender Attachment

A Tender Attachment
George Baker

George Melville Baker

A Tender Attachment / A Farce

CHARACTERS

• Mr. Clapboard, Proprietor of “Bachelors’ Paradise.”

• Ebenezer Crotchet, a retired manufacturer.

• Horace Crotchet, his son.

• Peter Picket, a soldier.

• Obed Oakum, a sailor.

• Timothy Tinpan, a tinker.

• Louis Loopstitch, a tailor.

COSTUMES

Clapboard, gray wig, brown coat, dark pants.

Ebenezer, gray wig, blue coat with brass buttons, dark pants, hat, and cane.

Horace, modern suit, neat and tasty.

Peter, United States army overcoat, fatigue cap, red wig, red side whiskers.

Obed, light Yankee wig, pea-jacket, tarpaulin hat, wide sailor trousers, blue shirt.

Timothy, black crop wig, smutty face, overalls, and woollen jacket.

Louis, tight black pants, with short legs, slippers, white stockings, black coat, with short arms, buttoned to the throat, black cravat, without collar.

Scene. —Apartment in Mr. Clapboard’s home. Lounge C., back. Black velvet breakfast-jacket and smoking-cap lying across the corner. Small table, R. Chairs, R. and L. Entrances, R. and L.

Enter Mr. Clapboard, R., followed by Ebenezer Crotchet

Clapboard. This is the room, sir.

Ebenezer. O, it is! This is the mysterious abode of my runaway son. Well, I don’t see anything very inviting here; a few miserable chairs, a rickety lounge, a mean little table —

Clap. Come, come, sir; don’t abuse my furniture.

Eben. O, pooh, pooh! What business have you harboring a runaway scamp who ought to be at home, you old, gray-headed ruffian?

Clap. Come, come, sir; once for all, I won’t be abused in my own house. If your son chooses to hire a room in my house, to pay handsomely for the same, and to behave himself in a gentlemanly manner, here he stops just as long as he pays, you old heathen.

Eben. Old heathen! Confound you, do you know who you are talking to, Mr. Claptrap? Clap. Clapboard, sir; Clapboard is my name.

Eben. Do you know who you are talking to?

Clap. I’ve a pretty good idea. Some fiery old lunatic just escaped from Bedlam.

Eben. Fire and fury! I’ll break this cane over your head, insolent!

Clap. Do; and then I’ll throw you and the pieces down those stairs, catamount!

Eben. (Aside.) O, this won’t do. (Aloud.) I beg your pardon, Mr. Claptrap.

Clap. Clapboard, sir.

Eben. Mr. Clapboard, I was a little hasty. You must attribute it to the anxiety of a devoted parent. I have a son.

Clap. So I understand.

Eben. A week ago he left the parental mansion, for the purpose, as he said, of recruiting himself at a quiet place in the country. All very well, of course. I could bring nothing to say against that; but yesterday I received an anonymous note, mailed at this place, bidding me look out for my son, who, the note said, had formed a tender attachment. Do you hear? – a tender attachment!

Clap. Well, what of it?

Eben. What of it? Hear the man! Sir! Mr. Claptrap!

Clap. Clapboard, sir.

Eben. Mr. Clapboard. Ten years ago I retired from the soap and candle business with a fortune. This boy is my only son; young, impulsive, thoughtless, he has come to the country; his susceptible heart is a target, at which a thousand loving glances will be thrown by the eyes of rural beauties —

Clap. Humbug! There isn’t a female within three miles of the place. This is called “Bachelors’ Paradise.” There’s Jobson’s house, Seymour’s, and mine; specially erected for the convenience of artists, fishermen, and such like gentry, who want a quiet place in the country.

Eben. Is it possible! Then my son’s tender attachment —

Clap. It’s some trick played to frighten you.

Eben. Perhaps it is, but I have my doubts. Who lodges in this house besides my son?

Clap. Well, sir, on the floor below, there’s Mr. Timothy Tinpan, a nice, gentlemanly – tinker.

Eben. A tinker? – (Aside.) Bachelors’ Paradise! (Aloud.) Gentlemanly humbug! Who else?

Clap. The next floor above is occupied by Mr. Peter Picket, a military gentleman, who served his country in the great rebellion.

Eben. A soldier! (Noise outside.) What’s that?

Clap. That’s him. He’s always going through his tactics. He dropped his gun.

Eben. Did he! Then Mr. Peter Picket had better pick it up. Well, who else?