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to have fainted from fright.

      FINALE.

      PRESS STUDENTS. Madam, do no think us rude in

       On your privacy intrudin’;

       We are Students Journalistic,

       Keen on copy, plain or mystic,

       Commonplace or transcendental,

       Psychic, physical, or mental,

       News we’ll have, and through you, madam,

       For we’ll interview you, madam.

       That’s so flat, nought could be flatter,

       Tell us quickly, what’s the matter?

       What’s the matter? What’s the matter?

      GIRLS run out of their rooms in various stages of deshabille.

      GIRLS. Madam, when we heard this screaming,

       Scarcely sure if we were dreaming,

       Curiosity controlled us,

       And we came as you behold us,

       Trim or ruffled, tossed or dapper,

       Clad in dressing gown or wrapper,

       We are kneeling to you, madam,

       News to get, and through you, madam.

       Think not this is idle chatter,

       But inform us what’s the matter?

       What’s the matter? What’s the matter?

      ENSEMBLE.

      PRESS STUDENTS. GIRLS. News we’ll have, and We are kneeling to you, through you, madam, etc. madam, etc.

      MISS SIMS. Jane Annie, what is this?

      Bab, what were you doing in her arms?

      BAB. Miss Sims, forgive me! I thought she was a gentleman.

      MISS SIMS. Oh, infamous! To your rooms, all, this instant!

       Exeunt MISS SIMS, BAB, JANE ANNIE, and GIRLS.

      PRESS STUDENTS (taking notes eagerly).

       School aristocratic,

       The scene most dramatic,

       Plot unsystematic,

       And very erratic,

       Jane Annie ecstatic,

       Her victory emphatic,

       She won it by stealing

       Down from the attic.

       Enter PROCTOR furiously.

      PRESS STUDENTS. We’re glad to interview you,

       To get a column through you,

       And note what you may say.

       See now how we will do him,

       While we seem to interview him,

       In our frank, new-fashioned way.

       Are Proctors men of learning?

       Do you spend more than you’re earning?

       And how much do you owe?

       Of women do you think much?

       On occasion do you drink much?

      PROCTOR. Emphatically, no!

      PRESS STUDENTS (writing). Proctors have no acumen,

       And no respect for women.

      PROCTOR. Yes, yes! I meant to say!

      PRESS STUDENTS (writing). In debt and boasts about it.

       Love’s grog — can’t do without it.

       Must have it night and day.

      PROCTOR. My words you’re misconstruing,

       That is not interviewing.

      PRESS STUDENTS. Yes, this is interviewing,

       In the frank, new-fashioned way.

      PROCTOR. If you’ll suppress this fable,

       I’ll tell you, if I’m able,

       A recent incident.

       (Aside). Diverting their attention,

       I’ll draw from my invention

       Some singular event.

      SOLO. — PROCTOR.

       There was once a man in a seaside town,

       And his name it was — what was it?

       I know it wasn’t Smith, and I’m sure it wasn’t Brown,

       But it was — oh, Lor’, what was it?

       I very much want to tell you all,

       You’d love to know about it;

       But just this point I can’t recall,

       And as it’s immaterial,

       We’d best go on without it.

       A widow lived in the same hotel,

       Her name it was — you know it!

       He stole to her and whispered — well,

       He whispered, well — Oh, blow it!

       I very much want to tell you all,

       You’d love to know about it;

       But just this point I can’t recall,

       And as it’s immaterial,

       I’d best go on without it.

       But when the lady heard this speech,

       Down to the pier she flew then,

       Threw up her arms, and with a screech,

       She — she — Oh, dear! what did she do then?

       I very much want to tell you all,

       You’d love to know about it;

       But just this point I don’t recall,

       And as it’s most material,

       I can’t go on without it.

       Enter SIM and GREG.

      SIM. At last we’ve got him, sir,

      PROCTOR (not heeding). Away!

      SIM. Him that dangled after her!

      PROCTOR. Hurray!

       (addressing PRESS STUDENTS). To catch an undergraduate I came.

      SIM and GREG (perplexed). Of this there’s question none,

       He is an undergraduate,

       In all respects but one.

       That one to mention we forgot,

       It’s odd to me and mate,

       It’s this, that somehow he is not

       An undergraduate!

      JACK steps forward, CADDIE holding him.

      ALL. Why, evidently he is not

       An undergraduate!

      MILLY (from balcony). Oh, sir, take care

       Of one so fair

       Let his complexion

       Plead with you for him!

      JACK. An officer I,

       Strolling by,

       Smoking a Henry Clay,

       These men I met,

       They me beset

       In a most unseemly way.

       Of girls they spoke,

       Which spoilt my smoke,

       For the sex I do not care about.

       I’ve not address’t

      

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