Part 5 (1/2)

And we fight for Uncle Sammy, Yes, indeed we do, for damme You can bet your life that that's the thing to do, Doodle-do!

You can bet your life that that's the thing to doodle--doodle--doodle--doodle-do.”

”Eh! What?” demanded the Idiot.

”Well--what yourself?” asked the Lawyer. ”This is your job. What next?”

”Well--the pirate gets lively, tries to a.s.sa.s.sinate the lieutenant, who kills half the natives with his sword, and is about to slay the pirate when he discovers that he is his long-lost father,” said the Idiot. ”The heroine then sings a pathetic love-song about her baboon baby, in a green light to the accompaniment of a lot of pink satin monkeys banging cocoanut-sh.e.l.ls together. This drowsy lullaby puts the lieutenant and his forces to sleep, and the curtain falls on their capture by the pirate and his followers, with the chorus singing:

”Hooray for the pirate bold, With his pockets full of gold; He's going to marry to-morrow.

To-morrow he'll marry, Yes, by the Lord Harry, He's go-ing--to-marry--to-mor-row!

And that's a thing to doodle--doodle-doo.”

”There,” said the Idiot, after a pause. ”How is that for a first act?”

”It's about as lucid as most of them,” said the Poet, ”but, after all, you have got a story there, and you said you didn't need one.”

”I said you didn't need one to start with,” corrected the Idiot. ”And I've proved it. I didn't have that story in mind when I started. That's where the easiness of the thing comes in. Why, I didn't even have to think of a name for the heroine. The inspiration for that popped right out of Mr. Brief's mouth as smoothly as though the name Drivelina had been written on his heart for centuries. Then the t.i.tle--'The Isle of Piccolo'--that's a dandy, and I give you my word of honor, I'd never even thought of a t.i.tle for the opera until that revealed itself like a flash from the blue; and as for the c.o.o.n song, 'My Baboon Baby,' there's a chance there for a Zanzibar act that will simply make Richard Wagner and Reginald de Koven writhe with jealousy. Can't you imagine the lilt of it:

”My bab-boon--ba-habee, My bab-boon--ba-habee-- I love you dee-her-lee Yes dee-hee-hee-er-lee.

My baboon--ba-ha-bee, My baboon--ba-ha-bee, My baboon--ba-hay-hay-hay-hay-hay-hay-bee-bee.”

”And all those pink satin monkeys b.u.mping their cocoanut-sh.e.l.ls together in the green moonlight--”

”Well, after the first act, what?” asked the Bibliomaniac.

”The usual intermission,” said the Idiot. ”You don't have to write that.

The audience generally knows what to do.”

”But your second act?” asked the Poet.

”Oh, come off,” said the Idiot, rising. ”We were to do this thing in collaboration. So far, I've done the whole blooming business. I'll leave the second act to you. When you collaborate, Mr. Poet, you've got to do a little colabbing on your own account. What did you think you were to do--collect the royalties?”

”I'm told,” said the Lawyer, ”that that is sometimes the hardest thing to do in a comic opera.”

”Well, I'll be self-sacrificing,” said the Idiot, ”and bear my full share of it.”

”It seems to me,” said the Bibliomaniac, ”that that opera produced in the right place might stand a chance of a run.”

”Thank you,” said the Idiot. ”After all, Mr. Bib, you are a man of some penetration. How long a run?”

”One consecutive night,” said the Bibliomaniac.

”Ah--and where?” demanded the Idiot, with a smile.

”At Bloomingdale,” answered the Bibliomaniac, severely.

”That's a very good idea,” said the Idiot. ”When you go back there, Mr.

Bib, I wish you'd suggest it to the superintendent.”