Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays
Chapter 162 : BUFFE [_to Bolling_]. Come over to the table; we are going to have wine. [_Bolling sta

BUFFE [_to Bolling_]. Come over to the table; we are going to have wine.

[_Bolling stands up. They move his chair to the table. He sits again._]

HANSEN. Why are you so quiet, Bolling?

BOLLING. Everything there is to say has been said.

JOHNSTON. He's a smart man. [_Nods admiringly._]

HANSEN. Ha, ha, ha!

BOLLING [_suddenly to Krakau_]. What's that you are pouring?

KRAKAU. Sherry.

BOLLING [_angrily_]. I can't stand port wine.

KRAKAU. Yes, but this is sherry.

BOLLING. Port wine is poison.

HAMMER. But this is sherry.

BOLLING. Port wine is poison.

BUFFE. Yes, Bolling; but this is sherry; it won't hurt you.

BOLLING. Poison--port wine is.

JOHNSTON [_raising his gla.s.s._] Many happy returns!

HAMMER. Many future birthdays!

HANSEN. Happy ones!

BUFFE. Bolling, we are drinking to Helms.

BOLLING. It isn't port wine, is it?

BUFFE. No, indeed,--sherry.

BOLLING. I da'sn't drink port.

BUFFE. It's a toast to Helms.

BOLLING. Why?

BUFFE. He's eighty years old to-day.

BOLLING. I am ninety-two. That's nothing to be glad about.

[_All except Bolling raise their gla.s.ses. They utter cheery exclamations and drink._]

HELMS. Thanks; thank you!

BOLLING [_raising his gla.s.s_]. Congratulations, Helms. I hope you never get as old as me.

HAMMER [_angrily_]. That's no way to talk, Bolling.

HANSEN. He's spoiling the whole party.

BUFFE [_apologetically_]. Bolling's tired of living.

JOHNSTON. You're joking.

BUFFE. No; really he is. He wants to die.

JOHNSTON. Nonsense! How can any one _want_ to die? It's against human nature.

KRAKAU [_who has taken cigars from the cupboard_]. Who wants to smoke?

HANSEN [_with delight._] Cigars too!

[_Krakau pa.s.ses the cigars. Hansen, Hammer and Johnston each take one. The sun now s.h.i.+nes on the table and men._]

BUFFE. The sun is as red as wine.

HANSEN [_with a sigh_]. Autumn is coming.

HANSEN. We've had Autumn weather for two weeks past.

HELMS. Unseasonable weather! I hate it. [_During the entire scene he has been ill at ease, casting frequent apprehensive glances at Krakau, who avoids his gaze._]

BUFFE. It isn't like it used to be.

HAMMER. No. When the calendar said _Summer_ we _had_ Summer.

BOLLING [_apropos of nothing_]. I am ninety-two.

BUFFE [_explaining apologetically_]. He always says that. It's on his mind.

KRAKAU. I hear that the nurse downstairs is engaged to be married.

HANSEN. Yes, with the doctor.

JOHNSTON. The hospital doctor?

KRAKAU. Yes; he's a sick man himself.