The Magistrate

Arthur Wing Pinero

• Publisher: Oberon Books
• Year: 2012
• ISBN:
  9781849437295
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Media & Performing Arts
• Subtopic: Television

With his louche air and a developed taste for smoking, gambling, port and women, it's hard to believe Cis Farringdon is only fourteen. And that's because he isn't. Agatha his mother lopped five years from her true age and his when she married the amiable Posket. The imminent arrival of Cis' godfather sends Agatha incognito to the Hôtel des Princes to warn him of her deception. But it's also where her son has cajoled his otherwise staid stepfather into joining him for a binge. High-spirited carousing leads to a police raid and a night of outrageous mishap as the trapped guests make desperate attempts to conceal themselves from the law and from each other. Indignities escalate at court the next day where Posket, the police magistrate, must preside.

Act Three

SCENE I

The Magistrate’s room at Mulberry Street Police Court, with a doorway covered by curtains leading directly into the Court, and a door opening into a passage. It is the morning after the events of the last Act.

POLICE SERGEANT LUGG, a middle-aged man with a slight country dialect, enters with ‘The Times’ newspaper, and proceeds to cut it and glance at its contents while he hums a song.

Enter MR. WORMINGTON, an elderly, trim and precise man.

WORMINGTON: Good morning, Lugg.

LUGG: Morning, Mr. Wormington.

WORMINGTON: Mr. Posket not arrived yet?

LUGG: Not yet, sir. Hullo! (Reading.) ‘Raid on a West End Hotel. At an early hour this morning – ’

WORMINGTON: Yes, I’ve read that – a case of assault upon the police.

LUGG: Why, these must be the folks who’ve been so precious rampageous all night.

WORMINGTON: Very likely.

LUGG: Yes, sir, protestin’ and protestin’ till they protested everybody’s sleep away. Nice-looking women, too, though as I tell Mrs. Lugg, now-a-days there’s no telling who’s the lady and who isn’t. Who’s got this job, sir?

WORMINGTON: Inspector Messiter.

LUGG: (With contempt.) Messiter! That’s luck! Why he’s the worst elocutionist in the force, sir. (As he arranges the newspaper upon the table, he catches sight of WORMINGTON’s necktie, which is bright red.) Well, I – excuse me, Mr. Wormington, but all the years I’ve had the honour of knowin’ you, sir, I’ve never seen you wear a necktie with, so to speak, a dash of colour in it.

WORMINGTON: (Uneasily.) Well, Lugg, no, that’s true, but to-day is an exceptional occasion with me. It is, in fact, the twenty-fifth anniversary of my marriage, and I thought it due to Mrs. Wormington to vary, in some slight degree, the sombreness of my attire. I confess I am a little uneasy in case Mr. Posket should consider it at all disrespectful to the Court.

LUGG: Not he, sir.

WORMINGTON: I don’t know. Mr. Posket is punctiliousness itself in dress, and his cravat’s invariably black. However, it is not every man who has a silver wedding-day.

LUGG: It’s not every man as wants one, sir.

WORMINGTON goes out. At the same moment POSKET enters quickly, and leans on his chair as if exhausted. His appearance is extremely wretched; he is still in evening dress, but his clothes are muddy, and his linen soiled and crumpled, while across the bridge of his nose he has a small strip of black plaster.

POSKET: (Faintly.) Good morning, Lugg.

LUGG: Good morning to you, sir. Regretting the liberty I’m taking, sir – I’ve seen you look more strong and hearty.

POSKET: I am fairly well, thank you, Lugg. My night was rather – rather disturbed. Lugg!

LUGG: Sir?

POSKET: (Nervously.) Have any inquiries been made about me this morning – any messenger from Mrs. Posket, for instance, to ask how I am?

LUGG: No, sir.

POSKET: Oh. My child, my stepson, young Mr. Farringdon has not called, has he?

LUGG: No, sir.

POSKET: (To himself.) Where can that boy be? (To LUGG.) Thank you, that’s all.

LUGG: (Who has been eyeing POSKET with astonishment, goes to the door, and then touches the bridge of his nose. Sympathetically.)

Nasty cut while shavin’, sir? (Goes out.)

POSKET: Where can that boy have got to? If I could only remember how, when, and where we parted! I think it was at Kilburn. Let me think – first, the kitchen. (Putting his hand to his side as if severely bruised.) Oh! Cis was all right, because I fell underneath; I felt it was my duty to do so. Then what occurred? A dark room, redolent of onions and cabbages and paraffin oil, and Cis dragging me over the stone floor, saying, ‘We’re in the scullery, Guv; let’s try and find the tradesmen’s door.’ Next, the night air – oh, how refreshing! Cis, my boy, we will both learn a lesson from to-night never deceive.’ Where are we? In Argyll Street. ‘Look out, Guv, they’re after us.’ Then – then, as Cis remarked when we were getting over the railings of Portman Square – then the fun began. We over into the Square – they after us. Over again, into Baker Street. Down Baker Street. Curious recollections, whilst running, of my first visit, as a happy child, to Madame Tussaud’s, and wondering whether her removal had affected my fortunes. ‘Come on, Guv – you’re getting blown.’ Where are we? Park Road. What am I doing? Getting up out of a puddle. St. John’s Wood. The cricket-ground. ‘I say, Guv, what a run this would be at Lord’s, wouldn’t it? And no fear of being run out either, more fear of being run in.’ ‘What road is this, Cis? Maida Vale. Good gracious! A pious aunt of mine once lived in Hamilton Terrace; she never thought I should come to this. ‘Guv?’ says Cis ‘Yes my boy.’ ‘Let’s get this kind-hearted coffee stall keeper to hide us.’ We apply. ‘Will you assist two unfortunate gentleman?’ ‘No, blowed if I will.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘Cos I’m goin’ to join in the chase after you.’ Ah! Off again, along Maida Vale! On, on, heaven knows how or where, ’till at last no sound of pursuit, no Cis, no breath, and the early Kilburn buses starting to town. Then I came back again, and not much too soon for the Court. (Going up to the washstand and looking into the little mirror, with a low groan.) Oh, how shockingly awful I look, and how stiff and sore I feel! (Taking off his coat and hanging it on a peg, then washing his hands.) Where’s the soap? What a weak, double-faced creature to be a magistrate. I shall put five pounds and costs into the p...

Table of contents

• Front Cover
• Half-title Page
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Contents
• Characters
• Act One
• Act Two
• Act Three