ICKY: Worse than that. The week before my term expired they
insisted on transferring to me the glands of a healthy young prisoner
they were executing.
PETER: And it renovated you?
MR. ICKY: Renovated me! It put the Old Nick back into me! This young
criminal was evidently a suburban burglar and a kleptomaniac. What was
a little playful arson in comparison!
PETER: (_Awed_) How ghastly! Science is the bunk.
MR. ICKY: (_Sighing_) I got him pretty well subdued now. 'Tisn't
every one who has to tire out two sets o' glands in his lifetime. I
wouldn't take another set for all the animal spirits in an orphan
asylum.
PETER: (_Considering_) I shouldn't think you'd object to a nice
quiet old clergyman's set.
MR. ICKY: Clergymen haven't got glands--they have souls.
(_There is a low, sonorous honking off stage to indicate that a
large motor-car has stopped in the immediate vicinity. Then a young
man handsomely attired in a dress-suit and a patent-leather silk hat
comes onto the stage. He is very mundane. His contrast to the
spirituality of the other two is observable as far back as the first
row of the balcony. This is_ RODNEY DIVINE.)
DIVINE: I am looking for Ulsa Icky.
(MR. ICKY _rises and stands tremulously between two dods._)
MR. ICKY: My daughter is in Lunnon.
DIVINE: She has left London. She is coming here. I have followed her.
(_He reaches into the little mother-of-pearl satchel that hangs at
his side for cigarettes.
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