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Mr. and Mrs. Ketchum resembled the husbands and wives in all modern fiction in one important respect. Each had a terrible secret. Mrs. Ketchum thought Mr. Ketchum was a model husband, but it was not true. Every few weeks, an irresistible craving would attack him, and turn the metal of his sturdy will into quivering quicksilver. It was useless for him to attempt to combat it. Whenever its relentless fingers fell upon him, he was lost. So, he would steal softly out of the house, sometimes remaining away until early in the morning. In her home, Mrs. Ketchum was a model of domesticity. But, she, as we have hinted, also had an alien interest that ever and anon tore her away. She too would steal softly from the house at night, not returning until hours had elapsed. One night, it happened that both husband and wife left the house, each fondly believing that the other was safe at home. In the guilty excitement of their flight, both forgot their latch keys. Mr. Ketchum returned shortly after twelve o'clock, and tiptoed quietly up to the front door. When he suddenly realized that he had forgotten his key, drops of perspiration clung to his clammy forehead. What could he do? If he rang the doorbell, his wife would certainly hear it. He was lost. After a stealthy prowl about the house, in which he satisfied himself that none of the windows was unlocked, Mr. Ketcham decided to make the best of it. So he composed himself on one side of the steps and fell asleep. Shortly afterward, Mrs. Ketchum returned, and realized in turn that she had no key. Since the same conditions confronted her that had faced her husband, she arrived at the same conclusion, namely, that there was nothing to do but wait. So she went to sleep on the other side of the steps. In the morning, Mr. and Mrs. Ketchum were awakened by the milkmaid. That phlegmatic person walked up on the porch, opened the front door and put his milk inside. As the perception of the fact that the door had been unlocked all the time dawned upon them, husband and wife suddenly saw each other. Once again, there was only one thing to do. Ketchum confessed that every once in a while he simply had to go and play penny ante with the boys, and Mrs. Ketchum tearfully admitted that she was a regular campaign orator for the suffragette party.

This farce on the same reel would have been very funny, if it could have been made believable. It is fair; but its author, Charles H. France (he also produced it), seems to have developed it hurriedly. It is fairly amusing; but there was no laughter to be heard in the house while we watched it. - The Moving Picture World, July 4, 1914

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On the Steps

There was no laughter to be heard

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