by O. Henry
O. HENRY
101 STORIES
Ben Yagoda, editor
LIBRARY OF AMERICA E-BOOK CLASSICS
O. HENRY: 101 STORIES
Volume compilation, notes, and chronology copyright © 2021 by Literary Classics of the United States, Inc., New York, N.Y.
All rights reserved.
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Published in the United States by Library of America.
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Distributed to the trade in the United States
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and in Canada by Penguin Random House Canada Ltd.
ISBN 978–1–59853–690–4
eISBN 978–1–59853–691–1
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Contents
EARLY SKETCHES, STORIES, AND REPORTAGE
Bexar Scrip No. 2692
Three Paragraphs
A Personal Insult
When the Train Comes In: Outline Sketches at the Grand Central Depot
Why He Hesitated
Something for Baby
Too Wise
The Return of the Songster
Book Reviews
Guessed Everything Else
In Mezzotint
The Barber Talks
The Ghost That Came to Old Angles
Pursuing Ideals
The Miracle of Lava Canyon
COUNTRY
Whistling Dick’s Christmas Stocking
A Retrieved Reformation
Confessions of a Humorist
A Ramble in Aphasia
Blind Man’s Holiday
The Ransom of Red Chief
A Municipal Report
WEST
A Fog in Santone: A Meteorological Sketch
Friends in San Rosario
Round the Circle
Hearts and Hands
The Lonesome Road
The Pimienta Pancakes
Holding Up a Train
The Ransom of Mack
Christmas by Injunction
The Handbook of Hymen
The Caballero’s Way
The Moment of Victory
Buried Treasure
The Last of the Troubadours
The Hiding of Black Bill
A Technical Error
The Friendly Call
TROPICS
Shoes
Ships
A Ruler of Men
“Next to Reading Matter”
THE GENTLE GRAFTER
The Atavism of John Tom Little Bear
Conscience in Art
The Man Higher Up
NEW YORK
The Social Triangle
A Little Local Colour
A Newspaper Story
After Twenty Years
Lost on Dress Parade
The Complete Life of John Hopkins
The Rubber Plant’s Story
A Dinner at ———*: The Adventures of an Author with His Own Hero
A Comedy in Rubber
The Pride of the Cities
The Foreign Policy of Company 99
The Furnished Room
The Love-Philtre of Ikey Schoenstein
The Rathskeller and the Rose
A Sacrifice Hit
The Coming-Out of Maggie
The Cop and the Anthem
The Green Door
The Badge of Policeman O’Roon
The Making of a New Yorker
Psyche and the Pskyscraper
Man About Town
Springtime À La Carte
Extradited from Bohemia
Tommy’s Burglar
The Girl and the Graft
Sisters of the Golden Circle
An Adjustment of Nature
A Midsummer Knight’s Dream
An Unfinished Story
The City of Dreadful Night
The Skylight Room
The Poet and the Peasant
The Plutonian Fire
The Last Leaf
Elsie in New York
The Purple Dress
The Gift of the Magi
The Duel
The Rubaiyat of a Scotch Highball
The Buyer from Cactus City
The Harbinger
Brickdust Row
“Girl”
The Trimmed Lamp
Proof of the Pudding
The Memento
A Night in New Arabia
Strictly Business
The Third Ingredient
The Higher Pragmatism
No Story
FINAL STORIES
Let Me Feel Your Pulse
The Snow Man
The Dream
Chronology
Note on the Texts
Notes
EARLY SKETCHES, STORIES, AND REPORTAGE
Bexar Scrip No. 2692
* * *
WHENEVER YOU visit Austin you should by all means go to see the General Land Office.
As you pass up the avenue you turn sharp round the corner of the court house, and on a steep hill before you you see a mediæval castle.
You think of the Rhine; the “castled crag of Drachenfels”; the Lorelei; and the vine-clad slopes of Germany. And German it is in every line of its architecture and design.
The plan was drawn by an old draftsman from the “Vaterland,” whose heart still loved the scenes of his native land, and it is said he reproduced the design of a certain castle near his birthplace, with remarkable fidelity.
Under the present administration a new coat of paint has vulgarized its ancient and venerable walls. Modern tiles have replaced the limestone slabs of its floors, worn in hollows by the tread of thousands of feet, and smart and gaudy fixtures have usurped the place of the timeworn furniture that has been consecrated by the touch of hands that Texas will never cease to honor.
But even now, when you enter the building, you lower your voice, and time turns backward for you, for the atmosphere which you breathe is cold with the exudations of buried generations.
The building is stone with a coating of concrete; the walls are immensely thick; it is cool in the summer and warm in the winter; it is isolated and sombre; standing apart from the other state buildings, sullen and decaying, brooding on the past.
Twenty years ago it was much the same as now; twenty years from now the garish newness will be worn off and it will return to its appearance of gloomy decadence.
People living in other states can form no conception of the vastness and importance of the work performed and the significance of the millions of records and papers composing the archives of this office.
The title deeds, patents, transfers and legal documents connected with every foot of land owned in the state of Texas are filed here.
Volumes could be filled with accounts of the knavery, the double-dealing, the cross purposes, the perjury, the lies, the bribery, the alteration and erasing, the suppressing and destroying of papers, the various schemes and plots that for the sake of the almighty dollar have left their stains upon the records of the General
Land Office.
No reference is made to the employees. No more faithful, competent and efficient force of men exists in the clerical portions of any government, but there is—or was, for their day is now over—a class of land speculators commonly called land sharks, unscrupulous and greedy, who have left their trail in every department of this office, in the shape of titles destroyed, patents cancelled, homes demolished and torn away, forged transfers and lying affidavits.
Before the modern tiles were laid upon the floors, there were deep hollows in the limestone slabs, worn by the countless feet that daily trod uneasily through its echoing corridors, pressing from file room to business room, from commissioner’s sanctum to record books and back again.
The honest but ignorant settler, bent on saving the little plot of land he called home, elbowed the wary land shark who was searching the records for evidence to oust him; the lordly cattle baron, relying on his influence and money, stood at the Commissioner’s desk side by side with the preëmptor, whose little potato patch lay like a minute speck of island in the vast, billowy sea of his princely pastures, and, played the old game of “freeze-out,” which is as old as Cain and Abel.
The trail of the serpent is through it all.
Honest, earnest men have wrought for generations striving to disentangle the shameful coil that certain years of fraud and infamy have wound. Look at the files and see the countless endorsements of those in authority:
“Transfer doubtful—locked up.”
“Certificate a forgery—locked up.”
“Signature a forgery.”
“Patent refused—duplicate patented elsewhere.”
“Field notes forged.”
“Certificates stolen from office”—and soon ad infinitum.
The record books, spread upon long tables, in the big room upstairs, are open to the examination of all.
Open them, and you will find the dark and greasy finger prints of half a century’s handling. The quick hand of the land grabber has fluttered the leaves a million times; the damp clutch of the perturbed tiller of the soil has left traces of his calling on the ragged leaves.
Interest centres in the file room.
This is a large room, built as a vault, fireproof, and entered by but a single door.
There is “No Admission” on the portal; and the precious files are handed out by a clerk in charge only on presentation of an order signed by the Commissioner or chief clerk.
In years past too much laxity prevailed in its management, and the files were handled by all comers, simply on their request, and returned at their will, or not at all.
In these days most of the mischief was done. In the file room, there are about —— files, each in a paper wrapper, and comprising the title papers of a particular tract of land.
You ask the clerk in charge for the papers relating to any survey in Texas. They are arranged simply in districts and numbers.
He disappears from the door, you hear the sliding of a tin box, the lid snaps, and the file is in your hand.
Go up there some day and call for Bexar Scrip No. 2692.
The file clerk stares at you for a second, says shortly:
“Out of file.”
It has been missing twenty years.
The history of that file has never been written before.
Twenty years ago there was a shrewd land agent living in Austin who devoted his undoubted talents and vast knowledge of land titles, and the laws governing them, to the locating of surveys made by illegal certificates, or improperly made, and otherwise of no value through noncompliance with the statutes, or whatever flaws his ingenious and unscrupulous mind could unearth.
He found a fatal defect in the title of the land as on file in Bexar Scrip No. 2692 and placed a new certificate upon the survey in his own name.
The law was on his side.
Every sentiment of justice, of right, and humanity was against him.
The certificate by virtue of which the original survey had been made was missing.
It was not to be found in the file, and no memorandum or date on the wrapper to show that it had ever been filed.
Under the law the land was vacant, unappropriated public domain, and open to location.
The land was occupied by a widow and her only son, and she supposed her title good.
The railroad had surveyed a new line through the property, and it had doubled in value.
Sharp, the land agent, did not communicate with her in any way until he had filed his papers, rushed his claim through the departments and into the patent room for patenting.
Then he wrote her a letter, offering her the choice of buying from him or vacating at once.
He received no reply.
One day he was looking through some files and came across the missing certificate. Some one, probably an employee of the office, had by mistake, after making some examination, placed it in the wrong file, and curiously enough another inadvertence, in there being no record of its filing on the wrapper, had completed the appearance of its having never been filed.
Sharp called for the file in which it belonged and scrutinized it carefully, fearing he might have overlooked some endorsement regarding its return to the office.
On the back of the certificate was plainly endorsed the date of filing, according to law, and signed by the chief clerk.
If this certificate should be seen by the examining clerk, his own claim, when it came up for patenting, would not be worth the paper on which it was written.
Sharp glanced furtively around. A young man, or rather a boy about eighteen years of age, stood a few feet away regarding him closely with keen black eyes.
Sharp, a little confused, thrust the certificate into the file where it properly belonged and began gathering up the other papers.
The boy came up and leaned on the desk beside him.
“A right interesting office, sir!” he said. “I have never been in here before. All those papers, now, they are about lands, are they not? The titles and deeds, and such things?”
“Yes,” said Sharp. “They are supposed to contain all the title papers.”
“This one, now,” said the boy, taking up Bexar Scrip No. 2692, “what land does this represent the title of? Ah, I see ‘Six hundred and forty acres in B—— country? Absalom Harris, original grantee.’ Please tell me, I am so ignorant of these things, how can you tell a good survey from a bad one. I am told that there are a great many illegal and fraudulent surveys in this office. I suppose this one is all right?”
“No,” said Sharp. “The certificate is missing. It is invalid.”
“That paper I just saw you place in that file, I suppose is something else—field notes, or a transfer probably?”
“Yes,” said Sharp, hurriedly, “corrected field notes. Excuse me, I am a little pressed for time.”
The boy was watching him with bright, alert eyes.
It would never do to leave the certificate in the file; but he could not take it out with that inquisitive boy watching him.
He turned to the file room, with a dozen or more files in his hands, and accidentally dropped part of them on the floor. As he stooped to pick them up he swiftly thrust Bexar Scrip No. 2692 in the inside breast pocket of his coat.
This happened at just half-past four o’clock, and when the file clerk took the files he threw them in a pile in his room, came out and locked the door.
The clerks were moving out of the doors in long, straggling lines.
It was closing time.
Sharp did not desire to take the file from the Land Office.
The boy might have seen him place the file in his pocket, and the penalty of the law for such an act was very severe.
Some distance back from the file room was the draftsman’s room now entirely vacated by its occupants.
Sharp dropped behind the outgoing stream of men, and slipped slyly into this room.
The clerks trooped noisily down the iron stairway, singing, whistling, and talking.
Below, the night watchman awaited their exit, ready to close and bar the two great doors to the south and east.
It is his duty to take careful note each day that no one remains in the building after the hour of closing.
Sharp waited until all sounds had ceased.
It was his intention to linger until everything was quiet, and then to remove the certificate from the file, and throw the latter carelessly on some draftsman’s desk, as if it had been left there during the business of the day.
He knew also that he must remove the certificate from the office or destroy it, as the chance finding of it by a clerk would lead to its immediately being restored to its proper place, and the consequent discovery that his location over the old survey was absolutely worthless.
As he moved cautiously along the stone floor the loud barking of the little black dog, kept by the watchmen, told that his sharp ears had heard the sounds of his steps.
The great, hollow rooms echoed loudly, move as lightly as he could.
Sharp sat down at a desk and laid the file before him.
In all his queer practices and cunning tricks he had not yet included any act that was downright criminal.
He had always kept on the safe side of the law, but in the deed he was about to commit there was no compromise to be made with what little conscience he had left.
There is no well-defined boundary line between honesty and dishonesty.
The frontiers of one blend with the outside limits of the other, and he who attempts to tread this dangerous ground may be sometimes in one domain and sometimes in the other; so the only safe road is the broad highway that leads straight through and has been well defined by line and compass.
Sharp was a man of what is called high standing in the community. That is, his word in a trade was as good as any man’s; his check was as good as so much cash, and so regarded; he went to church regularly; went in good society and owed no man anything.
He was regarded as a sure winner in any land trade he chose to make, but that was his occupation.
The act he was about to commit now would place him forever in the ranks of those who choose evil for their portion—if it was found out.