by Эл Дженнингс
"I think you're right, sir. Citizenship is greater in this country of ours than a Cabinet meeting." He turned to the men. "Gentlemen, excuse me a moment. You'll have to wait."
In the private room near where the Cabinet met Roosevelt sat on the edge of a desk. "I want to know," he shot out abruptly, "if you were guilty of the crime you went to prison for."
"No, sir."
"You were not there then?"
"I was there, I held up the train and robbed the passengers." The relentlessly honest eyes never took their glance from mine. "But I did not rob the United States mail, and that's what I was convicted for."
"That's a distinction without a difference." The words were snapped out with incisive clearness.
"It's the truth, however, I'll tell you nothing, Mr. President, but the truth."
"Abernathy and Frank Frans have assured me you would tell only the truth. I have studied your case. I am going to give you a full and free pardon. I want you to be worthy of it."
It would have been ended then. But the devil of perversity that had so often loosened my tongue whisked me to the absurd folly of replying. I had no sense of the proprieties.
"Mr. President, the court that sentenced me was more guilty of violating the law than I was. Judge Hosea Townsend won the verdict from the jury by trickery."
If I had suddenly gone up and slapped his face, Roosevelt would not have sprung down with more flashing indignation. A red flurry of anger scooted across his face. He scowled down at me, the even teeth showing. I thought he was going to strike me. I had said too much. I'd have given an eye to own the words again.
"You have brought charges against one of my appointees." His voice was even and quiet. "You will have to substantiate this."
I thought the pardon was lost. I told him the facts.
Ten jurors had testified under oath that Marshal Hammer of the Southern District of Indian Territory had come into the jury room when they were deliberating the evidence in my case and he had told them Judge Townsend would give me the lightest sentence under the law if they would return a verdict of guilty. Under the impression that I would be given a year, they voted me guilty. The next morning Townsend sentenced me for life to the Ohio penitentiary.
My brother John had secured these affidavits. They were on file in the attorney general's office. I told the President this.
He never said a word, but went to the door and gave some hasty order. Then he came back, walking furiously up and down the room, holding himself stiff and clenched.
It seemed to me that I could feel the vibrating anger in his mind. Some word came back from the outer room.
"You are a truth-teller," Roosevelt turned to me. "The pardon is yours. Be worthy of it. I wish you good luck."
He seemed borne down by suppressed emotion. He offered me his hand. I was so touched I could scarcely mumble my thanks. A free man and a citizen, I landed in New York to meet Bill Porter.
I had counted too much on Bill Porter's fame. I knew that New York was a big place, but I had an idea that Porter would tower above the crowd like a blond Hercules in a city of dwarfs.
Abernathy and I had rollicked along from Washington to New York. When the boat swung down the Hudson we didn't know whether we were en route to Liverpool or Angel Island. But we did know that we were looking for one Bill Porter. I had lost the letter giving me his address.
We wandered up one street and down another, a queer-looking pair with our wide fedora hats. Every now and then I made bold and plucked the sleeve of some man, woman or child. "Hey, pard, can you tell me where Bill Porter lives?" They stared coldly and passed on. I heard one young fellow titter, "The poor babes from the woods."
We couldn't find Bill.
But we were in an irrepressibly happy mood. With not the slightest idea how we got there we landed at the Breslin Hotel. We began to treat everybody at the bar.
The whole crowd knew the Outlay and the Wolf-Catcher were in town.
"By golly, we haven't found Bill." Abernathy smashed his glass down on the counter.
"Bill who?" the bartender asked.
"Bill Porter. Know him, greatest man in New York?"
"Sure, know them all."
"Let's telephone to the President and ask him where this fellow lives. He's a good sport ; he'll send us a pilot." Abernathy's "hunch" gave me a better one. Dr. Alex Lambert, physician to Roosevelt, had shown us many courtesies. He lived in New York. We decided to use him as our guide if we could find him.
I remembered that Porter lived near Gramercy Park. I phoned to the doctor and with the utmost formality asked directions to this district. The absurdity of the question didn't seem to amaze him. He went into elaborate details.
Arm in arm, Abernathy and I sauntered to the park and with the most painful dignity went up the steps of every house and rang the bell, inquiring for Bill Porter. Not a soul had ever heard of him. Somehow or other we strayed into the Players' Club. The flunkies didn't like the cut of our clothes. We had to bribe them before they would admit us.
"Where is Mr. William Sydney Porter, the writer?" I asked one of them.
"Didn't know; never heard of him. Ask him over there. He knows even the small fry. He's Bob Davis."
The chunky little fellow with his ample, humorous face and his keen gray eyes, was standing at the door of a big meeting room. I went up to him.
"Are you acquainted with Bill Porter?"
"Never heard of the gentleman." He didn't even shift his glance toward me. "My circle embraces only writers, waiters and policemen."
And then I remembered who it was I was looking for.
"Oh, thank you." I tried to make my voice very casual. "Do you happen to know a man by the name of O. Henry?" The little fellow's face lit up like an arc lamp. His hand swooped down on mine. "Do I? I should say so. Do you?"
"Me!" I fairly screamed at him. "Hell, yes, he's an old pal of mine."
"So? What part of the West does he come from?" The editor's scrutiny took in even the freckles on my hand. Porter had them guessing already. They would not learn his secret from me. For a moment I did not answer.
"He's from the South," I said finally. "Do you know where I can find him?"
"Ring up the Caledonia Hotel, 28 West Twenty-sixth Street."
Porter was found at last.
"Is that you, colonel?" The same old rich, suspenseful flavor in the whispering voice. "I'll be with you anon. God bless you."
In a very short "anon" in came the immaculate, flawless Bill as though something adventurous and exciting had just happened to him or were just about to happen. He wore a handsome gray suit, with a rich blue tie, the everlasting glove and cane in his right hand.
"Hey, Bill, why don't you carry a forty-five instead of that trinket?"
"Colonel, the forty-five is not fashionable just now. And there are folks in Manhattan who object to the custom, notably the Legislature."
Just as though it had been five minutes since I had spoken to him instead of five years! With all his warm, fine-tempered affection, he stood silent and searched my face.
"It's you, colonel. Ain't spoiled, are you?"
We sat down to a table, ordered a drink, forgot to drink it and sat there shaking each other's hand and nodding to each other like a pair of mutes.
"How are Hans and Fritz?" Porter's voice was charged with feeling. Yet the twins were but a pair of prison kittens born and raised in the post-office.
Like a pair of farmer boys who had grown up together, ducked in the same creek and gone to the little school on Ball Knob, we sat back swapping reminiscences of the hated, horror-haunted O. P.
"It's good you've been there*, colonel. It's the proper vestibule to this City of Damned Souls. The crooks there are straight compared to the business thieves here. If you've got $2 on you, invest it now or they'll take it away from you before morning."
It was midnight when we started down to the old Hoffman House for a farewell toast. We were to meet early next morning for our first
survey of the little village. Abernathy and I were up at six. Porter came over at eleven. The first feature on his entertainment program was a joyride on a "rubberneck wagon."
"You'll get a swift, fleeting glimpse of this Bagdad and its million mysteries. You'll see the princess in disguise glide past the street corners evading evil genii; meeting with grand viziers. Keep your eyes open."
Abernathy, Porter and I were the only passengers. In a raucous sing-song the guide shouted. "To your right, gentlemen, is the home of Sheridan Land," or some such cognomen. "And further down to your left is the tomb of Grant."
Porter fidgeted. He got up and handed the cicerone a $2 bill. "Keep your tongue in your cheek," he said impressively. "We are neither entomologists interested in gold bugs nor antiquarians hob-nobbing with the dead. We are children of Bacchus. Lead us to the curb."
It was a cold, raw day. Cicerone, wolf -catcher, outlaw, genius, we took many side trips to the haunts of our father. The driver became reckless and jammed into a street car. For a moment it looked as if we would all be "pinched." Abernathy and I wanted to "mix it with the cop."
"Restrain yourselves, gentlemen. I will straighten the legal tangle." With commanding elegance, Porter stepped down, threw open his coat and showed some sort of star. The policeman apologized. It seemed a miracle to us.
"He is the magician of Bagdad," I whispered to Abernathy. In the next three weeks he proved it. Bill Porter waved his hand and his "Bagdad on the Subway" yielded its million mysteries to the touch.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
Episodes of city nights; feeding the hungry; M'ame and Sue; suicide of Sadie.
Night was the revealing hour for the magician of Bagdad. When the million lights flashed and throngs of men and women crowded the thoroughfares in long, undulating lines like moving, black snakes, Bill Porter came into his own.
He owned the city, its people were his subjects. He went into their midst, turning upon them the shrewd microscope of his gleaming understanding. Sham, paltry deceit, flimsy pose, were blown away as veils before a determined wind. The souls stood forth, naked and pathetic. The wizard had his way.
At every corner, adventure waited on his coming. A young girl would skim stealthily around the corner, or an old "win" would crouch in a doorway. Here were mysteries for Porter to solve. He did not stand afar and speculate. He always made friends with his subjects.
He learned their secrets, their hopes, their disappointments. He clasped the hand of Soapy, the bum, and Dulcie herself told him why she went totally bankrupt on six dollars a week. New York was an enchanted labyrinth, yielding at every twist the thrill of the unexpected the wonderful.
Into this kingdom of his, Bill Porter introduced me.
Jaunty, whimsical, light-hearted, he came for me one of the first nights of my visit. He wore a little Cecil Brunner rose in his buttonhole. With a sheepish wink, he pulled another from his pocket.
"Colonel, I have bought you a disguise. Wear this and they will not know you are from the West."
"Damn it, I don't want the garnishings." But when Bill had a notion he carried it out. The pink bud was fastened to my coat. "I've noticed that the bulls look at you with a too favorable eye. This token will divert suspicion from us."
"Where are we going?"
"Everywhere and nowhere. We may find ourselves in Hell's Kitchen or we may land in Heaven's Vestibule. Prepare yourself for thrills and perils. We go where the magnet draweth."
It was nearing midnight. We started down Fifth Avenue and were sauntering along somewhere between Twenty-fifth and Twenty-sixth. Dozens of women with white, garish faces had flitted by.
"Ships that pass in the night," Porter whispered. "There are but two rocks in their courses—the cops and their landladies. Battered and storm-tossed, aren't they? They haunt me."
Out from the shadow came a ragged wisp of a girl. She looked about 17.
"She's been skimming the tranquil bogs of country life."
"Aw, shucks, she's an old timer."
"First trip," Porter nudged me. She hasn't learned how to steer her bark in the deeps of city life yet."
"That's her game. She's just flying that sail for effect."
"No, you're mistaken. You investigate and we'll see who's correct. I'll stand here and hold the horses." Porter had a way of pulling things out of the past and snapping them at me.
As we came up, the girl dodged into a doorway, making a pretense of tying her shoe. She looked up at me, fright darting in her wide, young eyes. "You're a plainclothes man?" Her voice was low but it shrilled in her fear.
"Please don't take me in. I never did this before."
"I'm not a policeman, but I'd like to introduce you to a friend of mine."
Bill came over. "You've frightened the lady. Ask her if she would like to dine with us."
More frightened than before, the girl drew back. "I dare not go with you !"
"You dare go anywhere with us." Porter addressed her as though she were truly the princess and he the Knight Errant.
There was nothing personal in his interest. He had one indomitable passion—he wished to discover the secret and hidden things in the characters of the men and women about him. He wanted no second-hand or expurgated versions. He was a scientist and the quivering heart of humanity was the one absorbing subject under his scrutiny.
We went to Mouquin's. The little, thin, white creature had never been there before. Her eyes were luminous with excitement. Porter made her feel so much at ease, it disconcerted me a trifle. I wanted the girl to know that she was in the presence of greatness.
"He's a great writer," I whispered to her. Porter turned a withering sneer at me. "I'm nothing of the sort," he contradicted. "Oh, but I believe it," she said. "I'd like to see what you write. Is it about wonderful people and money and everything grand?"
"Yes," Porter answered. "It's about girls like you and all the strange things that happen to you."
"But my life isn't fine. It's just mean and scraping and hungry, and fine things never happened to me until tonight. Ever since I can remember it's been the same."
Porter had started her on the revelation. He was correct. She was but a little country girl. She had tired of the monotony and came to life.
There was nothing remarkable about her. I couldn't see a story there. The only spark she showed was when the dinner came and then a look of inspired joyousness lighted her face. It seemed to me that Porter must surely be disappointed.
"When I see a shipwreck, I like to know what caused the disaster," he said.
"Well, what did you make of that investigation?"
"Nothing but the glow that wrapped her face when the soup came ! That's the story."
"What's behind that look of rapture? Why should any girl's face glow at the prospect of a plate of soup in this city, where enough food to feed a dozen armies is wasted every night? Yes, it's more of a story than will ever be written!"
Each one that he met yielded a treasure to him. Into the honkatonks, the dance halls, the basement cafes he took me. The same indomitable purposes guided him. No wonder that New York threw off its disguise before the Peerless Midnight Investigator.
"I scent an idea tonight, colonel. Let us go forth and track it down." It was another evening and I had dined with him at the Caledonia Hotel.
We started down Sixth Avenue. The rain splashed sideways and downways. Puny lights flickered up from basement doors. The mingled odor of stale beer, cabbage and beans simmered up. We went down into many of these paltry halls, with the sawdust on the floor and the chipped salt cellars and the scratched up, bare tables.
"It's not here. Let us go to O'Reilly's. I don't like the fragrance of these dago joints." At Twenty-second street Porter pulled down his umbrella. "We'll find it in here."
At the bar were a score of men. The tables here and there were but shelves for the elbows of gaudily dressed, cheaply jeweled women.
We took a vacant table. As Porter sat down every woman in the room sent an admi
ring glance at him.
"For God's sake, Bill, you won't eat in this stench, will you?"
"Just beer and a sandwich. Look over there, colonel. I see my idea."
In one corner sat two girls, pretty, shabby, genteel, the stark, piercing glare of hunger in their eyes. Porter beckoned to them.
The girls came over and sat at our table. It was the cheapest kind of a dance hall in this basement under the saloon. A fellow with an accordion was pounding a tune with an old rattle-bang piano ; a few tawdry-looking couples moved with grotesque rhythm in the middle of the floor. At the tables about a score of men sat erect and stupid—some of them half drunk ; others bawling out harsh snatches of songs. The noisy guffaw of the place was more disturbing than the reeking exhalation of its breath.
Porter handed the dirty scrap of paper that passed as a menu to the girls. Their eyes seemed to pounce on it. One of them was rather gracefully built, but so thin I had the odd feeling that she might break at any moment like an egg shell. She tried to scan the card indifferently, but her cavernous eyes, their black accentuated by the daubs of rouge on the transparent cheeks, were burning with eagerness. She caught me looking at her and turned to the rather short, fair-
haired girl at her side.
"Suppose you order, Mame." There was no pretense to Mame. She was hungry and she spotted a chance to eat. "Say, Mister," she leaned toward Porter, "can I order what I want?"
"I don't think you better. You see, ladies, I haven't the price." He ordered four beers.
I couldn't follow the drift of this experiment. Porter had picked out these two from the dozens of tell-tale painted faces. He knew his magic circle. But I didn't like the bore of hungry eyes. Mame was absorbed in watching a blowsy, puffy-cheeked woman amiably gathering in drippy spoonfuls of cabbage. It bothered me. I slipped my purse to Porter.
"My God, Bill, buy them a feed." He sneaked it back to me.
"Wait. There's a story here." He paid the bill. It was about 20 cents. He spoke a moment to the manager. Whatever he wanted, the manager was ready to give.