“You’re a fool!” cried the Easterner, viciously. “You’re a bigger jackass than the Swede by a million majority. Now let me tell you one thing. Let me tell you something. Listen! Johnnie was cheating!”
“ ‘Johnnie,’ ” said the cowboy, blankly. There was a minute of silence, and then he said, robustly, “Why, no. The game was only for fun.”
“Fun or not,” said the Easterner, “Johnnie was cheating. I saw him. I know it. I saw him. And I refused to stand up and be a man. I let the Swede fight it out alone. And you—you were simply puffing around the place and wanting to fight. And then old Scully himself! We are all in it! This poor gambler isn’t even a noun. He is kind of an adverb. Every sin is the result of a collaboration. We, five of us, have collaborated in the murder of this Swede. Usually there are from a dozen to forty women really involved in every murder, but in this case it seems to be only five men—you, I, Johnnie, old Scully, and that fool of an unfortunate gambler came merely as a culmination, the apex of a human movement, and gets all the punishment.”
The cowboy, injured and rebellious, cried out blindly into this fog of mysterious theory: “Well, I didn’t do anythin’, did I?”
A SELF-MADE MAN
AN EXAMPLE OF SUCCESS THAT ANYONE CAN FOLLOW
Tom had a hole in his shoe. It was very round and very uncomfortable, particularly when he went on wet pavements. Rainy days made him feel that he was walking on frozen dollars although he had only to think for a moment to discover he was not.
He used up almost two packs of playing cards by means of putting four cards at a time inside his shoe as a sort of temporary sole which usually lasted about half a day. Once he put in four aces for luck. He went down town that morning and got refused work. He thought it wasn’t a very extraordinary performance for a young man of ability and he was not sorry that night to find his packs were entirely out of aces.
One day, Tom was strolling down Broadway. He was in pursuit of work, although his pace was slow. He had found that he must take the matter coolly. So he puffed tenderly at a cigarette and walked as if he owned stock. He imitated success so successfully that if it wasn’t for the constant reminder (king, queen, deuce and tray) in his shoe, he would have gone into a store and bought something.
He had borrowed five cents that morning of his land-lady, for his mouth craved tobacco. Although he owed her much for board, she had unlimited confidence in him because his stock of self-assurance was very large indeed. And as it increased in a proper ratio with the amount of his bills, his relations with her seemed on a firm basis. So he strolled along and smoked with his confidence in fortune in nowise impaired by his financial condition.
Of a sudden he perceived an old man seated upon a railing and smoking a clay pipe.
He stopped to look because he wasn’t in a hurry and because it was an unusual thing on Broadway to see old men seated upon railings and smoking clay pipes.
And to his surprise the old man regarded him very intently in return. He stared, with a wistful expression, into Tom’s face and he clasped his hands in trembling excitement.
Tom was filled with astonishment at the old man’s strange demeanor. He stood puffing at his cigarette, and tried to understand matters. Failing, he threw his cigarette away, took a fresh one from his pocket and approached the old man.
“Got a match?” he enquired, pleasantly. The old man, much agitated, nearly fell from the railing as he leaned dangerously forward.
“Sonny, can you read?” he demanded in a quavering voice.
“Certainly, I can,” said Tom, encouragingly. He waived the affair of the match.
The old man fumbled in his pocket. “You look honest, sonny. I’ve been lookin’ fur an honest feller fur a’most a week. I’ve set on this railing fur six days,” he cried, plaintively.
He drew forth a letter and handed it to Tom. “Read it fur me, sonny, read it,” he said, coaxingly.
Tom took the letter and leaned back against the railing. As he opened it and prepared to read, the old man wriggled like a child at a forbidden feast.
Thundering trucks made frequent interruptions and seven men in a hurry jogged Tom’s elbow but he succeeded in reading what follows:Office of Ketchum R. Jones, attorney at law
Tin Can, Nevada, July 19, 18—
Rufus Wilkins, Esq.
Dear sir:
I have as yet received no acknowledgement of the draft from the sale of the north section lots, which I forwarded to you on June 25th. I would request an immediate reply concerning it.
Since my last I have sold the three corner lots at five thousand each. The city grew so rapidly in that direction that they were surrounded by brick stores almost before you would know it. I have also sold for four thousand dollars the ten acres of out-lying sage-brush which you once foolishly tried to give away. Mr. Simpson of Boston bought the tract. He is very shrewd no doubt but he hasn’t been in the West long. Still, I think if he holds it for about a thousand years, he may come out all right.
I worked him with the projected-horse-car-line gag.
Inform me of the address of your New York attorneys and I will send on the papers. Pray do not neglect to write me concerning the draft sent on June 25th.
In conclusion I might say that if you have any Eastern friends who are after good Western investments inform them of the glorious future of Tin Can. We now have three railroads, a bank, an electric light plant, a projected horse-car line, and an art society. Also, a saw manufactory, a patent car-wheel mill, and a Methodist church. Tin Can is marching forward to take her proud stand as the metropolis of the West. The rose-hued future holds no glories to which Tin Can does not—
Tom stopped abruptly. “I guess the important part of the letter came first,” he said.
“Yes,” cried the old man, “I’ve heard enough. It is just as I thought. George has robbed his dad.”
The old man’s frail body quivered with grief. Two tears trickled slowly down the furrows of his face.
“Come, come, now,” said Tom, patting him tenderly on the back. “Brace up, old feller. What you want to do is to get a lawyer and go put the screws on George.”
“Is it really?” asked the old man, eagerly.
“Certainly, it is,” said Tom.
“All right,” cried the old man, with enthusiasm. “Tell me where to get one.” He slid down from the railing and prepared to start off.
Tom reflected. “Well,” he said, finally, “I might do for one myself.”
“What,” shouted the old man in a voice of admiration, “are you a lawyer as well as a reader?”
“Well,” said Tom again, “I might appear to advantage as one. All you need is a big front,” he added, slowly. He was a profane young man.
The old man seized him by the arm. “Come on, then,” he cried, “and we’ll go put the screws on George.”
Tom permitted himself to be dragged by the weak arms of his companion around a corner and along a side street. As they proceeded, he was internally bracing himself for a struggle, and putting large bales of self-assurance around where they would be likely to obstruct the advance of discovery and defeat.
By the time they reached a brown-stone house hidden away in a street of shops and ware-houses, his mental balance was so admirable that he seemed to be in possession of enough information and brains to ruin half of the city, and he was no more concerned about the king, queen, deuce and tray than if they had been discards that didn’t fit his draw. Too, he infused so much confidence and courage into his companion, that the old man went along the street, breathing war, like a decrepit hound on the scent of new blood.
He ambled up the steps of the brown-stone house as if he were charging earth-works. He unlocked the door and they passed along a dark hall-way. In a rear room they found a man seated at table engaged with a very late breakfast. He had a diamond in his shirt front and a bit of egg on his cuff.
“George,” said the old man in a fierce voice that came from his aged throat with a sound like
the crackle of burning twigs, “here’s my lawyer Mr.-er-ah-Smith and we want to know what you did with the draft that was sent on June 25th.”
The old man delivered the words as if each one was a musket shot. George’s coffee spilled softly upon the table-cover and his fingers worked convulsively upon a slice of bread. He turned a white, astonished face toward the old man and the intrepid Thomas.
The latter, straight and tall, with a highly legal air, stood at the old man’s side. His glowing eyes were fixed upon the face of the man at the table. They seemed like two little detective cameras taking pictures of the other man’s thoughts.
“Father, what d-do you mean,” faltered George totally unable to withstand the two cameras and the highly legal air.
“What do I mean?” said the old man with a feeble roar as from an ancient lion. “I mean that draft—that’s what I mean. Give it up or we’ll-we’ll——” he paused to gain courage by a glance at the formidable figure at his side—“we’ll put the screws on you.”
“Well, I was—I was only borrowin’ it for ’bout a month,” said George.
“Ah,” said Tom.
George started, glared at Tom and then began to shiver like an animal with a broken back. There were a few moments of silence. The old man was fumbling about in his mind for more imprecations. George was wilting and turning limp before the glittering orbs of the valiant attorney. The latter, content with the exalted advantage he had gained by the use of the expression, “Ah,” spoke no more but continued to stare.
“Well,” said George, finally, in a weak voice, “I s’pose I can give you a check for it, ’though I was only borrowin’ it for ’bout a month. I don’t think you have treated me fairly, father, with your lawyers and your threats and all that. But I’ll give you the check.”
The old man turned to his attorney. “Well?” he asked.
Tom looked at the son and held an impressive debate with himself. “I think we may accept the check,” he said coldly after a time.
George arose and tottered across the room. He drew a check that made the attorney’s heart come privately into his mouth. As he and his client passed triumphantly out, he turned a last highly legal glare upon George that reduced that individual to a mere paste.
On the side-walk, the old man went into a spasm of delight and called his attorney all the admiring and endearing names there were to be had.
“Lord, how you settled him,” he cried ecstatically.
They walked slowly back toward Broadway. “The scoundrel,” murmured the old man. “I’ll never see ’im again. I’ll dersert ’im. I’ll find a nice quiet boarding-place and——”
“That’s all right,” said Tom. “I know one. I’ll take you right up,” which he did.
He came near being happy ever after. The old man lived, at advanced rates, in the front room at Tom’s boarding-house. And the latter basked in the proprietress’ smiles which had a commercial value and were a great improvement on many we see.
The old man, with his quantities of sage-brush, thought Thomas owned all the virtues mentioned in high-class literature, and his opinion, too, was of commercial value. Also, he knew a man who knew another man who received an impetus which made him engage Thomas on terms that were highly satisfactory. Then it was that the latter learned he had not succeeded sooner because he did not know a man who knew another man.
So it came to pass that Tom grew to be Thomas G. Somebody. He achieved that position in life from which he could hold out for good wines when he went to poor restaurants. His name became entangled with the name of Wilkins in the ownership of vast and valuable tracts of sage-brush in Tin Can, Nevada.
At the present day he is so great that he lunches frugally at high prices. His fame has spread through the land as a man who carved his way to fortune with no help but his undaunted pluck, his tireless energy, and his sterling integrity.
Newspapers apply to him now, and he writes long signed articles to struggling young men, in which he gives the best possible advice as to how to become wealthy. In these articles, he, in a burst of glorification, cites the king, queen, deuce, and tray, the four aces, and all that. He alludes tenderly to the nickel he borrowed and spent for cigarettes as the foundation of his fortune.
“To succeed in life,” he writes, “the youth of America have only to see an old man seated upon a railing and smoking a clay pipe. Then go up and ask him for a match.”
THE OPEN BOAT
A TALE INTENDED TO BE AFTER THE FACT: BEING THE EXPERIENCE OF FOUR MEN FROM THE SUNK STEAMER COMMODORE.1
I
None of them knew the color of the sky. Their eyes glanced level, and were fastened upon the waves that swept toward them. These waves were of the hue of slate, save for the tops, which were of foaming white, and all of the men knew the colors of the sea. The horizon narrowed and widened, and dipped and rose, and at all times its edge was jagged with waves that seemed thrust up in points like rocks.
Many a man ought to have a bath-tub larger than the boat which here rode upon the sea. These waves were most wrongfully and barbarously abrupt and tall, and each froth-top was a problem in small-boat navigation.
The cook squatted in the bottom, and looked with both eyes at the six inches of gunwale which separated him from the ocean. His sleeves were rolled over his fat forearms, and the two flaps of his unbuttoned vest dangled as he bent to bail out the boat. Often he said, “Gawd! that was a narrow clip.” As he remarked it he invariably gazed eastward over the broken sea.
The oiler, steering with one of the two oars in the boat, sometimes raised himself suddenly to keep clear of water that swirled in over the stern. It was a thin little oar, and it seemed often ready to snap.
The correspondent, pulling at the other oar, watched the waves and wondered why he was there.
The injured captain, lying in the bow, was at this time buried in that profound dejection and indifference which comes, temporarily at least, to even the bravest and most enduring when, willy-nilly, the firm fails, the army loses, the ship goes down. The mind of the master of a vessel is rooted deep in the timbers of her, though he command for a day or a decade; and this captain had on him the stern impression of a scene in the grays of dawn of seven turned faces, and later a stump of a topmast with a white ball on it, that slashed to and fro at the waves, went low and lower, and down. Thereafter there was something strange in his voice. Although steady, it was deep with mourning, and of a quality beyond oration or tears.
“Keep ’er a little more south, Billie,” said he.
“A little more south, sir,” said the oiler in the stern.
A seat in this boat was not unlike a seat upon a bucking broncho, and, by the same token, a broncho is not much smaller. The craft pranced and reared and plunged like an animal. As each wave came, and she rose for it, she seemed like a horse making at a fence outrageously high. The manner of her scramble over these walls of water is a mystic thing, and, moreover, at the top of them were ordinarily these problems in white water, the foam racing down from the summit of each wave, requiring a new leap, and a leap from the air. Then, after scornfully bumping a crest, she would slide and race and splash down a long incline, and arrive bobbing and nodding in front of the next menace.
A singular disadvantage of the sea lies in the fact that, after successfully surmounting one wave, you discover that there is another behind it, just as important and just as nervously anxious to do something effective in the way of swamping boats. In a ten-foot dinghy one can get an idea of the resources of the sea in the line of waves that is not probable to the average experience, which is never at sea in a dinghy. As each slaty wall of water approached, it shut all else from the view of the men in the boat, and it was not difficult to imagine that this particular wave was the final outburst of the ocean, the last effort of the grim water. There was a terrible grace in the move of the waves, and they came in silence, save for the snarling of the crests.
In the wan light the faces of the men must have been gray
. Their eyes must have glinted in strange ways as they gazed steadily astern. Viewed from a balcony, the whole thing would, doubtless, have been weirdly picturesque. But the men in the boat had no time to see it, and if they had had leisure, there were other things to occupy their minds. The sun swung steadily up the sky, and they knew it was broad day because the color of the sea changed from slate to emerald-green streaked with amber lights, and the foam was like tumbling snow. The process of the breaking day was unknown to them. They were aware only of this effect upon the color of the waves that rolled toward them.
In disjointed sentences the cook and the correspondent argued as to the difference between a life-saving station and a house of refuge. The cook had said: “There’s a house of refuge just north of the Mosquito Inlet Light, and as soon as they see us they’ll come off in their boat and pick us up.”
“As soon as who see us?” said the correspondent.
“The crew,” said the cook.
“Houses of refuge don’t have crews,” said the correspondent. “As I understand them, they are only places where clothes and grub are stored for the benefit of shipwrecked people. They don’t carry crews.”
“Oh, yes, they do,” said the cook.
“No, they don’t,” said the correspondent.
“Well, we’re not there yet, anyhow,” said the oiler in the stern.
“Well,” said the cook, “perhaps it’s not a house of refuge that I’m thinking of as being near Mosquito Inlet Light; perhaps it’s a life-saving station.”
“We’re not there yet,” said the oiler in the stern.
II
As the boat bounced from the top of each wave the wind tore through the hair of the hatless men, and as the craft plopped her stern down again the spray slashed past them. The crest of each of these waves was a hill, from the top of which the men surveyed for a moment a broad, tumultuous expanse, shining and wind-riven. It was probably splendid, it was probably glorious, this play of the free sea, wild with lights of emerald and white and amber.
The Red Badge of Courage and Other Stories Page 23