Humorous American Short Stories

by Bob Blaisdell

  “What has changed Sophia so? It isn’t Sophia at all! And I thought so much of her, and I looked forward to spending my old age with her so happily!” murmured Julia. “But perhaps it will come right,” she reasoned cheerily. “I may get used to it. I didn’t suppose there’d be any rubbing of corners. But as there is, the sooner they’re rubbed off the better, and we shall settle down into comfort again, at last instead of at first, as I had hoped in the beginning.”

  Alas! “I really can’t stand these plants of yours, Julia, dear,” said Mrs. Maybury, soon afterward. “I’ve tried to. I’ve said nothing. I’ve waited, to be very sure. But I never have been able to have plants about me. They act like poison to me. They always make me sneeze so. And you see I’m all stuffed up—”

  Her plants! Almost as dear to her as children might have been! The chief ornament of her parlors! And just ready to bloom! This was really asking too much. “I don’t believe it’s the plants at all,” said Julia. “That’s sheer nonsense. Anybody living on this green and vegetating earth to be poisoned by plants in a window! I don’t suppose they trouble you any more than your lamp all night does me; but I’ve never said anything about that. I can’t bear lamplight at night; I want it perfectly dark, and the light streams out of your room—”

  “Why don’t you shut the door, then?”

  “Because I never shut my door. I want to hear if anything disturbs the house. Why don’t you shut yours?”

  “I never do, either. I’ve always had several rooms, and kept the doors open between. It isn’t healthy to sleep with closed doors.”

  “Healthy! Healthy! I don’t hear anything else from morning till night when I’m in the house.”

  “You can’t hear very much of it, then.”

  “I should think, Sophia Maybury, you wanted to live forever!”

  “Goodness knows I don’t!” cried Mrs. Maybury, bursting into tears. And that night she shut her bedroom door and opened the window, and sneezed worse than ever all day afterward, in spite of the fact that Mrs. Cairnes had put all her cherished plants into the dining-room alcove.

  “I can’t imagine what has changed Julia so,” sighed Mrs. Maybury. “She used to be so bright and sweet and good-tempered. And now I really don’t know what sort of an answer I’m to have to anything I say. It keeps my nerves stretched on the qui vive all day. I am so disappointed. I am sure the Doctor would be very unhappy if he knew how I felt.”

  But Mrs. Maybury had need to pity herself; Julia didn’t pity her. “She’s been made a baby of so long,” said Julia, “that now she really can’t go alone.” And perhaps she was a little bitterer about it than she would have been had Captain Cairnes ever made a baby of her in the least, at any time.

  They were sitting together one afternoon, a thunderstorm of unusual severity having detained Mrs. Cairnes at home, and the conversation had been more or less acrimonious, as often of late. Just before dusk there came a great burst of sun, and the whole heavens were suffused with splendor.

  “O Julia! Come here, come quick, and see this sunset!” cried Mrs. Maybury. But Julia did not come. “Oh! I can’t bear to have you lose it,” urged the philanthropic lover of nature again. “There! It’s streaming up the very zenith. I never saw such color—do come.”

  “Mercy, Sophia! You’re always wanting people to leave what they’re about and see something! My lap’s full of worsteds.”

  “Well,” said Sophia. “It’s for your own sake. I don’t know that it will do me any good. Only if one enjoys beautiful sights.”

  “Dear me! Well, there! Is that all? I don’t see anything remarkable. The idea of making one get up to see that!” And as she took her seat, up jumped the great black and white cat to look out in his turn. Mrs. Maybury would have been more than human if she had not said “Scat! scat! scat!” and she did say it, shaking herself in horror.

  It was the last straw. Mrs. Cairnes took her cat in her arms and moved majestically out of the room, put on her rubbers, and went out to tea, and did not come home till the light upstairs told her that Mrs. Maybury had gone to her room.

  Where was it all going to end? Mrs. Cairnes could not send Sophia away after all the protestations she had made. Mrs. Maybury could never put such a slight on Julia as to go away without more overt cause for displeasure. It seemed as though they would have to fight it out in the union.

  But that night a glare lit the sky which quite outdid the sunset; the fire-bells and clattering engines called attention to it much more loudly than Sophia had announced the larger conflagration. And in the morning it was found that the Webster House was in ashes. All of Mrs. Maybury’s property was in the building. The insurance had run out the week before, and meaning to attend to it every day she had let it go, and here she was penniless.

  But no one need commiserate with her. Instead of any terror at her situation a wild joy sprang up within her. Relief and freedom clapped their wings above her.

  It was Mrs. Cairnes who felt that she herself needed pity. A lamp at nights, oceans of fresh air careering round the house, the everlasting canary-bird’s singing to bear, her plants exiled, her table revolutionized, her movements watched, her conversation restrained, her cat abused, the board of two people and the wages of one to come out of her narrow hoard. But she rose to the emergency. Sophia was penniless. Sophia was homeless. The things which it was the ashes of bitterness to allow her as a right, she could well give her as a benefactress. Sophia was welcome to all she had. She went into the room, meaning to overwhelm the weeping, helpless Sophia with her benevolence. Sophia was not there.

  Mrs. Maybury came in some hours later, a carriage and a job-wagon presently following her to the door. “You are very good, Julia,” said she, when Julia received her with the rapid sentences of welcome and assurance that she had been accumulating. “And you mustn’t think I’m not sensible of all your kindness. I am. But my husband gave the institution advice for nothing for forty years, and I think I have rights there now without feeling under obligations to any. I’ve visited the directors, and I’ve had a meeting called and attended,—I’ve had all your energy, Julia, and have hurried things along in quite your own fashion. And as I had just one hundred dollars in my purse after I sold my watch this morning, I’ve paid it over for the entrance-fee, and I’ve been admitted and am going to spend the rest of my days in the Old Ladies’ Home. I’ve the upper corner front room, and I hope you will come and see me there.”

  “Sophia!”

  “Don’t speak! Don’t say one word! My mind was made up irrevocably when I went out. Nothing you, nothing any one, can say, will change it. I’m one of the old ladies now.”

  Mrs. Cairnes brought all her plants back into the parlor, pulled down the shades, drew the inside curtain, had the cat’s cushion again in its familiar corner, and gave Allida warning, within half an hour. She looked about a little while and luxuriated in her freedom,—no one to supervise her conversation, her movements, her opinions, her food. Never mind the empty rooms, or the echoes there! She read an angry psalm or two, looked over some texts denouncing pharisees and hypocrites, thought indignantly of the ingratitude there was in the world, felt that any way, and on the whole, she was where she was before Sophia came, and went out to spend the evening, and came in at the nine-o’clock bell-ringing with such a sense of freedom, that she sat up till midnight to enjoy it.

  And Sophia spent the day putting her multitudinous belongings into place, hanging up her bird-cage, arranging her books and her bureau-drawers, setting up a stocking, and making the acquaintance of the old ladies next her. She taught one of them to play double solitaire that very evening. And then she talked a little while concerning Dr. Maybury, about whom Julia had never seemed willing to hear a word; and then she read, “Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest,” and went to bed perfectly happy.

  Julia came to see her the next day, and Sophia received her with open arms. Everyone knew that Julia had begged her to stay and live wi
th her always, and share what she had. Julia goes now to see her every day of her life, rain or snow, storm or shine; and the whole village says that the friendship between those two old women is something ideal.

  SOURCE: The Ten Books of the Merrymakers. Edited by Marshall Pinckney Wilder. Volume 9. New York: The Circle Publishing Company, 1909.

  THE RANSOM OF RED CHIEF (1910)

  O. Henry (William Sydney Porter)

  William Sydney Porter (1862–1910) served three years in prison for embezzlement from the bank where he worked in Texas. In 1901 he began a new career for himself in New York City as a short story writer, taking the pseudonym O. Henry. Within the decade, he became America’s favorite author of clever tales.

  IT LOOKED LIKE a good thing: but wait till I tell you. We were down South, in Alabama—Bill Driscoll and myself—when this kidnapping idea struck us. It was, as Bill afterward expressed it, “during a moment of temporary mental apparition”; but we didn’t find that out till later.

  There was a town down there, as flat as a flannel-cake, and called Summit, of course. It contained inhabitants of as undeleterious and self-satisfied a class of peasantry as ever clustered around a Maypole.

  Bill and me had a joint capital of about six hundred dollars, and we needed just two thousand dollars more to pull off a fraudulent town-lot scheme in Western Illinois with. We talked it over on the front steps of the hotel. Philoprogenitiveness, says we, is strong in semi-rural communities therefore, and for other reasons, a kidnapping project ought to do better there than in the radius of newspapers that send reporters out in plain clothes to stir up talk about such things. We knew that Summit couldn’t get after us with anything stronger than constables and, maybe, some lackadaisical bloodhounds and a diatribe or two in the Weekly Farmers’ Budget. So, it looked good.

  We selected for our victim the only child of a prominent citizen named Ebenezer Dorset. The father was respectable and tight, a mortgage fancier and a stern, upright collection-plate passer and forecloser. The kid was a boy of ten, with bas-relief freckles, and hair the color of the cover of the magazine you buy at the newsstand when you want to catch a train. Bill and me figured that Ebenezer would melt down for a ransom of two thousand dollars to a cent. But wait till I tell you.

  About two miles from Summit was a little mountain, covered with a dense cedar brake. On the rear elevation of this mountain was a cave. There we stored provisions.

  One evening after sundown, we drove in a buggy past old Dorset’s house. The kid was in the street, throwing rocks at a kitten on the opposite fence.

  “Hey, little boy!” says Bill, “would you like to have a bag of candy and a nice ride?”

  The boy catches Bill neatly in the eye with a piece of brick.

  “That will cost the old man an extra five hundred dollars,” says Bill, climbing over the wheel.

  That boy put up a fight like a welter-weight cinnamon bear; but, at last, we got him down in the bottom of the buggy and drove away. We took him up to the cave, and I hitched the horse in the cedar brake. After dark I drove the buggy to the little village, three miles away, where we had hired it, and walked back to the mountain.

  Bill was pasting court-plaster over the scratches and bruises on his features. There was a fire burning behind the big rock at the entrance of the cave, and the boy was watching a pot of boiling coffee, with two buzzard tail-feathers stuck in his red hair. He points a stick at me when I come up, and says:

  “Ha! cursed paleface, do you dare to enter the camp of Red Chief, the terror of the plains?”

  “He’s all right now,” says Bill, rolling up his trousers and examining some bruises on his shins. “We’re playing Indian. We’re making Buffalo Bill’s show look like magic-lantern views of Palestine in the town hall. I’m Old Hank, the Trapper, Red Chief’s captive, and I’m to be scalped at daybreak. By Geronimo! that kid can kick hard.”

  Yes, sir, that boy seemed to be having the time of his life. The fun of camping out in a cave had made him forget that he was a captive himself. He immediately christened me Snake-eye, the Spy, and announced that, when his braves returned from the warpath, I was to be broiled at the stake at the rising of the sun.

  Then we had supper; and he filled his mouth full of bacon and bread and gravy, and began to talk. He made a during-dinner speech something like this:

  “I like this fine. I never camped out before; but I had a pet ’possum once, and I was nine last birthday. I hate to go to school. Rats ate up sixteen of Jimmy Talbot’s aunt’s speckled hen’s eggs. Are there any real Indians in these woods? I want some more gravy. Does the trees moving make the wind blow? We had five puppies. What makes your nose so red, Hank? My father has lots of money. Are the stars hot? I whipped Ed Walker twice, Saturday. I don’t like girls. You dassent catch toads unless with a string. Do oxen make any noise? Why are oranges round? Have you got beds to sleep on in this cave? Amos Murray has got six toes. A parrot can talk, but a monkey or a fish can’t. How many does it take to make twelve?”

  Every few minutes he would remember that he was a pesky redskin, and pick up his stick rifle and tiptoe to the mouth of the cave to rubber for the scouts of the hated paleface. Now and then he would let out a war-whoop that made Old Hank the Trapper shiver. That boy had Bill terrorized from the start.

  “Red Chief,” says I to the kid, “would you like to go home?”

  “Aw, what for?” says he. “I don’t have any fun at home. I hate to go to school. I like to camp out. You won’t take me back home again, Snake-eye, will you?”

  “Not right away,” says I. “We’ll stay here in the cave a while.”

  “All right!” says he. “That’ll be fine. I never had such fun in all my life.”

  We went to bed about eleven o’clock. We spread down some wide blankets and quilts and put Red Chief between us. We weren’t afraid he’d run away. He kept us awake for three hours, jumping up and reaching for his rifle and screeching: “Hist! pard,” in mine and Bill’s ears, as the fancied crackle of a twig or the rustle of a leaf revealed to his young imagination the stealthy approach of the outlaw band. At last, I fell into a troubled sleep, and dreamed that I had been kidnapped and chained to a tree by a ferocious pirate with red hair.

  Just at daybreak, I was awakened by a series of awful screams from Bill. They weren’t yells, or howls, or shouts, or whoops, or yawps, such as you’d expect from a manly set of vocal organs—they were simply indecent, terrifying, humiliating screams, such as women emit when they see ghosts or caterpillars. It’s an awful thing to hear a strong, desperate, fat man scream incontinently in a cave at daybreak.

  I jumped up to see what the matter was. Red Chief was sitting on Bill’s chest, with one hand twined in Bill’s hair. In the other he had the sharp case-knife we used for slicing bacon; and he was industriously and realistically trying to take Bill’s scalp, according to the sentence that had been pronounced upon him the evening before.

  I got the knife away from the kid and made him lie down again. But, from that moment, Bill’s spirit was broken. He laid down on his side of the bed, but he never closed an eye again in sleep as long as that boy was with us. I dozed off for a while, but along toward sun-up I remembered that Red Chief had said I was to be burned at the stake at the rising of the sun. I wasn’t nervous or afraid; but I sat up and lit my pipe and leaned against a rock.

  “What you getting up so soon for, Sam?” asked Bill.

  “Me?” says I. “Oh, I got a kind of a pain in my shoulder. I thought sitting up would rest it.”

  “You’re a liar!” says Bill. “You’re afraid. You was to be burned at sunrise, and you was afraid he’d do it. And he would, too, if he could find a match. Ain’t it awful, Sam? Do you think anybody will pay out money to get a little imp like that back home?”

  “Sure,” said I. “A rowdy kid like that is just the kind that parents dote on. Now, you and the Chief get up and cook breakfast, while I go up on the top of this mountain and reconnoiter.”

  I
went up on the peak of the little mountain and ran my eye over the contiguous vicinity. Over toward Summit I expected to see the sturdy yeomanry of the village armed with scythes and pitchforks beating the countryside for the dastardly kidnappers. But what I saw was a peaceful landscape dotted with one man plowing with a dun mule. Nobody was dragging the creek; no couriers dashed hither and yon, bringing tidings of no news to the distracted parents. There was a sylvan attitude of somnolent sleepiness pervading that section of the external outward surface of Alabama that lay exposed to my view. “Perhaps,” says I to myself, “it has not yet been discovered that the wolves have borne away the tender lambkin from the fold. Heaven help the wolves!” says I, and I went down the mountain to breakfast.

  When I got to the cave I found Bill backed up against the side of it, breathing hard, and the boy threatening to smash him with a rock half as big as a cocoanut.

  “He put a red-hot boiled potato down my back,” explained Bill, “and then mashed it with his foot; and I boxed his ears. Have you got a gun about you, Sam?”

  I took the rock away from the boy and kind of patched up the argument. “I’ll fix you,” says the kid to Bill. “No man ever yet struck the Red Chief but what he got paid for it. You better beware!”

  After breakfast the kid takes a piece of leather with strings wrapped around it out of his pocket and goes outside the cave unwinding it.

  “What’s he up to now?” says Bill, anxiously. “You don’t think he’ll run away, do you, Sam?”

  “No fear of it,” says I. “He don’t seem to be much of a home body. But we’ve got to fix up some plan about the ransom. There don’t seem to be much excitement around Summit on account of his disappearance; but maybe they haven’t realized yet that he’s gone. His folks may think he’s spending the night with Aunt Jane or one of the neighbors. Anyhow, he’ll be missed today. Tonight we must get a message to his father demanding the two thousand dollars for his return.”

  Just then we heard a kind of war-whoop, such as David might have emitted when he knocked out the champion Goliath. It was a sling that Red Chief had pulled out of his pocket, and he was whirling it around his head.