Delphi Complete Works of O. Henry

by O. Henry

  “It’s done,” he yawned. “You’ll excuse me for being so long. I got interested in the job. Lordy! but I’m tired. No bed last night, you know. Guess it’ll have to be good night now, O Commander of the Faithful!”

  Chalmers went as far as the door with him and slipped some bills into his hand.

  “Oh! I’ll take ‘em,” said Plumer. “All that’s included in the fall. Thanks. And for the very good dinner. I shall sleep on feathers to-night and dream of Bagdad. I hope it won’t turn out to be a dream in the morning. Farewell, most excellent Caliph!”

  Again Chalmers paced restlessly upon his rug. But his beat lay as far from the table whereon lay the pastel sketch as the room would permit. Twice, thrice, he tried to approach it, but failed. He could see the dun and gold and brown of the colors, but there was a wall about it built by his fears that kept him at a distance. He sat down and tried to calm himself. He sprang up and rang for Phillips.

  “There is a young artist in this building,” he said. “ — a Mr. Reineman — do you know which is his apartment?”

  “Top floor, front, sir,” said Phillips.

  “Go up and ask him to favor me with his presence here for a few minutes.”

  Reineman came at once. Chalmers introduced himself.

  “Mr. Reineman,” said he, “there is a little pastel sketch on yonder table. I would be glad if you will give me your opinion of it as to its artistic merits and as a picture.”

  The young artist advanced to the table and took up the sketch. Chalmers half turned away, leaning upon the back of a chair.

  “How — do — you find it?” he asked, slowly.

  “As a drawing,” said the artist, “I can’t praise it enough. It’s the work of a master — bold and fine and true. It puzzles me a little; I haven’t seen any pastel work near as good in years.”

  “The face, man — the subject — the original — what would you say of that?”

  “The face,” said Reineman, “is the face of one of God’s own angels. May I ask who— “

  “My wife!” shouted Chalmers, wheeling and pouncing upon the astonished artist, gripping his hand and pounding his back. “She is traveling in Europe. Take that sketch, boy, and paint the picture of your life from it and leave the price to me.”

  THE RUBAIYAT OF A SCOTCH HIGHBALL

  This document is intended to strike somewhere between a temperance lecture and the “Bartender’s Guide.” Relative to the latter, drink shall swell the theme and be set forth in abundance. Agreeably to the former, not an elbow shall be crooked.

  Bob Babbitt was “off the stuff.” Which means — as you will discover by referring to the unabridged dictionary of Bohemia — that he had “cut out the booze;” that he was “on the water wagon.” The reason for Bob’s sudden attitude of hostility toward the “demon rum” — as the white ribboners miscall whiskey (see the “Bartender’s Guide”), should be of interest to reformers and saloon-keepers.

  There is always hope for a man who, when sober, will not concede or acknowledge that he was ever drunk. But when a man will say (in the apt words of the phrase-distiller), “I had a beautiful skate on last night,” you will have to put stuff in his coffee as well as pray for him.

  One evening on his way home Babbitt dropped in at the Broadway bar that he liked best. Always there were three or four fellows there from the downtown offices whom he knew. And then there would be high-balls and stories, and he would hurry home to dinner a little late but feeling good, and a little sorry for the poor Standard Oil Company. On this evening as he entered he heard some one say: “Babbitt was in last night as full as a boiled owl.”

  Babbitt walked to the bar, and saw in the mirror that his face was as white as chalk. For the first time he had looked Truth in the eyes. Others had lied to him; he had dissembled with himself. He was a drunkard, and had not known it. What he had fondly imagined was a pleasant exhilaration had been maudlin intoxication. His fancied wit had been drivel; his gay humors nothing but the noisy vagaries of a sot. But, never again!

  “A glass of seltzer,” he said to the bartender.

  A little silence fell upon the group of his cronies, who had been expecting him to join them.

  “Going off the stuff, Bob?” one of them asked politely and with more formality than the highballs ever called forth.

  “Yes,” said Babbitt.

  Some one of the group took up the unwashed thread of a story he had been telling; the bartender shoved over a dime and a nickel change from the quarter, ungarnished with his customary smile; and Babbitt walked out.

  Now, Babbitt had a home and a wife — but that is another story. And I will tell you that story, which will show you a better habit and a worse story than you could find in the man who invented the phrase.

  It began away up in Sullivan County, where so many rivers and so much trouble begins — or begin; how would you say that? It was July, and Jessie was a summer boarder at the Mountain Squint Hotel, and Bob, who was just out of college, saw her one day — and they were married in September. That’s the tabloid novel — one swallow of water, and it’s gone.

  But those July days!

  Let the exclamation point expound it, for I shall not. For particulars you might read up on “Romeo and Juliet,” and Abraham Lincoln’s thrilling sonnet about “You can fool some of the people,” &c., and Darwin’s works.

  But one thing I must tell you about. Both of them were mad over Omar’s Rubaiyat. They knew every verse of the old bluffer by heart — not consecutively, but picking ‘em out here and there as you fork the mushrooms in a fifty-cent steak à la Bordelaise. Sullivan County is full of rocks and trees; and Jessie used to sit on them, and — please be good — used to sit on the rocks; and Bob had a way of standing behind her with his hands over her shoulders holding her hands, and his face close to hers, and they would repeat over and over their favorite verses of the old tent-maker. They saw only the poetry and philosophy of the lines then — indeed, they agreed that the Wine was only an image, and that what was meant to be celebrated was some divinity, or maybe Love or Life. However, at that time neither of them had tasted the stuff that goes with a sixty-cent table d’hote.

  Where was I? Oh, they married and came to New York. Bob showed his college diploma, and accepted a position filling inkstands in a lawyer’s office at $15 a week. At the end of two years he had worked up to $50, and gotten his first taste of Bohemia — the kind that won’t stand the borax and formaldehyde tests.

  They had two furnished rooms and a little kitchen. To Jess, accustomed to the mild but beautiful savor of a country town, the dreggy Bohemia was sugar and spice. She hung fish seines on the walls of her rooms, and bought a rakish-looking sideboard, and learned to play the banjo. Twice or thrice a week they dined at French or Italian tables d’hote in a cloud of smoke, and brag and unshorn hair. Jess learned to drink a cocktail in order to get the cherry. At home she smoked a cigarette after dinner. She learned to pronounce Chianti, and leave her olive stones for the waiter to pick up. Once she essayed to say la, la, la! in a crowd but got only as far as the second one. They met one or two couples while dining out and became friendly with them. The sideboard was stocked with Scotch and rye and a liqueur. They had their new friends in to dinner and all were laughing at nothing by 1 A. M. Some plastering fell in the room below them, for which Bob had to pay $4.50. Thus they footed it merrily on the ragged frontiers of the country that has no boundary lines or government.

  And soon Bob fell in with his cronies and learned to keep his foot on the little rail six inches above the floor for an hour or so every afternoon before he went home. Drink always rubbed him the right way, and he would reach his rooms as jolly as a sandboy. Jessie would meet him at the door, and generally they would dance some insane kind of a rigadoon about the floor by way of greeting. Once when Bob’s feet became confused and he tumbled headlong over a foot-stool Jessie laughed so heartily and long that he had to throw all the couch pillows at her to make her hush.

 
In such wise life was speeding for them on the day when Bob Babbitt first felt the power that the giftie gi’ed him.

  But let us get back to our lamb and mint sauce.

  When Bob got home that evening he found Jessie in a long apron cutting up a lobster for the Newburg. Usually when Bob came in mellow from his hour at the bar his welcome was hilarious, though somewhat tinctured with Scotch smoke.

  By screams and snatches of song and certain audible testimonials of domestic felicity was his advent proclaimed. When she heard his foot on the stairs the old maid in the hall room always stuffed cotton into her ears. At first Jessie had shrunk from the rudeness and favor of these spiritual greetings, but as the fog of the false Bohemia gradually encompassed her she came to accept them as love’s true and proper greeting.

  Bob came in without a word, smiled, kissed her neatly but noiselessly, took up a paper and sat down. In the hall room the old maid held her two plugs of cotton poised, filled with anxiety.

  Jessie dropped lobster and knife and ran to him with frightened eyes.

  “What’s the matter, Bob, are you ill?”

  “Not at all, dear.”

  “Then what’s the matter with you?”

  “Nothing.”

  Hearken, brethren. When She-who-has-a-right-to-ask interrogates you concerning a change she finds in your mood answer her thus: Tell her that you, in a sudden rage, have murdered your grandmother; tell her that you have robbed orphans and that remorse has stricken you; tell her your fortune is swept away; that you are beset by enemies, by bunions, by any kind of malevolent fate; but do not, if peace and happiness are worth as much as a grain of mustard seed to you — do not answer her “Nothing.”

  Jessie went back to the lobster in silence. She cast looks of darkest suspicion at Bob. He had never acted that way before.

  When dinner was on the table she set out the bottle of Scotch and the glasses. Bob declined.

  “Tell you the truth, Jess,” he said. “I’ve cut out the drink. Help yourself, of course. If you don’t mind I’ll try some of the seltzer straight.”

  “You’ve stopped drinking?” she said, looking at him steadily and unsmilingly. “What for?”

  “It wasn’t doing me any good,” said Bob. “Don’t you approve of the idea?”

  Jessie raised her eyebrows and one shoulder slightly.

  “Entirely,” she said with a sculptured smile. “I could not conscientiously advise any one to drink or smoke, or whistle on Sunday.”

  The meal was finished almost in silence. Bob tried to make talk, but his efforts lacked the stimulus of previous evenings. He felt miserable, and once or twice his eye wandered toward the bottle, but each time the scathing words of his bibulous friend sounded in his ear, and his mouth set with determination.

  Jessie felt the change deeply. The essence of their lives seemed to have departed suddenly. The restless fever, the false gayety, the unnatural excitement of the shoddy Bohemia in which they had lived had dropped away in the space of the popping of a cork. She stole curious and forlorn glances at the dejected Bob, who bore the guilty look of at least a wife-beater or a family tyrant.

  After dinner the colored maid who came in daily to perform such chores cleared away the things. Jessie, with an unreadable countenance, brought back the bottle of Scotch and the glasses and a bowl of cracked ice and set them on the table.

  “May I ask,” she said, with some of the ice in her tones, “whether I am to be included in your sudden spasm of goodness? If not, I’ll make one for myself. It’s rather chilly this evening, for some reason.”

  “Oh, come now, Jess,” said Bob good-naturedly, “don’t be too rough on me. Help yourself, by all means. There’s no danger of your overdoing it. But I thought there was with me; and that’s why I quit. Have yours, and then let’s get out the banjo and try over that new quickstep.”

  “I’ve heard,” said Jessie in the tones of the oracle, “that drinking alone is a pernicious habit. No, I don’t think I feel like playing this evening. If we are going to reform we may as well abandon the evil habit of banjo-playing, too.”

  She took up a book and sat in her little willow rocker on the other side of the table. Neither of them spoke for half an hour.

  And then Bob laid down his paper and got up with a strange, absent look on his face and went behind her chair and reached over her shoulders, taking her hands in his, and laid his face close to hers.

  In a moment to Jessie the walls of the seine-hung room vanished, and she saw the Sullivan County hills and rills. Bob felt her hands quiver in his as he began the verse from old Omar:

  “Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring

  The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:

  The Bird of Time has but a little way

  To fly — and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing!”

  And then he walked to the table and poured a stiff drink of Scotch into a glass.

  But in that moment a mountain breeze had somehow found its way in and blown away the mist of the false Bohemia.

  Jessie leaped and with one fierce sweep of her hand sent the bottle and glasses crashing to the floor. The same motion of her arm carried it around Bob’s neck, where it met its mate and fastened tight.

  “Oh, my God, Bobbie — not that verse — I see now. I wasn’t always such a fool, was I? The other one, boy — the one that says: ‘Remould it to the Heart’s Desire.’ Say that one— ‘to the Heart’s Desire.’”

  “I know that one,” said Bob. “It goes:

  “‘Ah! Love, could you and I with Him conspire

  To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire

  Would not we— ‘“

  “Let me finish it,” said Jessie.

  “‘Would not we shatter it to bits — and then

  Remould it nearer to the Heart’s Desire!’”

  “It’s shattered all right,” said Bob, crunching some glass under his heel.

  In some dungeon below the accurate ear of Mrs. Pickens, the landlady, located the smash.

  “It’s that wild Mr. Babbitt coming home soused again,” she said. “And he’s got such a nice little wife, too!”

  THE PENDULUM

  “Eighty-first street — let ‘em out, please,” yelled the shepherd in blue.

  A flock of citizen sheep scrambled out and another flock scrambled aboard. Ding-ding! The cattle cars of the Manhattan Elevated rattled away, and John Perkins drifted down the stairway of the station with the released flock.

  John walked slowly toward his flat. Slowly, because in the lexicon of his daily life there was no such word as “perhaps.” There are no surprises awaiting a man who has been married two years and lives in a flat. As he walked John Perkins prophesied to himself with gloomy and downtrodden cynicism the foregone conclusions of the monotonous day.

  Katy would meet him at the door with a kiss flavored with cold cream and butter-scotch. He would remove his coat, sit upon a macadamized lounge and read, in the evening paper, of Russians and Japs slaughtered by the deadly linotype. For dinner there would be pot roast, a salad flavored with a dressing warranted not to crack or injure the leather, stewed rhubarb and the bottle of strawberry marmalade blushing at the certificate of chemical purity on its label. After dinner Katy would show him the new patch in her crazy quilt that the iceman had cut for her off the end of his four-in-hand. At half-past seven they would spread newspapers over the furniture to catch the pieces of plastering that fell when the fat man in the flat overhead began to take his physical culture exercises. Exactly at eight Hickey & Mooney, of the vaudeville team (unbooked) in the flat across the hall, would yield to the gentle influence of delirium tremens and begin to overturn chairs under the delusion that Hammerstein was pursuing them with a five-hundred-dollar-a-week contract. Then the gent at the window across the air-shaft would get out his flute; the nightly gas leak would steal forth to frolic in the highways; the dumbwaiter would slip off its trolley; the janitor would drive Mrs. Zanowitski’s five children once more across the
Yalu, the lady with the champagne shoes and the Skye terrier would trip downstairs and paste her Thursday name over her bell and letter-box — and the evening routine of the Frogmore flats would be under way.

  John Perkins knew these things would happen. And he knew that at a quarter past eight he would summon his nerve and reach for his hat, and that his wife would deliver this speech in a querulous tone:

  “Now, where are you going, I’d like to know, John Perkins?”

  “Thought I’d drop up to McCloskey’s,” he would answer, “and play a game or two of pool with the fellows.”

  Of late such had been John Perkins’s habit. At ten or eleven he would return. Sometimes Katy would be asleep; sometimes waiting up, ready to melt in the crucible of her ire a little more gold plating from the wrought steel chains of matrimony. For these things Cupid will have to answer when he stands at the bar of justice with his victims from the Frogmore flats.

  To-night John Perkins encountered a tremendous upheaval of the commonplace when he reached his door. No Katy was there with her affectionate, confectionate kiss. The three rooms seemed in portentous disorder. All about lay her things in confusion. Shoes in the middle of the floor, curling tongs, hair bows, kimonos, powder box, jumbled together on dresser and chairs — this was not Katy’s way. With a sinking heart John saw the comb with a curling cloud of her brown hair among its teeth. Some unusual hurry and perturbation must have possessed her, for she always carefully placed these combings in the little blue vase on the mantel to be some day formed into the coveted feminine “rat.”

  Hanging conspicuously to the gas jet by a string was a folded paper. John seized it. It was a note from his wife running thus:

  Dear John: I just had a telegram saying mother is very sick. I am going to take the 4.30 train. Brother Sam is going to meet me at the depot there. There is cold mutton in the ice box. I hope it isn’t her quinzy again. Pay the milkman 50 cents. She had it bad last spring. Don’t forget to write to the company about the gas meter, and your good socks are in the top drawer. I will write to-morrow.