Delphi Complete Works of O. Henry

by O. Henry

  With delight the money-caliphs view a situation that they think is relievable while you wait.

  Pilkins sat on the bench, one seat removed from the youth. He glanced cautiously and saw (as men do see; and women — oh! never can) that they were of the same order.

  Pilkins leaned over after a short time and spoke to the youth, who answered smilingly, and courteously. From general topics the conversation concentrated to the bed-rock of grim personalities. But Pilkins did it as delicately and heartily as any caliph could have done. And when it came to the point, the youth turned to him, soft-voiced and with his undiminished smile.

  “I don’t want to seem unappreciative, old man,” he said, with a youth’s somewhat too-early spontaneity of address, “but, you see, I can’t accept anything from a stranger. I know you’re all right, and I’m tremendously obliged, but I couldn’t think of borrowing from anybody. You see, I’m Marcus Clayton — the Claytons of Roanoke County, Virginia, you know. The young lady is Miss Eva Bedford — I reckon you’ve heard of the Bedfords. She’s seventeen and one of the Bedfords of Bedford County. We’ve eloped from home to get married, and we wanted to see New York. We got in this afternoon. Somebody got my pocketbook on the ferry-boat, and I had only three cents in change outside of it. I’ll get some work somewhere to-morrow, and we’ll get married.”

  “But, I say, old man,” said Pilkins, in confidential low tones, “you can’t keep the lady out here in the cold all night. Now, as for hotels— “

  “I told you,” said the youth, with a broader smile, “that I didn’t have but three cents. Besides, if I had a thousand, we’d have to wait here until morning. You can understand that, of course. I’m much obliged, but I can’t take any of your money. Miss Bedford and I have lived an outdoor life, and we don’t mind a little cold. I’ll get work of some kind to-morrow. We’ve got a paper bag of cakes and chocolates, and we’ll get along all right.”

  “Listen,” said the millionaire, impressively. “My name is Pilkins, and I’m worth several million dollars. I happen to have in my pockets about $800 or $900 in cash. Don’t you think you are drawing it rather fine when you decline to accept as much of it as will make you and the young lady comfortable at least for the night?”

  “I can’t say, sir, that I do think so,” said Clayton of Roanoke County. “I’ve been raised to look at such things differently. But I’m mightily obliged to you, just the same.”

  “Then you force me to say good night,” said the millionaire.

  Twice that day had his money been scorned by simple ones to whom his dollars had appeared as but tin tobacco-tags. He was no worshipper of the actual minted coin or stamped paper, but he had always believed in its almost unlimited power to purchase.

  Pilkins walked away rapidly, and then turned abruptly and returned to the bench where the young couple sat. He took off his hat and began to speak. The girl looked at him with the same sprightly, glowing interest that she had been giving to the lights and statuary and sky-reaching buildings that made the old square seem so far away from Bedford County.

  “Mr. — er — Roanoke,” said Pilkins, “I admire your — your indepen — your idiocy so much that I’m going to appeal to your chivalry. I believe that’s what you Southerners call it when you keep a lady sitting outdoors on a bench on a cold night just to keep your old, out-of-date pride going. Now, I’ve a friend — a lady — whom I have known all my life — who lives a few blocks from here — with her parents and sisters and aunts, and all that kind of endorsement, of course. I am sure this lady would be happy and pleased to put up — that is, to have Miss — er — Bedford give her the pleasure of having her as a guest for the night. Don’t you think, Mr. Roanoke, of — er — Virginia, that you could unbend your prejudices that far?”

  Clayton of Roanoke rose and held out his hand.

  “Old man,” he said, “Miss Bedford will be much pleased to accept the hospitality of the lady you refer to.”

  He formally introduced Mr. Pilkins to Miss Bedford. The girl looked at him sweetly and comfortably. “It’s a lovely evening, Mr. Pilkins — don’t you think so?” she said slowly.

  Pilkins conducted them to the crumbly red brick house of the Von der Ruyslings. His card brought Alice downstairs wondering. The runaways were sent into the drawing-room, while Pilkins told Alice all about it in the hall.

  “Of course, I will take her in,” said Alice. “Haven’t those Southern girls a thoroughbred air? Of course, she will stay here. You will look after Mr. Clayton, of course.”

  “Will I?” said Pilkins, delightedly. “Oh yes, I’ll look after him! As a citizen of New York, and therefore a part owner of its public parks, I’m going to extend to him the hospitality of Madison Square to-night. He’s going to sit there on a bench till morning. There’s no use arguing with him. Isn’t he wonderful? I’m glad you’ll look after the little lady, Alice. I tell you those Babes in the Wood made my — that is, er — made Wall Street and the Bank of England look like penny arcades.”

  Miss Von der Ruysling whisked Miss Bedford of Bedford County up to restful regions upstairs. When she came down, she put an oblong small pasteboard box into Pilkins’ hands.

  “Your present,” she said, “that I am returning to you.”

  “Oh, yes, I remember,” said Pilkins, with a sigh, “the woolly kitten.”

  He left Clayton on a park bench, and shook hands with him heartily.

  “After I get work,” said the youth, “I’ll look you up. Your address is on your card, isn’t it? Thanks. Well, good night. I’m awfully obliged to you for your kindness. No, thanks, I don’t smoke. Good night.”

  In his room, Pilkins opened the box and took out the staring, funny kitten, long ago ravaged of his candy and minus one shoe-button eye. Pilkins looked at it sorrowfully.

  “After all,” he said, “I don’t believe that just money alone will— “

  And then he gave a shout and dug into the bottom of the box for something else that had been the kitten’s resting-place — a crushed but red, red, fragrant, glorious, promising Jacqueminot rose.

  THE ENCHANTED PROFILE

  There are few Caliphesses. Women are Scheherazades by birth, predilection, instinct, and arrangement of the vocal cords. The thousand and one stories are being told every day by hundreds of thousands of viziers’ daughters to their respective sultans. But the bowstring will get some of ‘em yet if they don’t watch out.

  I heard a story, though, of one lady Caliph. It isn’t precisely an Arabian Nights story, because it brings in Cinderella, who flourished her dishrag in another epoch and country. So, if you don’t mind the mixed dates (which seem to give it an Eastern flavour, after all), we’ll get along.

  In New York there is an old, old hotel. You have seen woodcuts of it in the magazines. It was built — let’s see — at a time when there was nothing above Fourteenth Street except the old Indian trail to Boston and Hammerstein’s office. Soon the old hostelry will be torn down. And, as the stout walls are riven apart and the bricks go roaring down the chutes, crowds of citizens will gather at the nearest corners and weep over the destruction of a dear old landmark. Civic pride is strongest in New Bagdad; and the wettest weeper and the loudest howler against the iconoclasts will be the man (originally from Terre Haute) whose fond memories of the old hotel are limited to his having been kicked out from its free-lunch counter in 1873.

  At this hotel always stopped Mrs. Maggie Brown. Mrs. Brown was a bony woman of sixty, dressed in the rustiest black, and carrying a handbag made, apparently, from the hide of the original animal that Adam decided to call an alligator. She always occupied a small parlour and bedroom at the top of the hotel at a rental of two dollars per day. And always, while she was there, each day came hurrying to see her many men, sharp-faced, anxious-looking, with only seconds to spare. For Maggie Brown was said to be the third richest woman in the world; and these solicitous gentlemen were only the city’s wealthiest brokers and business men seeking trifling loans of half a dozen million
s or so from the dingy old lady with the prehistoric handbag.

  The stenographer and typewriter of the Acropolis Hotel (there! I’ve let the name of it out!) was Miss Ida Bates. She was a hold-over from the Greek classics. There wasn’t a flaw in her looks. Some old-timer paying his regards to a lady said: “To have loved her was a liberal education.” Well, even to have looked over the black hair and neat white shirtwaist of Miss Bates was equal to a full course in any correspondence school in the country. She sometimes did a little typewriting for me, and, as she refused to take the money in advance, she came to look upon me as something of a friend and protégé. She had unfailing kindliness and a good nature; and not even a white-lead drummer or a fur importer had ever dared to cross the dead line of good behaviour in her presence. The entire force of the Acropolis, from the owner, who lived in Vienna, down to the head porter, who had been bedridden for sixteen years, would have sprung to her defence in a moment.

  One day I walked past Miss Bates’s little sanctum Remingtorium, and saw in her place a black-haired unit — unmistakably a person — pounding with each of her forefingers upon the keys. Musing on the mutability of temporal affairs, I passed on. The next day I went on a two weeks’ vacation. Returning, I strolled through the lobby of the Acropolis, and saw, with a little warm glow of auld lang syne, Miss Bates, as Grecian and kind and flawless as ever, just putting the cover on her machine. The hour for closing had come; but she asked me in to sit for a few minutes in the dictation chair. Miss Bates explained her absence from and return to the Acropolis Hotel in words identical with or similar to these following:

  “Well, Man, how are the stories coming?”

  “Pretty regularly,” said I. “About equal to their going.”

  “I’m sorry,” said she. “Good typewriting is the main thing in a story. You’ve missed me, haven’t you?”

  “No one,” said I, “whom I have ever known knows as well as you do how to space properly belt buckles, semi-colons, hotel guests, and hairpins. But you’ve been away, too. I saw a package of peppermint-pepsin in your place the other day.”

  “I was going to tell you all about it,” said Miss Bates, “if you hadn’t interrupted me.

  “Of course, you know about Maggie Brown, who stops here. Well, she’s worth $40,000,000. She lives in Jersey in a ten-dollar flat. She’s always got more cash on hand than half a dozen business candidates for vice-president. I don’t know whether she carries it in her stocking or not, but I know she’s mighty popular down in the part of town where they worship the golden calf.

  “Well, about two weeks ago, Mrs. Brown stops at the door and rubbers at me for ten minutes. I’m sitting with my side to her, striking off some manifold copies of a copper-mine proposition for a nice old man from Tonopah. But I always see everything all around me. When I’m hard at work I can see things through my side-combs; and I can leave one button unbuttoned in the back of my shirtwaist and see who’s behind me. I didn’t look around, because I make from eighteen to twenty dollars a week, and I didn’t have to.

  “That evening at knocking-off time she sends for me to come up to her apartment. I expected to have to typewrite about two thousand words of notes-of-hand, liens, and contracts, with a ten-cent tip in sight; but I went. Well, Man, I was certainly surprised. Old Maggie Brown had turned human.

  “‘Child,’ says she, ‘you’re the most beautiful creature I ever saw in my life. I want you to quit your work and come and live with me. I’ve no kith or kin,’ says she, ‘except a husband and a son or two, and I hold no communication with any of ‘em. They’re extravagant burdens on a hard-working woman. I want you to be a daughter to me. They say I’m stingy and mean, and the papers print lies about my doing my own cooking and washing. It’s a lie,’ she goes on. ‘I put my washing out, except the handkerchiefs and stockings and petticoats and collars, and light stuff like that. I’ve got forty million dollars in cash and stocks and bonds that are as negotiable as Standard Oil, preferred, at a church fair. I’m a lonely old woman and I need companionship. You’re the most beautiful human being I ever saw,’ says she. ‘Will you come and live with me? I’ll show ‘em whether I can spend money or not,’ she says.

  “Well, Man, what would you have done? Of course, I fell to it. And, to tell you the truth, I began to like old Maggie. It wasn’t all on account of the forty millions and what she could do for me. I was kind of lonesome in the world too. Everybody’s got to have somebody they can explain to about the pain in their left shoulder and how fast patent-leather shoes wear out when they begin to crack. And you can’t talk about such things to men you meet in hotels — they’re looking for just such openings.

  “So I gave up my job in the hotel and went with Mrs. Brown. I certainly seemed to have a mash on her. She’d look at me for half an hour at a time when I was sitting, reading, or looking at the magazines.

  “One time I says to her: ‘Do I remind you of some deceased relative or friend of your childhood, Mrs. Brown? I’ve noticed you give me a pretty good optical inspection from time to time.’

  “‘You have a face,’ she says, ‘exactly like a dear friend of mine — the best friend I ever had. But I like you for yourself, child, too,’ she says.

  “And say, Man, what do you suppose she did? Loosened up like a Marcel wave in the surf at Coney. She took me to a swell dressmaker and gave her a la carte to fit me out — money no object. They were rush orders, and madame locked the front door and put the whole force to work.

  “Then we moved to — where do you think? — no; guess again — that’s right — the Hotel Bonton. We had a six-room apartment; and it cost $100 a day. I saw the bill. I began to love that old lady.

  “And then, Man, when my dresses began to come in — oh, I won’t tell you about ‘em! you couldn’t understand. And I began to call her Aunt Maggie. You’ve read about Cinderella, of course. Well, what Cinderella said when the prince fitted that 3½ A on her foot was a hard-luck story compared to the things I told myself.

  “Then Aunt Maggie says she is going to give me a coming-out banquet in the Bonton that’ll make moving Vans of all the old Dutch families on Fifth Avenue.

  “‘I’ve been out before, Aunt Maggie,’ says I. ‘But I’ll come out again. But you know,’ says I, ‘that this is one of the swellest hotels in the city. And you know — pardon me — that it’s hard to get a bunch of notables together unless you’ve trained for it.’

  “‘Don’t fret about that, child,’ says Aunt Maggie. ‘I don’t send out invitations — I issue orders. I’ll have fifty guests here that couldn’t be brought together again at any reception unless it were given by King Edward or William Travers Jerome. They are men, of course, and all of ‘em either owe me money or intend to. Some of their wives won’t come, but a good many will.’

  “Well, I wish you could have been at that banquet. The dinner service was all gold and cut glass. There were about forty men and eight ladies present besides Aunt Maggie and I. You’d never have known the third richest woman in the world. She had on a new black silk dress with so much passementerie on it that it sounded exactly like a hailstorm I heard once when I was staying all night with a girl that lived in a top-floor studio.

  “And my dress! — say, Man, I can’t waste the words on you. It was all hand-made lace — where there was any of it at all — and it cost $300. I saw the bill. The men were all bald-headed or white-whiskered, and they kept up a running fire of light repartee about 3-per cents. and Bryan and the cotton crop.

  “On the left of me was something that talked like a banker, and on my right was a young fellow who said he was a newspaper artist. He was the only — well, I was going to tell you.

  “After the dinner was over Mrs. Brown and I went up to the apartment. We had to squeeze our way through a mob of reporters all the way through the halls. That’s one of the things money does for you. Say, do you happen to know a newspaper artist named Lathrop — a tall man with nice eyes and an easy way of talking? No, I don’t remember what paper h
e works on. Well, all right.

  “When we got upstairs Mrs. Brown telephones for the bill right away. It came, and it was $600. I saw the bill. Aunt Maggie fainted. I got her on a lounge and opened the bead-work.

  “‘Child,’ says she, when she got back to the world, ‘what was it? A raise of rent or an income-tax?’

  “‘Just a little dinner,’ says I. ‘Nothing to worry about — hardly a drop in the bucket-shop. Sit up and take notice — a dispossess notice, if there’s no other kind.’

  “But say, Man, do you know what Aunt Maggie did? She got cold feet! She hustled me out of that Hotel Bonton at nine the next morning. We went to a rooming-house on the lower West Side. She rented one room that had water on the floor below and light on the floor above. After we got moved all you could see in the room was about $1,500 worth of new swell dresses and a one-burner gas-stove.

  “Aunt Maggie had had a sudden attack of the hedges. I guess everybody has got to go on a spree once in their life. A man spends his on highballs, and a woman gets woozy on clothes. But with forty million dollars — say, I’d like to have a picture of — but, speaking of pictures, did you ever run across a newspaper artist named Lathrop — a tall — oh, I asked you that before, didn’t I? He was mighty nice to me at the dinner. His voice just suited me. I guess he must have thought I was to inherit some of Aunt Maggie’s money.

  “Well, Mr. Man, three days of that light-housekeeping was plenty for me. Aunt Maggie was affectionate as ever. She’d hardly let me get out of her sight. But let me tell you. She was a hedger from Hedgersville, Hedger County. Seventy-five cents a day was the limit she set. We cooked our own meals in the room. There I was, with a thousand dollars’ worth of the latest things in clothes, doing stunts over a one-burner gas-stove.

  “As I say, on the third day I flew the coop. I couldn’t stand for throwing together a fifteen-cent kidney stew while wearing, at the same time, a $150 house-dress, with Valenciennes lace insertion. So I goes into the closet and puts on the cheapest dress Mrs. Brown had bought for me — it’s the one I’ve got on now — not so bad for $75, is it? I’d left all my own clothes in my sister’s flat in Brooklyn.