Delphi Complete Works of O. Henry

by O. Henry

  But shall we look in at Creary’s? Let us say that the specific Friday night had arrived on which the fortunate Mac McGowan was to justify the flattering predictions of his distinguished patron and, incidentally, drop his silver talent into the slit of the slot-machine of fame and fortune that gives up reputation and dough. I offer, sure of your acquiescence, that we now forswear hypocritical philosophy and bigoted comment, permitting the story to finish itself in the dress of material allegations — a medium more worthy, when held to the line, than the most laborious creations of the word-milliners…

  [Page of (O. Henry’s) manuscript missing here.]

  …easily among the wings with his patron, the great Del Delano. For, whatever footlights shone in the City-That-Would-Be-Amused, the freedom of their unshaded side was Del’s. And if he should take up an amateur — see? and bring him around — see? and, winking one of his cold blue eyes, say to the manager: “Take it from me — he’s got the goods — see?” you wouldn’t expect that amateur to sit on an unpainted bench sudorifically awaiting his turn, would you? So Mac strolled around largely with the nonpareil; and the seven waited, clammily, on the bench.

  A giant in shirt-sleeves, with a grim, kind face in which many stitches had been taken by surgeons from time to time, i. e., with a long stick, looped at the end. He was the man with the Hook. The manager, with his close-smoothed blond hair, his one-sided smile, and his abnormally easy manner, pored with patient condescension over the difficult program of the amateurs. The last of the professional turns — the Grand March of the Happy Huzzard — had been completed; the last wrinkle and darn of their blue silkolene cotton tights had vanished from the stage. The man in the orchestra who played the kettle-drum, cymbals, triangle, sandpaper, whang-doodle, hoof-beats, and catcalls, and fired the pistol shots, had wiped his brow. The illegal holiday of the Romans had arrived.

  While the orchestra plays the famous waltz from “The Dismal Wife,” let us bestow two hundred words upon the psychology of the audience.

  The orchestra floor was filled by People. The boxes contained Persons. In the galleries was the Foreordained Verdict. The claque was there as it had originated in the Stone Age and was afterward adapted by the French. Every Micky and Maggie who sat upon Creary’s amateur bench, wise beyond their talents, knew that their success or doom lay already meted out to them by that crowded, whistling, roaring mass of Romans in the three galleries. They knew that the winning or the losing of the game for each one lay in the strength of the “gang” aloft that could turn the applause to its favorite. On a Broadway first night a wooer of fame may win it from the ticket buyers over the heads of the cognoscenti. But not so at Creary’s. The amateur’s fate is arithmetical. The number of his supporting admirers present at his try-out decides it in advance. But how these outlying Friday nights put to a certain shame the Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, Saturdays, and matinées of the Broadway stage you should know…

  [Here the manuscript ends.]

  ARISTOCRACY VERSUS HASH

  [From The Rolling Stone.]

  The snake reporter of The Rolling Stone was wandering up the avenue last night on his way home from the Y.M.C.A. rooms when he was approached by a gaunt, hungry-looking man with wild eyes and dishevelled hair. He accosted the reporter in a hollow, weak voice.

  “‘Can you tell me, Sir, where I can find in this town a family of scrubs?’

  “‘I don’t understand exactly.’

  “‘Let me tell you how it is,’ said the stranger, inserting his forefinger in the reporter’s buttonhole and badly damaging his chrysanthemum. ‘I am a representative from Soapstone County, and I and my family are houseless, homeless, and shelterless. We have not tasted food for over a week. I brought my family with me, as I have indigestion and could not get around much with the boys. Some days ago I started out to find a boarding house, as I cannot afford to put up at a hotel. I found a nice aristocratic-looking place, that suited me, and went in and asked for the proprietress. A very stately lady with a Roman nose came in the room. She had one hand laid across her stom — across her waist, and the other held a lace handkerchief. I told her I wanted board for myself and family, and she condescended to take us. I asked for her terms, and she said $300 per week.

  “‘I had two dollars in my pocket and I gave her that for a fine teapot that I broke when I fell over the table when she spoke.’

  “‘You appear surprised,’ says she. ‘You will please remembah that I am the widow of Governor Riddle of Georgiah; my family is very highly connected; I give you board as a favah; I nevah considah money any equivalent for the advantage of my society, I— ‘

  “‘Well, I got out of there, and I went to some other places. The next lady was a cousin of General Mahone of Virginia, and wanted four dollars an hour for a back room with a pink motto and a Burnet granite bed in it. The next one was an aunt of Davy Crockett, and asked eight dollars a day for a room furnished in imitation of the Alamo, with prunes for breakfast and one hour’s conversation with her for dinner. Another one said she was a descendant of Benedict Arnold on her father’s side and Captain Kidd on the other.

  “‘She took more after Captain Kidd.

  “‘She only had one meal and prayers a day, and counted her society worth $100 a week.

  “‘I found nine widows of Supreme Judges, twelve relicts of Governors and Generals, and twenty-two ruins left by various happy Colonels, Professors, and Majors, who valued their aristocratic worth from $90 to $900 per week, with weak-kneed hash and dried apples on the side. I admire people of fine descent, but my stomach yearns for pork and beans instead of culture. Am I not right?’

  “‘Your words,’ said the reporter, ‘convince me that you have uttered what you have said.’

  “‘Thanks. You see how it is. I am not wealthy; I have only my per diem and my perquisites, and I cannot afford to pay for high lineage and moldy ancestors. A little corned beef goes further with me than a coronet, and when I am cold a coat of arms does not warm me.’

  “‘I greatly fear, ‘said the reporter, with a playful hiccough, ‘that you have run against a high-toned town. Most all the first-class boarding houses here are run by ladies of the old Southern families, the very first in the land.’

  “‘I am now desperate,’ said the Representative, as he chewed a tack awhile, thinking it was a clove. ‘I want to find a boarding house where the proprietress was an orphan found in a livery stable, whose father was a dago from East Austin, and whose grandfather was never placed on the map. I want a scrubby, ornery, low-down, snuff-dipping, back-woodsy, piebald gang, who never heard of finger bowls or Ward McAllister, but who can get up a mess of hot cornbread and Irish stew at regular market quotations.’

  “‘Is there such a place in Austin?’

  “The snake reporter sadly shook his head. ‘I do not know,’ he said, ‘but I will shake you for the beer.’

  “Ten minutes later the slate in the Blue Ruin saloon bore two additional characters: 10.”

  Visitor— “Dear me, General, who is that dreadful man?”

  General— “Oh, that’s only the orderly sergeant.”

  UNCLE SAM— “Well, I declare, those gentlemen must be brothers.”

  THE PRISONER OF ZEMBLA

  [From The Rolling Stone.]

  So the king fell into a furious rage, so that none durst go near him for fear, and he gave out that since the Princess Ostla had disobeyed him there would be a great tourney, and to the knight who should prove himself of the greatest valor he would give the hand of the princess.

  And he sent forth a herald to proclaim that he would do this.

  And the herald went about the country making his desire known, blowing a great tin horn and riding a noble steed that pranced and gambolled; and the villagers gazed upon him and said: “Lo, that is one of them tin horn gamblers concerning which the chroniclers have told us.”

  And when the day came, the king sat in the grandstand, holding the gage of battle in his band, and by his sid
e sat the Princess Ostla, looking very pale and beautiful, but with mournful eyes from which she scarce could keep the tears. And the knights which came to the tourney gazed upon the princess in wonder at her beauty, and each swore to win so that he could marry her and board with the king. Suddenly the heart of the princess gave a great bound, for she saw among the knights one of the poor students with whom she had been in love.

  The knights mounted and rode in a line past the grandstand, and the king stopped the poor student, who had the worst horse and the poorest caparisons of any of the knights and said:

  “Sir Knight, prithee tell me of what that marvellous shacky and rusty-looking armor of thine is made?”

  “Oh, king,” said the young knight, “seeing that we are about to engage in a big fight, I would call it scrap iron, wouldn’t you?”

  “Ods Bodkins!” said the king. “The youth hath a pretty wit.”

  About this time the Princess Ostla, who began to feel better at the sight of her lover, slipped a piece of gum into her mouth and closed her teeth upon it, and even smiled a little and showed the beautiful pearls with which her mouth was set. Whereupon, as soon as the knights perceived this, 217 of them went over to the king’s treasurer and settled for their horse feed and went home.

  “It seems very hard,” said the princess, “that I cannot marry when I chews.”

  But two of the knights were left, one of them being the princess’ lover.

  “Here’s enough for a fight, anyhow,” said the king. “Come hither, O knights, will ye joust for the hand of this fair lady?”

  “We joust will,” said the knights.

  The two knights fought for two hours, and at length the princess’ lover prevailed and stretched the other upon the ground. The victorious knight made his horse caracole before the king, and bowed low in his saddle.

  On the Princess Ostla’s cheeks was a rosy flush; in her eyes the light of excitement vied with the soft glow of love; her lips were parted, her lovely hair unbound, and she grasped the arms of her chair and leaned forward with heaving bosom and happy smile to hear the words of her lover.

  “You have foughten well, sir knight,” said the king. “And if there is any boon you crave you have but to name it.”

  “Then,” said the knight, “I will ask you this: I have bought the patent rights in your kingdom for Schneider’s celebrated monkey wrench, and I want a letter from you endorsing it.”

  “You shall have it,” said the king, “but I must tell you that there is not a monkey in my kingdom.”

  With a yell of rage the victorious knight threw himself on his horse and rode away at a furious gallop.

  The king was about to speak, when a horrible suspicion flashed upon him and he fell dead upon the grandstand.

  “My God!” he cried. “He has forgotten to take the princess with him!”

  Miss Potter: ”Oh papa, what is that?”

  Mr. Potter of Texas: ”That’s a live Count I bought for you in New York.”

  Miss Potter: ”Oh, how nice, and Uncle George gave me a new six shooter,

  and the dogs haven’t had any exercise in a week. Won’t it be fun?”

  A STRANGE STORY

  [From The Rolling Stone.]

  In the northern part of Austin there once dwelt an honest family by the name of Smothers. The family consisted of John Smothers, his wife, himself, their little daughter, five years of age, and her parents, making six people toward the population of the city when counted for a special write-up, but only three by actual count.

  One night after supper the little girl was seized with a severe colic, and John Smothers hurried down town to get some medicine.

  He never came back.

  The little girl recovered and in time grew up to womanhood.

  The mother grieved very much over her husband’s disappearance, and it was nearly three months before she married again, and moved to San Antonio.

  The little girl also married in time, and after a few years had rolled around, she also had a little girl five years of age.

  She still lived in the same house where they dwelt when her father had left and never returned.

  One night by a remarkable coincidence her little girl was taken with cramp colic on the anniversary of the disappearance of John Smothers, who would now have been her grandfather if he had been alive and had a steady job.

  “I will go downtown and get some medicine for her,” said John Smith (for it was none other than he whom she had married).

  “No, no, dear John,” cried his wife. “You, too, might disappear forever, and then forget to come back.”

  So John Smith did not go, and together they sat by the bedside of little Pansy (for that was Pansy’s name).

  After a little Pansy seemed to grow worse, and John Smith again attempted to go for medicine, but his wife would not let him.

  Suddenly the door opened, and an old man, stooped and bent, with long white hair, entered the room.

  “Hello, here is grandpa,” said Pansy. She had recognized him before any of the others.

  The old man drew a bottle of medicine from his pocket and gave Pansy a spoonful.

  She got well immediately.

  “I was a little late,” said John Smothers, “as I waited for a street car.”

  FICKLE FORTUNE OR HOW GLADYS HUSTLED

  [From The Rolling Stone.]

  “Press me no more Mr. Snooper,” said Gladys Vavasour-Smith. “I can never be yours.”

  “You have led me to believe different, Gladys,” said Bertram D. Snooper.

  The setting sun was flooding with golden light the oriel windows of a magnificent mansion situated in one of the most aristocratic streets west of the brick yard.

  Bertram D. Snooper, a poor but ambitious and talented young lawyer, had just lost his first suit. He had dared to aspire to the hand of Gladys Vavasour-Smith, the beautiful and talented daughter of one of the oldest and proudest families in the county. The bluest blood flowed in her veins. Her grandfather had sawed wood for the Hornsbys and an aunt on her mother’s side had married a man who had been kicked by General Lee’s mule.

  The lines about Bertram D. Snooper’s hands and mouth were drawn tighter as he paced to and fro, waiting for a reply to the question he intended to ask Gladys as soon as he thought of one.

  At last an idea occurred to him.

  “Why will you not marry me?” he asked in an inaudible tone.

  “Because,” said Gladys firmly, speaking easily with great difficulty, “the progression and enlightenment that the woman of to-day possesses demand that the man shall bring to the marriage altar a heart and body as free from the debasing and hereditary iniquities that now no longer exist except in the chimerical imagination of enslaved custom.”

  “It is as I expected,” said Bertram, wiping his heated brow on the window curtain. “You have been reading books.”

  “Besides that,” continued Gladys, ignoring the deadly charge, “you have no money.”

  The blood of the Snoopers rose hastily and mantled the cheek of Bertram D. He put on his coat and moved proudly to the door.

  “Stay here till I return,” he said, “I will be back in fifteen years.”

  When he had finished speaking he ceased and left the room.

  When he had gone, Gladys felt an uncontrollable yearning take possession of her. She said slowly, rather to herself than for publication, “I wonder if there was any of that cold cabbage left from dinner.”

  She then left the room.

  When she did so, a dark-complexioned man with black hair and gloomy, desperate looking clothes, came out of the fireplace where he had been concealed and stated:

  “Aha! I have you in my power at last, Bertram D. Snooper. Gladys Vavasour-Smith shall be mine. I am in the possession of secrets that not a soul in the world suspects. I have papers to prove that Bertram Snooper is the heir to the Tom Bean estate, and I have discovered that Gladys’ grandfather who sawed wood for the Hornsby’s was also a cook in Major Rhoads F
isher’s command during the war. Therefore, the family repudiate her, and she will marry me in order to drag their proud name down in the dust. Ha, ha, ha!”

  As the reader has doubtless long ago discovered, this man was no other than Henry R. Grasty. Mr. Grasty then proceeded to gloat some more, and then with a sardonic laugh left for New York.

  * * *

  Fifteen years have elapsed.

  Of course, our readers will understand that this is only supposed to the the case.

  It really took less than a minute to make the little stars that represent an interval of time.

  We could not afford to stop a piece in the middle and wait fifteen years before continuing it.

  We hope this explanation will suffice. We are careful not to create any wrong impressions.

  Gladys Vavasour-Smith and Henry R. Grasty stood at the marriage altar.

  Mr. Grasty had evidently worked his rabbit’s foot successfully, although he was quite a while in doing so.

  Just as the preacher was about to pronounce the fatal words on which he would have realized ten dollars and had the laugh on Mr. Grasty, the steeple of the church fell off and Bertram D. Snooper entered.

  The preacher fell to the ground with a dull thud. He could ill afford to lose ten dollars. He was hastily removed and a cheaper one secured.

  Bertram D. Snooper held a Statesman in his hand.