MR. STIVER'S HORSE
BY JAMES MONTGOMERY BAILEY
The other morning at breakfast Mrs. Perkins observed that Mr. Stiver, inwhose house we live, had been called away, and wanted to know if I wouldsee to his horse through the day.
I knew that Mr. Stiver owned a horse, because I occasionally saw himdrive out of the yard, and I saw the stable every day,--but what kind ofa horse I didn't know. I never went into the stable, for two reasons: inthe first place, I had no desire to; and, secondly, I didn't know as thehorse cared particularly for company.
I never took care of a horse in my life; and, had I been of a lesshopeful nature, the charge Mr. Stiver had left with me might have had avery depressing effect; but I told Mrs. Perkins I would do it.
"You know how to take care of a horse, don't you?" said she.
I gave her a reassuring wink. In fact, I knew so little about it that Ididn't think it safe to converse more fluently than by winks.
After breakfast I seized a toothpick and walked out towards the stable.There was nothing particular to do, as Stiver had given him hisbreakfast, and I found him eating it; so I looked around. The horselooked around, too, and stared pretty hard at me. There was but littlesaid on either side. I hunted up the location of the feed, and then satdown on a peck measure and fell to studying the beast. There is a widedifference in horses. Some of them will kick you over and never lookaround to see what becomes of you. I don't like a disposition like that,and I wondered if Stiver's horse was one of them.
When I came home at noon I went straight to the stable. The animal wasthere all right. Stiver hadn't told me what to give him for dinner, andI had not given the subject any thought; but I went to the oat-box andfilled the peck measure and sallied boldly up to the manger.
When he saw the oats he almost smiled; this pleased and amused him. Iemptied them into the trough, and left him above me to admire the way Iparted my hair behind. I just got my head up in time to save the wholeof it. He had his ears back, his mouth open, and looked as if he were onthe point of committing murder. I went out and filled the measure again,and climbed up the side of the stall and emptied it on top of him. Hebrought his head up so suddenly at this that I immediately got down,letting go of everything to do it. I struck on the sharp edge of abarrel, rolled over a couple of times, then disappeared under ahay-cutter. The peck measure went down on the other side, and gotmysteriously tangled up in that animal's heels, and he went to work atit, and then ensued the most dreadful noise I ever heard in all my life,and I have been married eighteen years.
It did seem as if I never would get out from under that hay-cutter; andall the while I was struggling and wrenching myself and the cutterapart, that awful beast was kicking around in the stall, and making themost appalling sound imaginable.
When I got out I found Mrs. Perkins at the door. She had heard theracket, and had sped out to the stable, her only thought being of me andthree stove-lids which she had under her arm, and one of which she wasabout to fire at the beast.
This made me mad.
"Go away, you unfortunate idiot!" I shouted: "do you want to knock mybrains out?" For I remembered seeing Mrs. Perkins sling a missile oncebefore, and that I nearly lost an eye by the operation, althoughstanding on the other side of the house at the time.
She retired at once. And at the same time the animal quieted down, butthere was nothing left of that peck measure, not even the maker's name.
I followed Mrs. Perkins into the house, and had her do me up, and then Isat down in a chair and fell into a profound strain of meditation. Aftera while I felt better, and went out to the stable again. The horse wasleaning against the stable stall, with eyes half closed, and appeared tobe very much engrossed in thought.
"Step off to the left," I said, rubbing his back.
He didn't step. I got the pitchfork and punched him in the leg with thehandle. He immediately raised up both hind legs at once, and that forkflew out of my hands, and went rattling up against the timbers above,and came down again in an instant, the end of the handle rapping me withsuch force on the top of the head that I sat right down on the floorunder the impression that I was standing in front of a drug-store in theevening. I went back to the house and got some more stuff on me. But Icouldn't keep away from that stable. I went out there again. The thoughtstruck me that what the horse wanted was exercise. If that thought hadbeen an empty glycerin-can, it would have saved a windfall of luck forme.
But exercise would tone him down, and exercise him I should. I laughedto myself to think how I would trounce him around the yard. I didn'tlaugh again that afternoon. I got him unhitched, and then wondered how Iwas to get him out of the stall without carrying him out. I pushed, buthe wouldn't budge. I stood looking at him in the face, thinking ofsomething to say, when he suddenly solved the difficulty by veeringabout and plunging for the door. I followed, as a matter of course,because I had a tight hold on the rope, and hit about everypartition-stud worth speaking of on that side of the barn. Mrs. Perkinswas at the window and saw us come out of the door. She subsequentlyremarked that we came out skipping like two innocent children. Theskipping was entirely unintentional on my part. I felt as if I stood onthe verge of eternity. My legs may have skipped, but my mind was filledwith awe.
I took the animal out to exercise him. He exercised me before I gotthrough with it. He went around a few times in a circle; then he stoppedsuddenly, spread out his forelegs, and looked at me. Then he leanedforward a little, and hoisted both hind legs, and threw about twocoal-hods of mud over a line full of clothes Mrs. Perkins had just hungout.
That excellent lady had taken a position at the window, and, wheneverthe evolutions of the awful beast permitted, I caught a glance of herfeatures. She appeared to be very much interested in the proceedings;but the instant that the mud flew, she disappeared from the window, anda moment later she appeared on the stoop with a long poker in her hand,and fire enough in her eye to heat it red-hot.
Just then Stiver's horse stood up on his hind legs and tried to hug mewith the others. This scared me. A horse never shows his strength tosuch advantage as when he is coming down on you like a franticpile-driver. I instantly dodged, and the cold sweat fairly boiled outof me.
It suddenly came over me that I had once figured in a similar positionyears ago. My grandfather owned a little white horse that would get upfrom a meal at Delmonico's to kick the President of the United States.He sent me to the lot one day, and unhappily suggested that I often wentafter that horse and suffered all kinds of defeat in getting him out ofthe pasture, but I had never tried to ride him. Heaven knows I neverthought of it. I had my usual trouble with him that day. He tried tojump over me, and push me down in a mud-hole, and finally got up on hishind legs and came waltzing after me with facilities enough to convertme into hash, but I turned and just made for that fence with all theagony a prospect of instant death could crowd into me. If our candidatefor the Presidency had run one-half as well, there would be seventy-fivepostmasters in Danbury to-day, instead of one.
I got him out finally, and then he was quiet enough, and I took him upalongside the fence and got on him. He stopped an instant, one briefinstant, and then tore off down the road at a frightful speed. I laydown on him and clasped my hands tightly around his neck, and thought ofmy home. When we got to the stable I was confident he would stop, but hedidn't. He drove straight at the door. It was a low door, just highenough to permit him to go in at lightning speed, but there was no roomfor me. I saw if I struck that stable the struggle would be a very briefone. I thought this all over in an instant, and then, spreading put myarms and legs, emitted a scream, and the next moment I was boundingabout in the filth of that stable-yard. All this passed through my mindas Stiver's horse went up into the air. It frightened Mrs. Perkinsdreadfully.
"Why, you old fool!" she said; "why don't you get rid of him?"
"How can I?" said I, in desperation.
"Why, there are a thousand ways," said she.
This is just like a w
oman. How differently a statesman would haveanswered!
But I could think of only two ways to dispose of the beast. I couldeither swallow him where he stood and then sit down on him, or I couldcrawl inside of him and kick him to death.
But I was saved either of these expedients by his coming towards me soabruptly that I dropped the rope in terror, and then he turned about,and, kicking me full of mud, shot for the gate, ripping the clothes-linein two, and went on down the street at a horrible gallop, with two ofMrs. Perkins' garments, which he hastily snatched from the line,floating over his neck in a very picturesque manner.
So I was afterwards told. I was too full of mud myself to see the wayinto the house.
Stiver got his horse all right, and stays at home to care for him. Mrs.Perkins has gone to her mother's to recuperate, and I am healing as fastas possible.
THE CRIMSON CORD[1]
BY ELLIS PARKER BUTLER
I had not seen Perkins for six months or so and things were dull. I wasbeginning to tire of sitting indolently in my office with nothing to dobut clip coupons from my bonds. Money is good enough, in its way, but itis not interesting unless it is doing something lively--doubling itselfor getting lost. What I wanted was excitement--an adventure--and I knewthat if I could find Perkins I could have both. A scheme is a businessadventure, and Perkins was the greatest schemer in or out of Chicago.
Just then Perkins walked into my office.
"Perkins," I said, as soon as he had arranged his feet comfortably on mydesk, "I'm tired. I'm restless. I have been wishing for you for a month.I want to go into a big scheme and make a lot of new, up-to-date cash.I'm sick of this tame, old cash that I have. It isn't interesting. Nocash is interesting except the coming cash."
"I'm with you," said Perkins, "what is your scheme?"
"I have none," I said sadly, "that is just my trouble. I have sat herefor days trying to think of a good practical scheme, but I can't. Idon't believe there is an unworked scheme in the whole wide, wideworld."
Perkins waved his hand.
"My boy," he exclaimed, "there are millions! You've thousands of 'emright here in your office! You're falling over them, sitting on them,walking on them! Schemes? Everything is a scheme. Everything has moneyin it!"
I shrugged my shoulders.
"Yes," I said, "for you. But you are a genius."
"Genius, yes," Perkins said smiling cheerfully, "else why Perkins theGreat? Why Perkins the originator? Why the Great and Only Perkins ofPortland?"
"All right," I said, "what I want is for your genius to get busy. I'llgive you a week to work up a good scheme."
Perkins pushed back his hat and brought his feet to the floor with asmack.
"Why the delay?" he queried, "time is money. Hand me something from yourdesk."
I looked in my pigeonholes and pulled from one a small ball of string.Perkins took it in his hand and looked at it with great admiration.
"What is it?" he asked seriously.
"That," I said humoring him, for I knew something great would be evolvedfrom his wonderful brain, "is a ball of red twine I bought at theten-cent store. I bought it last Saturday. It was sold to me by afreckled young lady in a white shirtwaist. I paid--"
"Stop!" Perkins cried, "what is it?"
I looked at the ball of twine curiously. I tried to see somethingremarkable in it. I couldn't. It remained a simple ball of red twine andI told Perkins so.
"The difference," declared Perkins, "between mediocrity and genius!Mediocrity always sees red twine; genius sees a ball of Crimson Cord!"
He leaned back in his chair and looked at me triumphantly. He folded hisarms as if he had settled the matter. His attitude seemed to say that hehad made a fortune for us. Suddenly he reached forward, and grasping myscissors, began snipping off small lengths of the twine.
"The Crimson Cord!" he ejaculated. "What does it suggest?"
I told him that it suggested a parcel from the druggist's. I had oftenseen just such twine about a druggist's parcel.
Perkins sniffed disdainfully.
"Druggists?" he exclaimed with disgust. "Mystery! Blood! 'The CrimsonCord.' Daggers! Murder! Strangling! Clues! 'The Crimson Cord'--"
He motioned wildly with his hands as if the possibilities of the phrasewere quite beyond his power of expression.
"It sounds like a book," I suggested.
"Great!" cried Perkins. "A novel! The novel! Think of the words 'ACrimson Cord' in blood-red letters six feet high on a white ground!" Hepulled his hat over his eyes and spread out his hands, and I think heshuddered.
"Think of 'A Crimson Cord,'" he muttered, "in blood-red letters on aground of dead, sepulchral black, with a crimson cord writhing throughthem like a serpent."
He sat up suddenly and threw one hand in the air.
"Think," he cried, "of the words in black on white with a crimson corddrawn taut across the whole ad!"
He beamed upon me.
"The cover of the book," he said quite calmly, "will be white--virgin,spotless white--with black lettering, and the cord in crimson. With eachcopy we will give a crimson silk cord for a book-mark. Each copy will bedone up in a white box and tied with crimson cord."
He closed his eyes and tilted his head upward.
"A thick book," he said, "with deckel edges and pictures by Christy.No, pictures by Pyle. Deep, mysterious pictures! Shadows and gloom! Andwide, wide margins. And a gloomy foreword. One fifty per copy, at allbooksellers."
Perkins opened his eyes and set his hat straight with a quick motion ofhis hand. He arose and pulled on his gloves.
"Where are you going?" I asked.
"Contracts!" he said. "Contracts for advertising! We must boom 'TheCrimson Cord.' We must boom her big!"
He went out and closed the door. Presently, when I supposed him well onthe way down town, he opened the door and inserted his head.
"Gilt tops," he announced. "One million copies the first impression!"
And then he was gone.
II
A week later Chicago and the greater part of the United States wasplacarded with "The Crimson Cord." Perkins did his work thoroughly andwell, and great was the interest in the mysterious title. It was an olddodge, but a good one. Nothing appeared on the advertisements but themere title. No word as to what "The Crimson Cord" was. Perkins merelyannounced the words and left them to rankle in the reader's mind, and asa natural consequence each new advertisement served to excite newinterest.
When we made our contracts for magazine advertising--and we took a fullpage in every worthy magazine--the publishers were at a loss to classifythe advertisement, and it sometimes appeared among the breakfast foods,and sometimes sandwiched in between the automobiles and the hot waterheaters. Only one publication placed it among the books.
But it was all good advertising, and Perkins was a busy man. He rackedhis inventive brain for new methods of placing the title before thepublic. In fact so busy was he at his labor of introducing the titlethat he quite forgot the book itself.
One day he came to the office with a small, rectangular package. Heunwrapped it in his customary enthusiastic manner, and set on my desk acigar box bound in the style he had selected for the binding of "TheCrimson Cord." It was then I spoke of the advisability of havingsomething to the book besides the cover and a boom.
"Perkins," I said, "don't you think it is about time we got hold of thenovel--the reading, the words?"
For a moment he seemed stunned. It was clear that he had quite forgottenthat book-buyers like to have a little reading matter in their books.But he was only dismayed for a moment.
"Tut!" he cried presently. "All in good time! The novel is easy.Anything will do. I'm no literary man. I don't read a book in a year.You get the novel."
"But I don't read a book in five years!" I exclaimed. "I don't knowanything about books. I don't know where to get a novel."
"Advertise!" he exclaimed. "Advertise! You can get anything, from anapron to an ancestor, if you advertise for it. Offer
a prize--offer athousand dollars for the best novel. There must be thousands of novelsnot in use."
Perkins was right. I advertised as he suggested and learned that therewere thousands of novels not in use. They came to us by basketfuls andcartloads. We had novels of all kinds--historical and hysterical,humorous and numerous, but particularly numerous. You would besurprised to learn how many ready-made novels can be had on shortnotice. It beats quick lunch. And most of them are equally indigestible.I read one or two but I was no judge of novels. Perkins suggested thatwe draw lots to see which we should use.
It really made little difference what the story was about. "The CrimsonCord" fits almost any kind of a book. It is a nice, non-committal sortof title, and might mean the guilt that bound two sinners, or the tie ofaffection that binds lovers, or a blood relationship, or it might be amystification title with nothing in the book about it.
But the choice settled itself. One morning a manuscript arrived that wastied with a piece of red twine, and we chose that one for good luckbecause of the twine. Perkins said that was a sufficient excuse for thetitle, too. We would publish the book anonymously, and let it be knownthat the only clue to the writer was the crimson cord with which themanuscript was tied when we received it. It would be a first-classadvertisement.
Perkins, however, was not much interested in the story, and he left meto settle the details. I wrote to the author asking him to call, and heturned out to be a young woman.
Our interview was rather shy. I was a little doubtful about the properway to talk to a real author, being purely a Chicagoan myself, and I hadan idea that while my usual vocabulary was good enough for businesspurposes it might be too easy-going to impress a literary personproperly, and in trying to talk up to her standard I had to be verycareful in my choice of words. No publisher likes to have his authorsthink he is weak in the grammar line.
The Wit and Humor of America, Volume III. (of X.) Page 6