by Sesh Heri
“Certainly not. I have them well in hand.”
“Now you get the machine together and stop by my hotel this afternoon and let me know you’ve done it. I’m staying at the Great Northern, room 204.” I wrote my hotel address and room number in a little memorandum book, tore out the sheet, and handed it to Paige. Paige took the sheet of paper and said, “It will be ready. I assure you.” “Don’t assure. Just do it.” “I will. I will. Now there is one matter I need to discuss with you. There are a few expenses I’ve incurred while I’ve been in Chicago, and—” “What? More money?” I looked over at Hall. I could see he knew nothing about this. “Only a small amount,” Paige said with a nervous smile.
“How small? Wait. Don’t tell me. Hold off on that. I don’t even want to think about putting out more money right now. You get this machine together and get it running. Then—we’ll talk about more money.” “But—”
“At the hotel,” I said, walking away. “Five o’clock—no—four. And don’t be late.” I went out the door and Hall followed me. Yes, I was mad as hell, and disgusted, too. Hall and I got in the cab and we rattled our way down the alley and back out on to the main thoroughfare. “Head back to the hotel,” I said to the driver. “What are you going to do?” Hall asked. “About what?” “I mean, right now. Back at the hotel.”
“I have some letters to write. One to Livy and several to the New York investors.” “What are you going to tell them?”
“What do you think? That everything is just dandy.”
37
“If only we could get people to understand the machine’s potential.” “Yes.” “Paige can go on, but, you know, he was speaking the truth back there.” “I know. Why do you think I put up with him? He’s got something there in that machine, all right, if I could just get him to quit tinkering with it.” “The talk now among all the big money in New York is for the Linotype.” “Shoot! The Linotype is nothing but a jittering cotton gin. The Paige typesetter is a locomotive.”
“You’ve seen a Linotype operate?” “Well, no. I can’t say I have. But I know what it can do. And compared to Paige’s machine, it can’t do much.” “The Chicago Daily News is using Linotypes in their composing room now.” “Let ‘em use ‘em. They won’t be using ‘em for long when the things become obsolete.”
“Maybe we ought to run over there and take a look at one of them.” “What for?” “I don’t know. Sometimes you just have to go and look before you know what you’re looking for.”
“Hall, you are usually a very logical fellow, but your logic escapes me on that one.” Just at that moment I heard somebody yell, “Hold it up there!”
I turned my gaze toward the street. We had reached the bridge over the Chicago River and a policeman was shouting for our driver to stop. A crowd was beginning to form on the bridge, and it was growing thicker by the second. “What’s wrong, officer?” I asked. “An exhibition on the bridge,” the policeman said. “Exhibition? What sort of exhibition?” “A preview of something that’s going to be at the fair. Some kind of circus boy. He’s going to make a jump.” “Jump? What do you mean ‘jump’?” “Off the bridge.” “What for?”
“Damned if I know, but he has a permit, and you’ll have to wait.”
“We can’t wait. We have business to attend to. We’ll turn around and take another bridge.” “You can’t turn around,” the policeman said, pointing behind us.
I leaned out of the cab and looked back. There was a line of carriages and wagons behind us stretching all the way back to Wisconsin. “Well, damn!” I said. “We’re trapped. This is a fine state of affairs.”
Then I caught sight of the figure of a boy moving up on the bridge’s railing. He was a wiry, muscular little fellow with a curly mop of blackish-brown hair
38
framing a pale, olive complexioned face. He was dressed in a gray bathing suit trimmed in red piping. He moved up on the railing the way a snake would, that is, undulating and twisting, not climbing; he did not seem to have any bones in his body, just muscle. “Come on, Hall,” I said. “We’re stuck here. We might as well see the circus boy, too.”
Hall and I got out of the cab and edged our way into the crowd, trying to see. The circus boy stood up on the bridge railing perfectly balanced like a tightrope walker. He stood still, looking straight ahead. I studied the boy’s face. It was set on a large, wide head. His nose was sharp and aquiline; his lips were thin and shut tight. His eyes were a pale, intense blue that showed up even from where I was standing, about forty feet away. His thin eyebrows arched upward, casting an oriental mystery over his face. I kept being drawn back to his eyes; they were not the eyes of a boy. They were the eyes of a mesmerist. “Lay-dees and gen-tle-men,” the circus boy said, not shouting, but in a high- pitched voice that seemed to come from some far-away world. “Allow me to introduce my-self. I am none other than Hou-deen-ee! I am the one you have heard about—the one you have talked about—the one you have wondered about!” “I’ve never heard of him in my life,” Hall said. I shrugged. “He’s heard of himself, that’s for sure.”
Houdini held up a pair of handcuffs, and said, “A regulation pair of hand- cuffs from the Chicago Police Department. I have here one of Chicago’s finest to vouch for their impregnable strength!” A Chicago policeman came forward, took the handcuffs and locked them on the boy’s wrists. Houdini held his arms above his head, to show the crowd that his wrists really were shackled together. “Doubters, behold! Witness for yourselves the mystery of Houdini!” Houdini drew his hands to his chest. His lips and jaw tightened. He continued to stand absolutely still. He seemed to be waiting for something, a sign, or a call to move. I could tell he was feeling for the moment, the same way I would feel for the moment to utter the “snapper” word of a joke when I would speak before an audience. I watched the boy’s face. His eyes shifted to the side. He had heard his call. I did not see him jump. One instant he was standing on the bridge railing, the next he was spinning in mid-air in a blurred somersault, once, twice, three times—and then dropped feet first into the Chi- cago River.
A shout went up, and the crowd rushed forward to the railing, and Hall and I were pushed forward, too. We looked down upon the surface of the gray waters. A full, well-rounded stench let us know that this body of water did double duty as both a river and a sewage canal. All conversation ceased, and an odd kind of city quietude fell upon the place as each of us meditated upon the predicament of the shackled boy. A silent minute passed—then two; no
39
Houdini. My mind went back to my boyhood days and the boys I had known who had drowned: there was Lem Hackett who fell from a f lat-boat, and, being loaded with sin, went to the bottom of the Mississippi like an anvil; there was “Dutchy,” a German lad who was exasperatingly good, but did not know enough to come in out of the rain. He dove down in a muddy creek where we were all swimming and ‘seeing who could stay under the longest’ and got helplessly caught in a pile of green hickory hoop poles sunk there by coopers to soak. After a minute or two of waiting, all talking among us boys ceased, hearts began to beat fast, faces to turn pale, and our horrified eyes wandered back and forth from each others’ countenances to the water. Now here on the Chicago River it was the drowning of “Dutchy” all over again. That time with “Dutchy” it fell my lot to go down in the murky water and feel for the boy’s lifeless hand where it had been entwined in the hoop poles. This time, some- one else would do that deed, but the vividness of what would be found down there in the murk of the Chicago River was real enough for me.
Three minutes had now passed since Houdini had plunged into the river. Now people began fidgeting and whispering. The nervous cough that masks the manly desire to scream began to sound. Then somebody said it out loud: “Houdini must be dead.” Voices rose in response and above them somebody said it again: “He is dead.” Then we heard somebody shout: “There he is!”
We all turned around and there stood Houdini on the railing on the other side of the brid
ge. He was dripping water, his hair f lattened against his head. He held aloft in his left hand the opened handcuffs. The crowd broke into applause. Houdini held up his right hand and said, “Come one! Come all! To Kohl and Middleton’s New State Street Globe Dime Museum, and, on May 1st, Kohl and Middleton’s Globe Dime Museum Annex at the World’s Fair Mid- way Plaisance! Come see the Impossible Made Possible!”
Houdini waved to the crowd again with a sort of salute over his head as the crowd applauded again and shook their hats in the air. Two men came for- ward out of the crowd and carried Houdini away on their shoulders. “Quite a show!” Hall said.
“Yep,” I said, “mighty strange circus boy there. Let’s get back to the hotel.” Hall and I got back in our cab and in a moment we were on our way across the bridge. We passed Houdini, who was being carried along the sidewalk with several boys and dogs scampering along behind. Houdini waved at the carriages and wagons going by, and, when we got even with him, he waved at us. I waved back, and Houdini gave me a grin and threw his chin up in the air. “Phew!” Hall said. “Somebody should give that boy a hosing down.” “Yes,” I said, “the mystery of that trick was how he managed to stand the stench of the river.”
40
“But really,” Hall asked, “How do you think he did that?” “Mesmerism, no doubt,” I replied. “Mesmerized the whole crowd?”
“And why not? Kings and emperors have been doing it for thousands of years.” These days, Houdini is fairly well known in the States as a star in that gaudy firmament known as “vaudeville.” But back there in Chicago he was just a boy, and nobody knew who he was, even though he insisted that they did.
We got back to the hotel and I went to work on my letters. I tore up the one I was writing to Livy twice. Then I gave up completely, and decided that I would write nothing to Livy until I had some positive News. I decided on the same policy with the New York investors. Instead of letters, I took out my manuscript of Adam’s Diary and sat down at the desk in my room and began working on it. After some time, there was a slow rapping at my door. I got up and answered it. It was Eugene Field. He had run into Hall down in the hotel lobby, found out from him that I was in the hotel, and had then rushed home to fetch a book he wanted to give me. We sat there and had a pleasant chat about old books, which Field loved to collect. He looked like an old book himself—a thin, old volume with a lot of worn pages. As soon as he left I returned to my writing, only to be interrupted about five minutes later by another knock—this knock fast and impudent. I rose again and swung the door open. This time it was my brother, Orion. “What are you doing here?” I asked. “Good to see you, too, Sam,” Orion said. “When I wrote you I was coming to Chicago, I didn’t mean for you to come up here. How did you find out where I was staying?”
“Oh, you’re an open book. I know you like to economize, so the Palmer House was out. I also know you don’t like to economize too much. So it was just a matter of checking a few hotels.” “You’ve been traipsing all over the city asking for me at hotels?” “Just up the street at the Grand Pacific. Guess what? You weren’t there.” “Ha, ha.” “How’s the machine coming?”
“Hall and I were just over there this morning. Paige is getting it ready to be seen by some investors. Just a minute. I want you to meet Hall.” I knocked on Hall’s door, which opened on to my room. In a moment, Hall came out. “Hall,” I said, “I want you to meet my brother, Orion. Orion—this is Fred Hall, my manager for Webster and Company.” “Or-ee-yun?” Hall asked. “That’s right,” Orion said, shaking Hall’s hand.
41
“I thought your name was pronounced like the constellation,” Hall said. “No,” Orion said, scratching his gray beard, “it’s pronounced the way my mother pronounced it. And who’s to say she was wrong?” “Well,” Hall said, “I’ve wanted to meet you.” “Why is that?” Orion asked.
“Well,” Hall said, “I’ve just imagined you must be a remarkable person.” Orion laughed. “There have been those who have remarked on my person, like this youngster here.” Orion nodded toward me. “But he never seems to mention the good turns I’ve done him. Lots of good turns. Like supplying him with the notes.” “Notes?” Hall asked.
I said, “He’s talking about the journal he kept during our Overland Stage trip out west.” Orion said, “You know you could’ve never written Roughing It without the notes.”
I said, “Whenever you mention the ‘notes’ I know you’re up to something. So what is it this time?” “What’s what?”
“Your latest scheme.”
“Now what makes you think I have a scheme? Can’t I just visit you without you asking that?” “All right. So you just came all this way up to Chicago to visit with me.” “Well… .” “So you are up to something. You did receive my last check, didn’t you?” “Oh, certainly! Is that what you think? That I came here for money? You break my heart in two, you surely do.” “Time heals all.”
“You’re a hard man, Sam.”
“And I wished to God you were the same. Maybe you’d finish what you start once in a while.” “You just can’t understand anybody who acts upon Principle instead of personal interest. The road is broad for the man looking out for number one all the time. But for the man who stands on Principle, he has a fight on his hands. Sometimes, for conscience sake, he has to fight himself.” “I’d say you’re an expert on that.” “Yes, I’m going to write a book on that very subject when I get on my feet.” “And when will that be? You’ve been working on getting on your feet for the last twenty years, I reckon.”
“Say what you want, but my day is coming. Yes, my day is coming. I’m not through yet. No sir!” “You’re up to something. Spill it.” “Shoot!”
42
“Spill it.”
“I’m going to land me a berth. A writing job.” “How? Where?”
“It’s a mystery to you. It’s a mystery to you that other people could see my quality. Well, the mystery is about to be revealed!” “What are you blabbering about?”
“I’ve got prospects. As an author. And not as the brother of Mark Twain, don’t you worry about that. I’m going to land a berth on a Newspaper all by myself.” “What Newspaper?”
“There’s two I have in mind.” “One would be sufficient.” “There’s two. Keokuk’s Gate City and the St. Louis Republican.” “What would they want to hire you for?” “Correspondent—to the World’s Fair.” “Don’t you think they have people lined up for those jobs already?”
“Fair hasn’t started yet. Doesn’t open full-blast ‘til May 1st. That gives me time to make my pitch. I am not going to be just another reporter. Oh, no. I am going to have a view-point. Commentary. Commentary is what I’ll have to sell. Orion Clemens’ Commentary on the Decline and Destruction of Western Civilization as Illustrated by the Chicago’s World’s Fair!” “The decline of—! That is the most idiotic, asinine, ignorant pile of swill I have ever heard! The fair illustrates no decline whatsoever! What are you thinking?” “You can’t see it, Sam. You’re too engrossed. You’re so engrossed you don’t even know you touched on the whole text in Connecticut Yankee. You know it and you don’t know it. Your moral cogitation is so muddy you don’t even know why you’re doing what you’re doing. But looked at from the per- spective of Principle, the signs are clear. As it says in the Good Book, Revela- tions, chapter—” “Hold on! You start quoting Revelations to Newspaper editors and they’ll throw you out on your ear! By God, I’ll help ‘em!” “Well… Maybe I could tone it down a mite.” “Yes. Tone it down. Tone it way down.” “But I won’t compromise Principle, no sir!” “Not until you find another principle, which won’t be long, I know.” Orion bowed his head. I put my hand on Orion’s shoulder, and said, “Orion, you old fool.”
Orion looked up at me, grinned, and said, “Sam, you young fool.” “I wish I was young. When I see you, I feel older by the second.” “Well, I don’t want to age you any more than you already are, so I’ll go now.”
43
&nbs
p; “Yes, well, Hall and I do have a lot of work to do.”
“Work? Why, Sam, you know you’ve never done a day’s work in your life. All you know how to do is play.” “Yes, well, by some miracle of God my play has paid all your bills for years.” “Yes, that’s what it is. A miracle of God. And I do give the praise, thanks, and glory to Him.” Orion punctuated his utterance with his forefinger thrusting heavenward. I looked over to Hall who was studying me out of the corner of his eyes. I turned back to Orion.
“Yes,” I said, “let’s all give thanks for the glad blessings of the Lord.” Orion went to the door, and I opened it. “How long do you expect to be in Chicago?” I asked. “A few days,” Orion said. “My mission will take at least a few days.” “Well, stop by to see me when you complete your mission. I’ll probably be here another couple days myself.” Orion nodded. “Good to meet you, Mr. Clemens,” Hall said.
“Mr. Hall,” Orion said with a nod, and then he went out, and I closed the door behind him. “So that’s your brother,” Hall said. “That’s my brother.” “I thought when you knocked, you had Paige in here.” I glanced at my pocket watch. It was ten minutes to four. “No,” I said, “and how much do you want to bet he’s not coming?”
“Oh, I think he’s coming. Paige likes to play the fool, cipher about while you’re talking, and pretend he’s not listening, but it’s all part of his salesman’s pitch. He thinks if he pretends he didn’t hear ‘no,’ he can keep his prospect from believing he just said it.” “Now do you have him pegged! That’s exactly what he does!”
“But he heard you today loud and clear. And—do you know? I think you frightened him.” “You do?” “Yes.”
“Well—good. Maybe a little fear will motivate him.” “I think he thought you were going to fire him.”
“Really? You think so? I mean, I don’t see how I could… ever fire him. After all, he‘s the designer of the machine.” “Yes. And so was Gutenberg.” “Eh?” “Don’t you know that Gutenberg was fired by his financial backer, Fust?” “No. I never heard that one.”
