by Frank Norris
Mr. Oak-hearse’s valet brought him the London and Vienna papers. They had been ironed, and scented with orris root, and the sporting articles blue-penciled.
“Bill,” said Mr. Oak-hearse, “Bill, I believe I told you to cut out all the offensive advertisements from my papers; I perceive, with some concern, that you have neglected it. Your punishment shall be that you will not brush my silk hat next Sunday morning.” The valet uttered an inarticulate cry and fell lifeless to the floor.
“It’s better to stand pat on two pair than to try for a full hand,” mused Mr. Oak-hearse, philosophically, and his long lashes drooped wearily over his cold steel-blue eyes, like velvet sheathing a poignard.
A little later the gambler entered the dining-room of the hotel in evening-dress, and wearing his cordon of the Legion of Honor. As he took his accustomed place at the table, he was suddenly aware of a lustrous pair of eyes that looked into his cold gray ones from the other side of the catsup bottle. Like all heroes, Mr. Jack Oak-hearse was not insensible to feminine beauty. He bowed gallantly. The lady flushed. The waiter handed him the menu.
“I will have a caviar sandwich,” affirmed the gambler with icy impassivity. The waiter next handed the menu to the lady, who likewise ordered a caviar sandwich.
“There is no more,” returned the waiter. “The last one has just been ordered.”
Mr. Oak-hearse started, and his pale face became even paler. A preoccupied air came upon him, and the lines of an iron determination settled upon his face. He rose, bowed to the lady, and calmly passed from the dining-room out into the street of the town and took his way toward a wooded gulch hard by.
When the waiter returned with the caviar sandwich he was informed that Mr. Oak-hearse would not dine that night. A triangular note on scented mauve paper was found at the office begging the lady to accept the sandwich from one who had loved not wisely but too many.
But next morning at the head of the gulch on one of the largest pine trees the searchers found an ace of spades (marked) pinned to the bark with a bowie knife. It bore the following, written in pencil with a firm hand:
Van Bubble’s Story
Here lies the body
of
JOHN OAK-HEARSE,
who was too much of a gentleman
to play a Royal-flush
against a
Queen-full.
And so, pulseless and cold with a Derringer by his side and a bullet in his brain, though still calm as in life lay he who had been at once the pest and the pride of Tomato Can.
VAN BUBBLE’S STORY BY R—D H—G D—S
Young Charding-Davis had been a little unhappy all day long because on that particular morning the valet of his head serving man had made a mistake in the matter of his master’s trousers, and it was not until he was breakfasting at Delmonico’s some hours later that young Charding-Davis woke to the painful consciousness that he was wearing his serving-man’s pants which were made by an unfashionable New York tailor. Young Charding-Davis himself ran over to London in his steam yacht once or twice a week to be fitted, so that the consequences of his serving-man’s valet’s mistake took away his appetite. The predicament troubled him so that he told the head cook about it, adding anxiously:
“What would you do about these trousers, Wallis?”
“I would keep ’em on, sir,” said Wallis, touching his cap respectfully.
“That,” said young Charding-Davis, with a sigh of relief, “is a good idea. Thank, you Wallis,” Young Charding-Davis was so delighted at the novel suggestion that he tipped Wallis a little more generously than usual.
“Can you recommend a good investment for this?” inquired Wallis,” as he counted out the tip.
“Make a bid for the Pacific railroads,” suggested young Charding-Davis, “or ‘arrive’ at the Savoy Hotel.”
That night he went to dinner at the house of the Girl He Knew, and in honor of the occasion and because he thought it would please the Girl He knew, young Charding-Davis put on a Yale sweater and football knickerbockers and the headdress of feathers he had captured from a Soudanese Arab while acting as war correspondent for an English syndicate. Besides this, he wore some of his decorations and toyed gracefully with a golf-stick. During the dinner, while young Charding-Davis was illustrating a new football trick he had just patented, with the aid of ten champagne bottles and the Girl’s pet Skye terrier, a great and celebrated English diplomat leaned across the table over the center piece of orchids and live humming birds, and said:
“I say, Davis, tell us how you came by some of your decorations and orders. Most interesting and extraordinary, you know.”
Young Charding-Davis tossed the Skye terrier into air, and batted it thoughtfully the length of the room with his golf-stick, after the manner of Heavyflinger of the Harvard baseball nine. Then he twirled the golf-stick in his fingers as a Zulu induna twirls his assegai — he had learned the trick while shooting elephant on the Zambesi river in South Africa. Then he smiled with becoming modesty as he glanced carelessly at the alarm-clock that hung around his neck, suspended by the blue ribbon of the order of the Pshaw of Persia.
“Really, they are mere trifles,” he replied, easily. “I would not have worn them only my serving man insists it is good form. The Cham of Tartary gave me this,” he continued, lightly touching a nickel-plated apple-pie that was pinned upon the sweater, “for leaving the country in twenty-four hours, and this chest protector was presented me by the French Legation in Kamschatka for protecting a chest — but we’ll let that pass,” he said, enveloping himself with a smile of charming ingenuousness. “This is the badge of the Band of Hope to which I belong. I got this pie-plate from the Grand Mufti for conspicuous egoism in the absence of the enemy, and this Grand Army badge from a pawnbroker for four dollars. Then I have a few swimming medals for swimming across Whirlpool Rapids and a five-cent piece given me by Mr. Sage. I have several showcases full of other medals in my rooms. I’m thinking of giving an exhibition and reception, if I could get some pretty girls to receive with me. I’ve knocked about a bit, you know, and I pick them up here and there. I’ve crossed Africa two or three times, and I got up the late Greek war in order to make news for the New York papers, and I’m organizing an insurrection in South America for the benefit of a bankrupt rifle manufacturer who wants to dispose of some arms.”
While Charding-Davis had been speaking young Van Bubbles, who was just out of the interior of Uganda, had been absent-mindedly drawing patterns in the tomato catsup he had spilled on the tablecloth.
“When I returned from Africa,” he said, “this morning I had a curious experience.” He fixed Charding-Davis with his glance for a moment, and then let it wander to a corner of the room and afterward drew it back and tied it to his chair leg. Charding-Davis grew a little pale, but he was too well bred to allow his feelings to overcome him. Young Van Bubbles continued:
“I met an old valet of mine on Fifth avenue, who who has recently been engaged by the head serving man of one of New York’s back-parlor heroes. He was wearing a pair of trousers which seemed to me strangely familiar, and when I spoke to him about the matter, broke down and confessed that he had caused his master’s master to exchange trousers with him. You see the point of the story is,” concluded young Van Bubbles, untying his glance, and allowing it to stray toward Charding-Davis, who drove it away with his golf-stick, “that the back-parlor hero wore his valet’s trousers to-day.”
There was a silence.
“What an extraordinary story,” murmured the diplomat.
“Quite so,” said the Girl Charding-Davis Knew.
“Of course,” added Van Bubbles, “I took the trousers from him. Here they are,” he continued, dropping them on the table. “You see they were no more use to him. I thought, perhaps—” and once more his glance crept stealthily toward young Charding-Davis— “you might suggest a way out of the difficulty.” He handed the trousers to Charding-Davis, saying: “Keep them, they are a mere trifle, and they may be
of some interest to you.”
The Girl Charding-Davis Knew saw the point of Van Bubbles’ story at once. Charding-Davis tried to catch her eye, but she refused to look at him, and said to her father.
“Why won’t he go away; tell him to go away, please.”
On the steps outside the house young Charding-Davis reflected what next he should do. He strolled slowly homeward, and, as he came into his rooms, his head serving man handed him two notes which had arrived in his absence. One was from the Most Beautiful Woman in New York offering him her hand and fortune; the other was written on the back of a ten thousand dollar check, and was from the Editor of of the Greatest Paper in the World begging him to accept the vacant throne of the Nyam-Nyam of Khooinooristan in the capacity of Special Correspondent.
“I wonder now,” said young Charding-Davis, “which of these offers I shall accept.”
AMBROSIA BEER BY A——E B—E
Sterling Hallmark was one of the most prominent and enthusiastic members of the Total Abstinence Union of San Francisco. His enthusiasm was not only of the passive description. He took a delight in aiding the police in their raids upon the unlicensed beer halls of the Barbary Coast. He helped them break whisky and brandy flasks, and he himself often opened the spigots of the beer kegs and let the foaming liquid run upon the sanded floor.
On the night of the thirtieth of February, 1868, Sterling Hallmark led the police in a furious attack upon the “Hole in the Wall,” a notorious subteranean dive in the vicinity of Jackson street. The battle was short and decisive. The bartender and his assistants were routed and the victorious assailants turned their attention to the demolition of the unsavory resort. Bottles were broken, brandy flasks smashed, the contents of the decanters emptied. In the midst of the confusion Sterling Hallmark advanced with splendid intrepidity towards a large keg, bearing the inscription Ambrosia Beer, extra pale. He set his hand upon the spigot.
But at that moment a terrific crash rent the air. The frail building, in the cellar of which the “Hole in the Wall” was situated, collapsed because it was necessary it should do so at that precise instant for the purposes of this tale. The crazy edifice fell with a loud clatter and clouds of blinding dust.
When Sterling Hallmark recovered consciousness he was not for the moment aware of what had happened. Then he realized that he was uninjured, but that he was unmovably pinioned beneath a mass of debris, and that something was weighing heavily upon his chest. Looking up and around him he perceived in the dim light a ring of metal protruding from a dark object that lay upon his chest. As his senses adjusted themselves to his environment he saw that the dark object was the keg of Ambrosia Beer, and that the ring of metal was the mouth of the spigot. The mouth of the spigot was directly in the line of his lips and not two inches distant from them. The terrible question that now confronted Sterling Hallmark was this, Had he opened that spigot before the collapse of the building, was the keg full or empty? He now found that by great exertion he could move his right arm so that his fingers could touch and clasp the spigot. A horrible fear came upon Sterling Hallmark drops of cold perspiration bespangled his brow; he tried to cry out, but his voice failed him. His mouth was dry. A horrible thirst tortured him — a thousand fiends seemed shouting to him to open the spigot, unseen hands tugged at his free hand. He raised this hand to cover his eyes from the sight, but as he withdrew it again it dropped upon his breast two inches nearer the fatal spigot. At length the strain became too great to be borne. Sterling Hallmark became desperate. He laughed aloud in almost insensate glee.
“Ha, Ha!” exclaimed Sterling Hallmark.
He reached up and grasped the spigot and turned it with all his strength.
* * * * *
An hour later when the rescue party with axes and hatchets found their way into the cellar of the “Hole in the Wall,” the foremost of them hauled out Sterling Hallmark.
“Thash a’ ri’ girlsh,” screamed the unfortunate man as his rescuers tried to keep him on his feet. “Thash a’ ri,’ I ne’r feelsh sho ‘appy, az-I-do-t’-ni.’ Les op’n n’er li’l’ bol, girlsh.” The patrol wagon was rung for, and the raving inebriate was conveyed to the City Hall. The ride in the open air, however, had the effect of sobering him. He realized that he, Sterling Hallmark, temperance leader, had been drunk. He also realized that he could not stand the disgrace that would now inevitably follow him through life. He drew his revolver, and ere the policeman who accompanied him could interfere, had sent a bullet crashing through his brain.
* * *
A few moments after the patrol wagon had departed one of the rescue party discovered the keg labelled Ambrosia Beer, that had been rolled from the breast of Sterling Hallmark. With a few well-directed blows of his ax, he smashed in the head of the keg, and thrust his hand down to the bottom, groping about.
The interior of the keg was full of dust and rusty nailheads.
“Empty for over a year,” he exclaimed, in tones of bitter disappointment.
I CALL ON LADY DOTTY FROM THE POLLY PARABLES BY AN——Y H—PE
Like most women, Lady Dotty is in love with me — a little. Like most men, I am in love with Lady Dotty — a great deal.
Last Thursday afternoon at five o’clock, as I was strolling in St. James’ Park (you may have remarked that I always stroll — in St. James’ Park — on Thursday afternoons) it occurred to me to call on Lady Dotty. I forthwith presented myself at the house (it is by Van Burgh).
After I had waited some five minutes in the drawing-room Lady Dotty appeared.
“But I am not at home,” she said on the threshold. “I am not at home, Mr. Carterer.”
“Nor am I,” I replied.
“And my husband is—”
“At home?”
“At his club.”
“The brute,” said I, “to leave you alone.”
“There are others,” she sighed, with half a glance at me. I had not called in a fortnight.
“I have languished in self-imposed solitude,” I murmured with some gallantry.
“Why have you not been to see me in so long?”
“My laundress—” I began.
“Your laundress, Mr. Carterer?”
“Refused to relent.”
“You poor dear. Tea?”
“You are too kind,” said I, with a bow.
Lady Dotty’s maid, a delicious young creature named Negligee, appeared with the tray and smoking cups and vanished.
Lady Dotty handed me my cup.
“Sit down,” she ordered.
There was but one chair in the room. I sat down. Lady Dotty — also sat down.
“Clarence is a beast,” she said.
“Most husbands are.”
“Sometimes they are not.”
“When?”
“When they are other women’s husbands.”
“Wives,” I remarked, “of other men are no less so.”
“Why can’t other men’s wives marry other women’s husbands?” suggested Lady Dotty.
“The question is worthy of consideration,” said I. Negligee hurriedly entered at this point of our conversation.
“The husband of Madame,” she exclaimed.
“Good heavens,” said Lady Dotty.
I took my hat.
“Fly, Mr. Carterer,” cried Lady Dotty.
“This way,” murmured Negligee. “Follow me.” She led me out into the dark hall, where the back stairs were.
I Call on Lady Dotty “It is rather dark, sir. You were best to give me your hand.”
“And my heart,” I answered.
Our hands clasped.
It was, as Negligee remarked, rather dark.
The charming creature’s face was close to mine. “Were you ever kissed?” said I, boldly.
“I don’t know how to kiss,” said Negligee.
“We might put our heads together and find out how,” I suggested.
As I say, Negligee is a delicious young creature. But a man never knows the usefuln
ess of his watch until he is without it — to say nothing of his scarfpin.
THE HEROISM OF JONESEE
FOR a moment be pleased to consider the moral quality of courage. There are three kinds of it. There is the courage that loves danger, and there is the courage that despises it; then there is a third kind — a kind that is born of more complicated motives, not a heroic kind of courage, but one that is oftenest met with. It is that peculiar, desperate sort of courage that comes of fear, and that makes a man courageous because he is afraid to seem afraid.
It was this last kind of courage that inspired Jonesee to do what he did on that particular Sacramento Street car. He was brave upon that occasion because he was scared to death. The thing he did was afterward told up and down the length of Polk Street; but Jonesee caused it to be believed that his courage was the kind that loved danger, or the kind that despised it — the heroic kind. Jonesee said things that were not so, because, if you remember about Jonesee at all, you will remember that there was nothing heroic about him. He is a plumber’s apprentice on Polk Street — you may recall the fact — and you would not expect heroic, noble things from him. He is common.
On a certain Sunday evening, Jonesee, with some friends, had a dinner that consisted chiefly of things to drink, at a fearful place called the Rathskeller, and had gone to the Bella Union afterward. He drank a good deal more beer between the acts at the Bella Union, and about midnight was just sober enough to remember that he must take the last boat across the bay. Why he had to do so has nothing to do with this story. He boarded a Sacramento Street car about midnight. He was the only-passenger.
