by O. Henry
«Put out your pipe,» said Miss Asher. «I'm sorry to wake you up, but you fellows might as well get wise, once for all, to where you stand. I'm supposed to go to dinner with you and help jolly you along so you'll trade with old Zizzy, but don't expect to find me in any of the suits you buy.»
«Do you mean to tell me,» said Platt, «that you go out this way with customers, and they all—they all talk to you like I have?»
«They all make plays,» said Miss Asher. «But I must say that you've got 'em beat in one respect. They generally talk diamonds, while you've actually dug one up.»
«How long have you been working, Helen?»
«Got my name pat, haven't you? I've been supporting myself for eight years. I was a cash girl and a wrapper and then a shop girl until I was grown, and then I got to be a suit model. Mr. Texas Man, don't you think a little wine would make this dinner a little less dry?»
«You're not going to drink wine any more, dear. It's awful to think how— I'll come to the store to–morrow and get you. I want you to pick out an automobile before we leave. That's all we need to buy here.»
«Oh, cut that out. If you knew how sick I am of hearing such talk.»
After the dinner they walked down Broadway and came upon Diana's little wooded park. The trees caught Platt's eye at once, and he must turn along under the winding walk beneath them. The lights shone upon two bright tears in the model's eyes.
«I don't like that,» said Platt. «What's the matter?»
«Don't you mind,» said Miss Asher. «Well, it's because—well, I didn't think you were that kind when I first saw you. But you are all like. And now will you take me home, or will I have to call a cop?»
Platt took her to the door of her boarding–house. They stood for a minute in the vestibule. She looked at him with such scorn in her eyes that even his heart of oak began to waver. His arm was half way around her waist, when she struck him a stinging blow on the face with her open hand.
As he stepped back a ring fell from somewhere and bounded on the tiled floor. Platt groped for it and found it.
«Now, take your useless diamond and go, Mr. Buyer,» she said.
«This was the other one—the wedding ring,» said the Texan, holding the smooth gold band on the palm of his hand.
Miss Asher's eyes blazed upon him in the half darkness.
«Was that what you meant? — did you»—
Somebody opened the door from inside the house.
«Good–night,» said Platt. «I'll see you at the store to–morrow.»
Miss Asher ran up to her room and shook the school teacher until she sat up in bed ready to scream «Fire!»
«Where is it?» she cried.
«That's what I want to know,» said the model. «You've studied geography, Emma, and you ought to know. Where is a town called Cac—Cac—Carac—Caracas City, I think, they called it?»
«How dare you wake me up for that?» said the school teacher.» Caracas is in Venezuela, of course.»
«What's it like?»
«Why, it's principally earthquakes and negroes and monkeys and malarial fever and volcanoes.»
«I don't care,» said Miss Asher, blithely; «I'm going there to–morrow.»
THE BADGE OF POLICEMAN O'ROON
It cannot be denied that men and women have looked upon one another for the first time and become instantly enamored. It is a risky process, this love at first sight, before she has seen him in Bradstreet or he has seen her in curl papers. But these things do happen; and one instance must form a theme for this story—though not, thank Heaven, to the overshadowing of more vital and important subjects, such as drink, policemen, horses and earldoms.
During a certain war a troop calling itself the Gentle Riders rode into history and one or two ambuscades. The Gentle Riders were recruited from the aristocracy of the wild men of the West and the wild men of the aristocracy of the East. In khaki there is little telling them one from another, so they became good friends and comrades all around.
Ellsworth Remsen, whose old Knickerbocker descent atoned for his modest rating at only ten millions, ate his canned beef gayly by the campfires of the Gentle Riders. The war was a great lark to him, so that he scarcely regretted polo and planked shad.
One of the troopers was a well set up, affable, cool young man, who called himself O'Roon. To this young man Remsen took an especial liking. The two rode side by side during the famous mooted up–hill charge that was disputed so hotly at the time by the Spaniards and afterward by the Democrats.
After the war Remsen came back to his polo and shad. One day a well set up, affable, cool young man disturbed him at his club, and he and O'Roon were soon pounding each other and exchanging opprobrious epithets after the manner of long–lost friends. O'Roon looked seedy and out of luck and perfectly contented. But it seemed that his content was only apparent.
«Get me a job, Remsen,» he said. «I've just handed a barber my last shilling.»
«No trouble at all,» said Remsen. «I know a lot of men who have banks and stores and things downtown. Any particular line you fancy?»
«Yes,» said O'Roon, with a look of interest. «I took a walk in your Central Park this morning. I'd like to be one of those bobbies on horseback. That would be about the ticket. Besides, it's the only thing I could do. I can ride a little and the fresh air suits me. Think you could land that for me?»
Remsen was sure that he could. And in a very short time he did. And they who were not above looking at mounted policemen might have seen a well set up, affable, cool young man on a prancing chestnut steed attending to his duties along the driveways of the park.
And now at the extreme risk of wearying old gentlemen who carry leather fob chains, and elderly ladies who—but no! grandmother herself yet thrills at foolish, immortal Romeo—there must be a hint of love at first sight.
It came just as Remsen was strolling into Fifth avenue from his club a few doors away.
A motor car was creeping along foot by foot, impeded by a freshet of vehicles that filled the street. In the car was a chauffeur and an old gentleman with snowy side whiskers and a Scotch plaid cap which could not be worn while automobiling except by a personage. Not even a wine agent would dare do it. But these two were of no consequence—except, perhaps, for the guiding of the machine and the paying for it. At the old gentleman's side sat a young lady more beautiful than pomegranate blossoms, more exquisite than the first quarter moon viewed at twilight through the tops of oleanders. Remsen saw her and knew his fate. He could have flung himself under the very wheels that conveyed her, but he knew that would be the last means of attracting the attention of those who ride in motor cars. Slowly the auto passed, and, if we place the poets above the autoists, carried the heart of Remsen with it. Here was a large city of millions, and many women who at a certain distance appear to resemble pomegranate blossoms. Yet he hoped to see her again; for each one fancies that his romance has its own tutelary guardian and divinity.
Luckily for Remsen's peace of mind there came a diversion in the guise of a reunion of the Gentle Riders of the city. There were not many of them—perhaps a score—and there was wassail and things to eat, and speeches and the Spaniard was bearded again in recapitulation. And when daylight threatened them the survivors prepared to depart. But some remained upon the battlefield. One of these was Trooper O'Roon, who was not seasoned to potent liquids. His legs declined to fulfil the obligations they had sworn to the police department.
«I'm stewed, Remsen,» said O'Roon to his friend. «Why do they build hotels that go round and round like catherine wheels? They'll take away my shield and break me. I can think and talk con–con–consec–sec–secutively, but I s–s–stammer with my feet. I've got to go on duty in three hours. The jig is up, Remsen. The jig is up, I tell you.»
«Look at me,» said Remsen, who was his smiling self, pointing to his own face; «whom do you see here?»
«Goo' fellow,» said O'Roon, dizzily, «Goo' old Remsen.»
«Not so,» said
Remsen. «You see Mounted Policeman O'Roon. Look at your face—no; you can't do that without a glass—but look at mine, and think of yours. How much alike are we? As two French table d'hote dinners. With your badge, on your horse, in your uniform, will I charm nurse–maids and prevent the grass from growing under people's feet in the Park this day. I will have your badge and your honor, besides having the jolliest lark I've been blessed with since we licked Spain.»
Promptly on time the counterfeit presentment of Mounted Policeman O'Roon single–footed into the Park on his chestnut steed. In a uniform two men who are unlike will look alike; two who somewhat resemble each other in feature and figure will appear as twin brothers. So Remsen trotted down the bridle paths, enjoying himself hugely, so few real pleasures do ten–millionaires have.
Along the driveway in the early morning spun a victoria drawn by a pair of fiery bays. There was something foreign about the affair, for the Park is rarely used in the morning except by unimportant people who love to be healthy, poor and wise. In the vehicle sat an old gentleman with snowy side–whiskers and a Scotch plaid cap which could not be worn while driving except by a personage. At his side sat the lady of Remsen's heart—the lady who looked like pomegranate blossoms and the gibbous moon.
Remsen met them coming. At the instant of their passing her eyes looked into his, and but for the ever coward's heart of a true lover he could have sworn that she flushed a faint pink. He trotted on for twenty yards, and then wheeled his horse at the sound of runaway hoofs. The bays had bolted.
Remsen sent his chestnut after the victoria like a shot. There was work cut out for the impersonator of Policeman O'Roon. The chestnut ranged alongside the off bay thirty seconds after the chase began, rolled his eye back at Remsen, and said in the only manner open to policemen's horses:
«Well, you duffer, are you going to do your share? You're not O'Roon, but it seems to me if you'd lean to the right you could reach the reins of that foolish slow–running bay—ah! you're all right; O'Roon couldn't have done it more neatly!»
The runaway team was tugged to an inglorious halt by Remsen's tough muscles. The driver released his hands from the wrapped reins, jumped from his seat and stood at the heads of the team. The chestnut, approving his new rider, danced and pranced, reviling equinely the subdued bays. Remsen, lingering, was dimly conscious of a vague, impossible, unnecessary old gentleman in a Scotch cap who talked incessantly about something. And he was acutely conscious of a pair of violet eyes that would have drawn Saint Pyrites from his iron pillar—or whatever the allusion is—and of the lady's smile and look—a little frightened, but a look that, with the ever coward heart of a true lover, he could not yet construe. They were asking his name and bestowing upon him wellbred thanks for his heroic deed, and the Scotch cap was especially babbling and insistent. But the eloquent appeal was in the eyes of the lady.
A little thrill of satisfaction ran through Remsen, because he had a name to give which, without undue pride, was worthy of being spoken in high places, and a small fortune which, with due pride, he could leave at his end without disgrace.
He opened his lips to speak and closed them again.
Who was he? Mounted Policeman O'Roon. The badge and the honor of his comrade were in his hands. If Ellsworth Remsen, ten–millionaire and Knickerbocker, had just rescued pomegranate blossoms and Scotch cap from possible death, where was Policeman O'Roon? Off his beat, exposed, disgraced, discharged. Love had come, but before that there had been something that demanded precedence—the fellowship of men on battlefields fighting an alien foe.
Remsen touched his cap, looked between the chestnut's ears, and took refuge in vernacularity.
«Don't mention it,» he said stolidly. «We policemen are paid to do these things. It's our duty.»
And he rode away—rode away cursing noblesse oblige, but knowing he could never have done anything else.
At the end of the day Remsen sent the chestnut to his stable and went to O'Roon's room. The policeman was again a well set up, affable, cool young man who sat by the window smoking cigars.
«I wish you and the rest of the police force and all badges, horses, brass buttons and men who can't drink two glasses of brut without getting upset were at the devil,» said Remsen feelingly.
O'Roon smiled with evident satisfaction.
«Good old Remsen,» he said, affably, «I know all about it. They trailed me down and cornered me here two hours ago. There was a little row at home, you know, and I cut sticks just to show them. I don't believe I told you that my Governor was the Earl of Ardsley. Funny you should bob against them in the Park. If you damaged that horse of mine I'll never forgive you. I'm going to buy him and take him back with me. Oh, yes, and I think my sister—Lady Angela, you know—wants particularly for you to come up to the hotel with me this evening. Didn't lose my badge, did you, Remsen? I've got to turn that in at Headquarters when I resign.»
BRICKDUST ROW
Blinker was displeased. A man of less culture and poise and wealth would have sworn. But Blinker always remembered that he was a gentleman—a thing that no gentleman should do. So he merely looked bored and sardonic while he rode in a hansom to the center of disturbance, which was the Broadway office of Lawyer Oldport, who was agent for the Blinker estate.
«I don't see,» said Blinker, «why I should be always signing confounded papers. I am packed, and was to have left for the North Woods this morning. Now I must wait until to–morrow morning. I hate night trains. My best razors are, of course, at the bottom of some unidentifiable trunk. It is a plot to drive me to bay rum and a monologueing, thumb–handed barber. Give me a pen that doesn't scratch. I hate pens that scratch.»
«Sit down,» said double–chinned, gray Lawyer Oldport. «The worst has not been told you. Oh, the hardships of the rich! The papers are not yet ready to sign. They will be laid before you to–morrow at eleven. You will miss another day. Twice shall the barber tweak the helpless nose of a Blinker. Be thankful that your sorrows do not embrace a haircut.»
«If,» said Blinker, rising, «the act did not involve more signing of papers I would take my business out of your hands at once. Give me a cigar, please.»
«If,» said Lawyer Oldport, «I had cared to see an old friend's son gulped down at one mouthful by sharks I would have ordered you to take it away long ago. Now, let's quit fooling, Alexander. Besides the grinding task of signing your name some thirty times to–morrow, I must impose upon you the consideration of a matter of business—of business, and I may say humanity or right. I spoke to you about this five years ago, but you would not listen—you were in a hurry for a coaching trip, I think. The subject has come up again. The property — »
«Oh, property!» interrupted Blinker. «Dear Mr. Oldport, I think you mentioned to–morrow. Let's have it all at one dose to–morrow—signatures and property and snappy rubber bands and that smelly sealing–wax and all. Have luncheon with me? Well, I'll try to remember to drop in at eleven to–morrow. Morning.»
The Blinker wealth was in lands, tenements and hereditaments, as the legal phrase goes. Lawyer Oldport had once taken Alexander in his little pulmonary gasoline runabout to see the many buildings and rows of buildings that he owned in the city. For Alexander was sole heir. They had amused Blinker very much. The houses looked so incapable of producing the big sums of money that Lawyer Oldport kept piling up in banks for him to spend.
In the evening Blinker went to one of his clubs, intending to dine. Nobody was there except some old fogies playing whist who spoke to him with grave politeness and glared at him with savage contempt. Everybody was out of town. But here he was kept in like a schoolboy to write his name over and over on pieces of paper. His wounds were deep.
Blinker turned his back on the fogies, and said to the club steward who had come forward with some nonsense about cold fresh salmon roe:
«Symons, I'm going to Coney Island.» He said it as one might say: «All's off; I'm going to jump into the river.»
The joke pleased Sy
mons. He laughed within a sixteenth of a note of the audibility permitted by the laws governing employees.
«Certainly, sir,» he tittered. «Of course, sir, I think I can see you at Coney, Mr. Blinker.»
Blinker got a pager and looked up the movements of Sunday steamboats. Then he found a cab at the first corner and drove to a North River pier. He stood in line, as democratic as you or I, and bought a ticket, and was trampled upon and shoved forward until, at last, he found himself on the upper deck of the boat staring brazenly at a girl who sat alone upon a camp stool. But Blinker did not intend to be brazen; the girl was so wonderfully good looking that he forgot for one minute that he was the prince incog, and behaved just as he did in society.
She was looking at him, too, and not severely. A puff of wind threatened Blinker's straw hat. He caught it warily and settled it again. The movement gave the effect of a bow. The girl nodded and smiled, and in another instant he was seated at her side. She was dressed all in white, she was paler than Blinker imagined milkmaids and girls of humble stations to be, but she was as tidy as a cherry blossom, and her steady, supremely frank gray eyes looked out from the intrepid depths of an unshadowed and untroubled soul.
«How dare you raise your hat to me?» she asked, with a smile–redeemed severity.
«I didn't,» Blinker said, but he quickly covered the mistake by extending it to «I didn't know how to keep from it after I saw you.»
«I do not allow gentlemen to sit by me to whom I have not been introduced,» she said, with a sudden haughtiness that deceived him. He rose reluctantly, but her clear, teasing laugh brought him down to his chair again.
«I guess you weren't going far,» she declared, with beauty's magnificent self–confidence.
«Are you going to Coney Island?» asked Blinker.
