O. Henry Read online

  But the giggling school girls on their way home for the holidays, the old spectacled lady who punches your ribs with her umbrella, the country family covered with confusion and store clothes, the fat lady with the calla lily in a pot, the timid man following the lady with the iron-­jaw and carrying two children, a bird cage and a guitar, and the loud breathing man who has been looking upon the buffet car when it was red, all these have tangled themselves into a struggling, inquiring, tangled Babel of bag, baggage, babies and bluster.

  The young lady is there to meet her school girl friend. The escort stands at one side with his cane in his mouth; nervously fingering in his vest pocket to see if the car fare is ready at hand. The girls grapple each other, catch-­as-­catch-­can, fire a broadside of the opera bouffe brand of kisses, and jabber out something like this: “Oh, you sweet thing, so glad you’ve come—toothache?—oh, no, it’s a caramel—such a lovely cape, I want the pattern—dying to see you—that ring—my brother gave it to me—don’t tell me a story—Charlie and Tom and Harry and Bob, and—oh, I forgot—Tom, this is Kitty—real sealskin of course—talk all night when we get home”—“Git out der way dere gents and ladies”—a truck piled with trunks four high goes crashing by; a policeman drags an old lady from under the wheels, and she plunges madly at the engine and is rescued by the fireman whom she abuses as a pickpocket and an oppressor of the defenseless.

  A sour looking man with a big valise comes out of the crowd and is seized upon by a red-­nosed man in a silk hat.

  “Did you get it, old boy?” asks the man with the nose.

  “Get your grandmother!” growls the sour man.

  “That fellow Reed is the biggest liar in America. Feller from Maine got it. I’m a populist from this day on. Got the price of a toddy, Jimmy?”

  The engine stands and puffs sullenly. The crowd disperses gradually, stringing by twos, threes and larger groups through the waiting room doors. Depot officials hustle along, pushing their way among the people.

  A brakeman springs from his car and runs up to a dim female figure lurking in the shadow of the depot.

  “How is the kid?” he asks sharply with an uneven breath.

  “Bad,” says the woman, in a dry, low voice. “Fever a hundred and four all day. Keeps a-­calling of you all the time, Jim. Got to go out again tonight?”

  “Orders,” says Jim; and then: “No, cussed if I do. The company can go to the devil. Callin’ of me, is he? Come on, Liz.” He takes the woman’s arm and they hurry away into the darkness.

  A ragged man with a dreary whine to his voice fastens upon a big stranger in a long overcoat who is hurrying hotel-­wards.

  “Have you a dime, sir, a man could get something to eat with?” The big man pauses and says kindly, “Certainly. I have more than that. I have at least a dollar for supper, and I’m going up to the Hutchins House and get it. Good night.”

  On the other side of the depot the hack drivers are crowding to the dead line, filling the air with cries. A pompous man, who never allows himself to be imposed upon when traveling, steps up to a carriage and slings his valise inside. “Drive me to the Lawlor Hotel,” he says, commandingly.

  “But, sir,” says the driver. “The Lawlor is—”

  “I don’t want any comments,” says the pompous man. “If you don’t want the job, say so.”

  “I was just going to say that—”

  “I know where I want to go, and if you think you know any better—”

  “Jump in,” says the driver. “I’ll take you.”

  The pompous man gets into the carriage; the driver mounts to his seat, whips up his horses, drives across the street, fully twenty-­five yards away, opens the door and says: “Lawlor Hotel, sir; 50 cents, please.”

  He gets a dollar instead, and promises to say nothing about it.

  The carriages and omnibuses rattle away with their loads; other travelers straggle in for the next train, and when it arrives the Grand Central will repeat its little farce comedy with new actors, and new specialties and various readings between the lines.

  Why He Hesitated

  * * *

  A MAN with a worn, haggard countenance that showed traces of deep sorrow and suffering rushed excitedly up the stairs into the editorial rooms of the Post.

  The literary editor was alone in his corner, and the man threw himself into a chair near by and said:

  “Excuse me, sir, for inflicting my troubles upon you, but I must unbosom myself to some one. I am the unhappiest of men. Two months ago, in a quiet little town in Eastern Texas there was a family dwelling in the midst of peace and contentment. Hezekiah Skinner was the head of that family, and he almost idolized his wife, who appeared to completely return his affection. Alas, sir, she was deceiving him. Her protestations of love were but honeyed lies, intended to gull and blind him. She had become infatuated with William Wagstaff, a neighbor, who had insidiously planned to capture her affections. She listened to Wagstaff ’s pleadings and fled with him, leaving her husband with a wrecked home and a broken heart. Can you not feel for me, sir?”

  “I do, indeed,” said the literary editor. “I can conceive the agony, the sorrow and the deep suffering that you must have felt.”

  “For two months,” continued the man, “the home of Hezekiah Skinner has been desolate, and this woman and Wagstaff have been flying from his wrath.”

  “What do you intend to do?” asked the literary editor.

  “I scarcely know. I do not care for the woman any longer, but I cannot escape the tortures my mind is undergoing day after day.”

  At this point a shrill woman’s voice was heard in the outer office, making some inquiry of the office boy.

  “Great heavens, her voice!” said the man, rising to his feet greatly agitated. “I must get out of here. Quick! Is there no way for me to escape? A window—a side door—anywhere before she finds me.”

  The literary editor rose with indignation in his face.

  “For shame, sir,” he said, “do not act so unworthy a part. Confront your faithless wife, Mr. Skinner, and denounce her for wrecking your life and home. Why do you hesitate to stand up for your honor and your rights?”

  “You do not understand,” said the man, his face white with fear and apprehension, as he climbed out the window upon a shed—“I am William Wagstaff.”

  Something for Baby

  * * *

  THIS IS nothing but a slight jar in the happy holiday music; a minor note struck by the finger of Fate, slipping upon the keys, as anthems of rejoicing and Christmas carols make the Yuletide merry.

  A Post man stood yesterday in one of the largest fancy and dry goods stores on Main street, watching the throng of well dressed buyers, mostly ladies, who were turning over the exquisite stock of Christmas notions and holiday goods.

  Presently a little slim, white faced girl crept timidly through the crowd to the counter. She was dressed in thin calico, and her shoes were patched and clumsy.

  She looked about her with a manner half mournful, half scared.

  A clerk saw her and came forward.

  “Well, what is it?” he asked, rather shortly.

  “Please sir,” she answered in a weak voice, “mamma gave me this dime to get something for baby.”

  “Something for baby, for a dime? Want to buy baby a Christmas present, eh? Well now, don’t you think you had better run around to a toy shop? We don’t keep such things here. You want a tin horse, or a ball, or a jumping jack, now don’t you?”

  “Please sir, mamma said I was to come here. Baby isn’t with us now. Mamma told me to get—ten—cents—worth of crape, sir, if you please.”

  Too Wise

  * * *

  THERE IS a man in Houston who keeps quite abreast of the times. He reads the papers, has traveled extensively and is an excellent judge of human nature. He has a natural gift for detecting humbugs and fa
kirs, and it would be a smooth artist indeed who could impose upon him in any way.

  Last night as he was going home, a shady-­looking man with his hat pulled over his eyes stepped out from a doorway and said:

  “Say, gent, here’s a fine diamond ring I found in de gutter. I don’t want to get into no trouble wid it. Gimme a dollar and take it.”

  The Houston man smiled as he looked at the flashy ring the man held toward him.

  “A very good game, my man,” he said, “but the police are hot after you fellows. You had better select your rhinestone customers with better judgment. Good night.”

  When the man got home he found his wife in tears.

  “Oh, John,” she said. “I went shopping this afternoon and lost my solitaire diamond ring. Oh, what shall I——”

  John turned without a word and rushed back down the street, but the shady-­looking man was not to be found.

  His wife often wonders why he never scolded her for losing the ring.

  The Return of the Songster

  * * *

  HE WAS a busy man, and his ten years of married life had buried sentiment rather deep in his bosom, but it was not yet dead.

  That morning at breakfast he and his wife had had some hard words, and when he had nearly reached his office an unusual feeling of tenderness for his faithful life partner, and regret for the things he had said came upon him. Without entering the office, he turned on his heel and went back home, resolving to acknowledge his fault, and spread the oil of love and forgiveness upon the troubled matrimonial waters. He returned by a slightly different route in order to post some letters he had forgotten.

  After he had left home, his wife experienced the same feeling of remorse and affection, and putting on her hat, she started for the office, filled with the same laudable intent to make peace and restore the god of love to his old position in the household.

  When she reached the office the boy informed her that her husband had not yet arrived. She took a chair and waited.

  When he arrived at his home the servant girl told him that his wife had left the house soon after his own departure, volunteering the additional information that she seemed “powerful flustered and bothered like.”

  He sat down, thinking she had run over to a neighbor’s, and would return presently.

  After waiting an hour he began to grow alarmed. What was that she had said when they were wrangling that morning, about “putting an end to this kind of life”? Her nature was of the emotional kind that is apt to lose its balance when greatly affected. Had he driven her to desperation? A cold fear seized him, and he began to pace the floor nervously. He would have given all he was worth to have heard her step upon the stair. He strained his ears at every footfall upon the sidewalk. What course would her desperation take? He thought of her being dragged from the river, dripping and lifeless, and himself left in the world a prey of remorse, and morally responsible for her fate. And then, again, with a sharper stab, he thought of Sam Sedberry, the man who was courting her when he won her. Only two days before, while walking on the street with her, Sam had come along, and she had stopped him and asked how the geranium was getting on that she had given his wife. Was it possible that—

  He tore out his watch again and looked at it. She had been away two hours. She had not taken with her, the servant said, any satchel or bundle, or even a wrap. It could not have been flight; it must be—Oh, Laura, his love!—it must be suicide.

  He seized his hat and hurried out, and down the street.

  When the contrite wife had waited in her husband’s office nearly an hour, and he did not come, her imagination began to suggest things that did not have a soothing effect. What could be keeping him? Had he—yes, Great heavens! she remembered now what he had said that morning. In the midst of their quarrel the words he had spoken: “I will not stand this another day” had seemed idle enough to her ears, but now they rang like funeral bells. He was a man of quick temper and high spirit: had he meant to take his own life? Or had he—her face paled. Only the day before he had leaned over the fence next door where that bold widow, Mrs. Fliply lived, and asked about her sick poodle. Had this designing creature persuaded him to run—No, no, no, that was too horrible to contemplate. He must be—Oh, John, dearest husband!—he must be dead!

  She saw him, in her mind, already laid out in their parlor, and the men who had brought his body home standing around. She glanced at the clock over his desk. Two hours since she had come!

  She hurried out, and homeward, with wildly beating heart.

  About half way, they suddenly met each other as they turned a corner.

  To do him proper credit, she recovered herself first.

  “Nice business man you are,” she said, “to leave your work to take care of itself while you go bumming around town half the day!”

  “It’s funny,” he said, “that you cant resist your propensity to gallivant all over the streets long enough to even attend to the simplest of your household duties.”

  The moral will be found in the following verses:

  Strange we do not prize the music

  Till the sweet voiced bird has flown:

  But there is a fact that’s stranger;

  And a fact we all must own.

  That if that sweet voiced bird should fly

  Back once more, as he went,

  We’d say, just as we said before:

  “You cant sing for a cent.”

  Book Reviews

  * * *

  UNABRIDGED DICTIONARY by Noah Webster, L. L. D. F. R. S. X. Y. Z. etc.

  We find on our table quite an exhaustive treatise on various subjects, written in Mr. Webster’s well known, lucid, and piquant style. There is not a dull line between the covers of the book. The range of subjects is wide, and the treatment light and easy without being flippant. A valuable feature of the work is the arranging of the articles in alphabetical order, thus facilitating the finding of any particular word desired. Mr. Webster’s vocabulary is large, and he always uses the right word in the right place. Mr. Webster’s work is thorough, and we predict that he will be heard from again.

  Houston City Directory, by Morrison & Fourmy.

  This new book has the decided merit of being non-­sensational. In these days of erotic and ultra-­imaginative literature of the modern morbid self-­analytical school it is a relief to peruse a book with so little straining after effect, so well balanced, and so pure in sentiment. It is a book that a man can place in the hands of the most innocent member of his family with the utmost confidence. Its text is healthy, and its literary style excellent, as it adheres to the method used with such thrilling effect by Mr. Webster in his famous dictionary, viz: alphabetical arrangement.

  We venture to assert that no one can carefully and conscientiously read this little volume without being a better man, or lady, as circumstances over which they have no control may indicate.

  Guessed Everything Else

  * * *

  A MAN with a long, sharp nose and a big bundle which he carried by a strap went up the steps of the gloomy-­looking brick house, set his bundle down, rang the bell, and took off his hat and wiped his brow.

  A woman opened the door, and he said:

  “Madam, I have a number of not only useful but necessary articles here that I would like to show you. First, I want you to look at these elegant illustrated books of travel and biography, written by the best authors. They are sold only by subscription. They are bound in—”

  “I don’t care to see them. We have sm—”

  “Small children only, eh? Well, madam, here are some building blocks that are very instructive and amusing. No? Well, let me show you some beautiful lace window curtains for your sitting room, handmade and a great bargain. I can—”

  “I don’t want them. We have sm—”

  “Smo
king in the house? It won’t injure them in the least. Just shake them out in the morning and I guarantee not a vestige of tobacco smoke will remain. Here also I have a very ingenious bell for awakening lazy servants in the morning. You simply touch a button and—”

  “I tell you we have sm—”

  “Have smart servants, have you? Well, that is a blessing. Now, here is a clothes line that is one of the wonders of the age. It needs no pins and can be fastened to anything—fence, side of the house or tree. It can be raised or lowered in an instant, and for a large washing is the most convenient and labor-­saving invention that—”

  “I say we have small—”

  “Oh, you have a small family. Let’s see, then I have here a—”

  “I’m trying to tell you,” said the woman, “that we have small-­pox in the family, and—”

  The long-­nosed man made a convulsive grab at his goods and rolled down the steps in about two seconds, while the woman softly closed the door just as a man got out of a buggy and nailed a yellow flag on the house.