Short Fiction by O. Henry (librera reader txt) 📕

him would be a dead-give-away anywhere. She was one of the high-flyers in Society⁠—not the kind that have their pictures in the Sunday papers⁠—but the real sort that open chrysanthemum shows and christen battleships.

“Well, sir, we never got a sight of that fruit tub on the road. The ocean is a pretty big place; and I guess we took different paths across it. But we kept going toward this Anchuria, where the fruiter was bound for.

“We struck the monkey coast one afternoon about four. There was a ratty-looking steamer off shore taking on bananas. The monkeys were loading her up with big barges. It might be the one the old man had taken, and it might not. I went ashore to look around. The scenery was pretty good. I never saw any finer on the New York stage. I struck an American on shore, a big, cool chap, standing around with the monkeys. He showed me the consul’s office. The consul was a nice young fellow. He said the fruiter was the Karlsefin, running generally to New Orleans, but took her last cargo to New York. Then I was sure my people were on board, although everybody told me that no passengers had landed. I didn’t think they would land until after dark, for they might have been shy about it on account of seeing that yacht of mine hanging around. So, all I had to do was to wait and nab ’em when they came ashore. I couldn’t arrest old Wahrfield without extradition papers, but my play was to get the cash. They generally give up if you strike ’em when they’re tired and rattled and short on nerve.

“After dark I sat under a coconut tree on the beach for a while, and then I walked around and investigated that town some, and it was enough to give you the lions. If a man could stay in New York and be honest, he’d better do it than to hit that monkey town with a million.

“Dinky little mud houses; grass over your shoe tops in the streets; ladies in low-neck-and-short-sleeves walking around smoking cigars; tree frogs rattling like a hose cart going to a ten blow; big mountains dropping gravel in the back yards, and the sea licking the paint off in front⁠—no, sir⁠—a man had better be in God’s country living on free lunch than there.

“The main street ran along the beach, and I walked down it, and then turned up a kind of lane where the houses were made of poles and straw. I wanted to see what the monkeys did when they weren’t climbing coconut trees. The very first shack I looked in I saw my people. They must have come ashore while I was promenading. A man about fifty, smooth face, heavy eyebrows, dressed in black broadcloth, looking like he was just about to say, ‘Can any little boy in the Sunday school answer that?’ He was freezing on to a grip that weighed like a dozen gold bricks, and a swell girl⁠—a regular peach, with a Fifth Avenue cut⁠—was sitting on a wooden chair. An old black woman was fixing some coffee and beans on a table. The light they had come from a lantern hung on a nail. I went and stood in the door, and they looked at me, and I said:

“ ‘Mr. Wahrfield, you are my prisoner. I hope, for the lady’s sake, you will take the matter sensibly. You know why I want you.’

“ ‘Who are you?’ says the old gent.

“ ‘O’Day,’ says I, ‘of the Columbia Detective Agency. And now, sir, let me give you a piece of good advice. You go back and take your medicine like a man. Hand ’em back the boodle; and maybe they’ll let you off light. Go back easy, and I’ll put in a word for you. I’ll give you five minutes to decide.’ I pulled out my watch and waited.

“Then the young lady chipped in. She was one of the genuine high-steppers. You could tell by the way her clothes fit and the style she had that Fifth Avenue was made for her.

“ ‘Come inside,’ she says. ‘Don’t stand in the door and disturb the whole street with that suit of clothes. Now, what is it you want?’

“ ‘Three minutes gone,’ I said. ‘I’ll tell you again while the other two tick off.

“ ‘You’ll admit being the president of the Republic, won’t you?’

“ ‘I am,’ says he.

“ ‘Well, then,’ says I, ‘it ought to be plain to you. Wanted, in New York, J. Churchill Wahrfield, president of the Republic Insurance Company.

“ ‘Also the funds belonging to said company, now in that grip, in the unlawful possession of said J. Churchill Wahrfield.’

“ ‘Oh-h-h-h!’ says the young lady, as if she was thinking, ‘you want to take us back to New York?’

“ ‘To take Mr. Wahrfield. There’s no charge against you, miss. There’ll be no objection, of course, to your returning with your father.’

“Of a sudden the girl gave a tiny scream and grabbed the old boy around the neck. ‘Oh, father, father!’ she says, kind of contralto, ‘can this be true? Have you taken money that is not yours? Speak, father!’ It made you shiver to hear the tremolo stop she put on her voice.

“The old boy looked pretty bughouse when she first grappled him, but she went on, whispering in his ear and patting his off shoulder till he stood still, but sweating a little.

“She got him to one side and they talked together a minute, and then he put on some gold eyeglasses and walked up and handed me the grip.

“ ‘Mr. Detective,’ he says, talking a little broken, ‘I conclude to return with you. I have finished to discover that life on this desolate and displeased coast would be worse than to die, itself. I will go back and hurl myself upon the mercy of the Republic Company. Have you brought a sheep?’

“ ‘Sheep!’ says I; ‘I haven’t a single⁠—’

“ ‘Ship,’ cut in the young lady. ‘Don’t get funny. Father is of German birth, and