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

Senator Kinney spoke for an hour. History was his theme⁠—history mitigated by patriotism and sentiment. He referred casually to the picture in the outer hall⁠—it was unnecessary, he said, to dilate upon its merits⁠—the Senators had seen for themselves. The painter of the picture was the grandson of Lucien Briscoe. Then came the word-pictures of Briscoe’s life set forth in thrilling colours. His rude and venturesome life, his simple-minded love for the commonwealth he helped to upbuild, his contempt for rewards and praise, his extreme and sturdy independence, and the great services he had rendered the state. The subject of the oration was Lucien Briscoe; the painting stood in the background serving simply as a means, now happily brought forward, through which the state might bestow a tardy recompense upon the descendent of its favourite son. Frequent enthusiastic applause from the Senators testified to the well reception of the sentiment.

The bill passed without an opening vote. Tomorrow it would be taken up by the House. Already was it fixed to glide through that body on rubber tires. Blandford, Grayson, and Plummer, all wheel-horses and orators, and provided with plentiful memoranda concerning the deeds of pioneer Briscoe, had agreed to furnish the motive power.

The San Saba lobby and its protégé stumbled awkwardly down the stairs and out into the Capitol yard. Then they herded closely and gave one yell of triumph. But one of them⁠—Buck-Kneed Summers it was⁠—hit the key with the thoughtful remark:

“She cut the mustard,” he said, “all right. I reckon they’re goin’ to buy Lon’s steer. I ain’t right much on the parlyment’ry, but I gather that’s what the signs added up. But she seems to me, Lonny, the argyment ran principal to grandfather, instead of paint. It’s reasonable calculatin’ that you want to be glad you got the Briscoe brand on you, my son.”

That remarked clinched in Lonny’s mind an unpleasant, vague suspicion to the same effect. His reticence increased, and he gathered grass from the ground, chewing it pensively. The picture as a picture had been humiliatingly absent from the Senator’s arguments. The painter had been held up as a grandson, pure and simple. While this was gratifying on certain lines, it made art look little and slab-sided. The Boy Artist was thinking.

The hotel Lonny stopped at was near the Capitol. It was near to the one o’clock dinner hour when the appropriation had been passed by the Senate. The hotel clerk told Lonny that a famous artist from New York had arrived in town that day and was in the hotel. He was on his way westward to New Mexico to study the effect of sunlight upon the ancient walls of the Zuñis. Modern stones reflect light. Those ancient building materials absorb it. The artist wanted this effect in a picture he was painting, and was traveling two thousand miles to get it.

Lonny sought this man out after dinner and told his story. The artist was an unhealthy man, kept alive by genius and indifference to life. He went with Lonny to the Capitol and stood there before the picture. The artist pulled his beard and looked unhappy.

“Should like to have your sentiments,” said Lonny, “just as they run out of the pen.”

“It’s the way they’ll come,” said the painter man. “I took three different kinds of medicine before dinner⁠—by the tablespoonful. The taste still lingers. I am primed for telling the truth. You want to know if the picture is, or if it isn’t?”

“Right,” said Lonny. “Is it wool or cotton? Should I paint some more or cut it out and ride herd aplenty?”

“I heard a rumour during pie,” said the artist, “that the state is about to pay you two thousand dollars for this picture.”

“It’s passed the Senate,” said Lonny, “and the House rounds it up tomorrow.”

“That’s lucky,” said the pale man. “Do you carry a rabbit’s foot?”

“No,” said Lonny, “but it seems I had a grandfather. He’s considerable mixed up in the colour scheme. It took me a year to paint that picture. Is she entirely awful or not? Some says, now, that the steer’s tail ain’t badly drawed. They think it’s proportioned nice. Tell me.”

The artist glanced at Lonny’s wiry figure and nut-brown skin. Something stirred him to a passing irritation.

“For Art’s sake, son,” he said, fractiously, “don’t spend any more money for paint. It isn’t a picture at all. It’s a gun. You hold up the state with it, if you like, and get your two thousand, but don’t get in front of any more canvas. Live under it. Buy a couple of hundred ponies with the money⁠—I’m told they’re that cheap⁠—and ride, ride, ride. Fill your lungs and eat and sleep and be happy. No more pictures. You look healthy. That’s genius. Cultivate it.” He looked at his watch. “Twenty minutes to three. Four capsules and one tablet at three. That’s all you wanted to know, isn’t it?”

At three o’clock the cowpunchers rode up for Lonny, bringing Hot Tamales, saddled. Traditions must be observed. To celebrate the passage of the bill by the Senate the gang must ride wildly through the town, creating uproar and excitement. Liquor must be partaken of, the suburbs shot up, and the glory of the San Saba country vociferously proclaimed. A part of the programme had been carried out in the saloons on the way up.

Lonny mounted Hot Tamales, the accomplished little beast prancing with fire and intelligence. He was glad to feel Lonny’s bowlegged grip against his ribs again. Lonny was his friend, and he was willing to do things for him.

“Come on, boys,” said Lonny, urging Hot Tomales into a gallop with his knees. With a whoop, the inspired lobby tore after him through the dust. Lonny led his cohorts straight for the Capitol. With a wild yell, the gang endorsed his now evident intention of riding into it. Hooray for San Saba!

Up the six broad, limestone steps clattered the broncos of the cowpunchers. Into the resounding hallway they