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

hands. Don’t be superior and insulting, Old Bryson⁠—tell me what a fellow can do with a thousand dollars.”

Old Bryson rubbed his glasses and smiled. And when Old Bryson smiled, Gillian knew that he intended to be more offensive than ever.

“A thousand dollars,” he said, “means much or little. One man may buy a happy home with it and laugh at Rockefeller. Another could send his wife South with it and save her life. A thousand dollars would buy pure milk for one hundred babies during June, July, and August and save fifty of their lives. You could count upon a half hour’s diversion with it at faro in one of the fortified art galleries. It would furnish an education to an ambitious boy. I am told that a genuine Corot was secured for that amount in an auction room yesterday. You could move to a New Hampshire town and live respectably two years on it. You could rent Madison Square Garden for one evening with it, and lecture your audience, if you should have one, on the precariousness of the profession of heir presumptive.”

“People might like you, Old Bryson,” said Gillian, always unruffled, “if you wouldn’t moralize. I asked you to tell me what I could do with a thousand dollars.”

“You?” said Bryson, with a gentle laugh. “Why, Bobby Gillian, there’s only one logical thing you could do. You can go buy Miss Lotta Lauriere a diamond pendant with the money, and then take yourself off to Idaho and inflict your presence upon a ranch. I advise a sheep ranch, as I have a particular dislike for sheep.”

“Thanks,” said Gillian, rising, “I thought I could depend upon you, Old Bryson. You’ve hit on the very scheme. I wanted to chuck the money in a lump, for I’ve got to turn in an account for it, and I hate itemizing.”

Gillian phoned for a cab and said to the driver:

“The stage entrance of the Columbine Theatre.”

Miss Lotta Lauriere was assisting nature with a powder puff, almost ready for her call at a crowded matinée, when her dresser mentioned the name of Mr. Gillian.

“Let it in,” said Miss Lauriere. “Now, what is it, Bobby? I’m going on in two minutes.”

“Rabbit-foot your right ear a little,” suggested Gillian, critically. “That’s better. It won’t take two minutes for me. What do you say to a little thing in the pendant line? I can stand three ciphers with a figure one in front of ’em.”

“Oh, just as you say,” carolled Miss Lauriere. “My right glove, Adams. Say, Bobby, did you see that necklace Della Stacey had on the other night? Twenty-two hundred dollars it cost at Tiffany’s. But, of course⁠—pull my sash a little to the left, Adams.”

“Miss Lauriere for the opening chorus!” cried the call boy without.

Gillian strolled out to where his cab was waiting.

“What would you do with a thousand dollars if you had it?” he asked the driver.

“Open a s’loon,” said the cabby, promptly and huskily. “I know a place I could take money in with both hands. It’s a four-story brick on a corner. I’ve got it figured out. Second story⁠—Chinks and chop suey; third floor⁠—manicures and foreign missions; fourth floor⁠—poolroom. If you was thinking of putting up the cap⁠—”

“Oh, no,” said Gillian, “I merely asked from curiosity. I take you by the hour. Drive ’til I tell you to stop.”

Eight blocks down Broadway Gillian poked up the trap with his cane and got out. A blind man sat upon a stool on the sidewalk selling pencils. Gillian went out and stood before him.

“Excuse me,” he said, “but would you mind telling me what you would do if you had a thousand dollars?”

“You got out of that cab that just drove up, didn’t you?” asked the blind man.

“I did,” said Gillian.

“I guess you are all right,” said the pencil dealer, “to ride in a cab by daylight. Take a look at that, if you like.”

He drew a small book from his coat pocket and held it out. Gillian opened it and saw that it was a bank deposit book. It showed a balance of $1,785 to the blind man’s credit.

Gillian returned the book and got into the cab.

“I forgot something,” he said. “You may drive to the law offices of Tolman & Sharp, at ⸻ Broadway.”

Lawyer Tolman looked at him hostilely and inquiringly through his gold-rimmed glasses.

“I beg your pardon,” said Gillian, cheerfully, “but may I ask you a question? It is not an impertinent one, I hope. Was Miss Hayden left anything by my uncle’s will besides the ring and the $10?”

“Nothing,” said Mr. Tolman.

“I thank you very much, sir,” said Gillian, and on he went to his cab. He gave the driver the address of his late uncle’s home.

Miss Hayden was writing letters in the library. She was small and slender and clothed in black. But you would have noticed her eyes. Gillian drifted in with his air of regarding the world as inconsequent.

“I’ve just come from old Tolman’s,” he explained. “They’ve been going over the papers down there. They found a⁠—Gillian searched his memory for a legal term⁠—they found an amendment or a postscript or something to the will. It seemed that the old boy loosened up a little on second thoughts and willed you a thousand dollars. I was driving up this way and Tolman asked me to bring you the money. Here it is. You’d better count it to see if it’s right.” Gillian laid the money beside her hand on the desk.

Miss Hayden turned white. “Oh!” she said, and again “Oh!”

Gillian half turned and looked out the window.

“I suppose, of course,” he said, in a low voice, “that you know I love you.”

“I am sorry,” said Miss Hayden, taking up her money.

“There is no use?” asked Gillian, almost light-heartedly.

“I am sorry,” she said again.

“May I write a note?” asked Gillian, with a smile, He seated himself at the big library table. She supplied him with paper and pen, and then went back to her secrétaire.

Gillian made out his account