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

“ ‘I did,’ says I. ‘At first I thought it was drums. But it wasn’t; it was snoring. Everybody in town’s asleep.’

“O’Connor tears out his watch.

“ ‘Fools!’ says he. ‘They’ve set the time right at the siesta hour when everybody takes a nap. But the cannon will wake ’em up. Everything will be all right, depend upon it.’

“Just at twelve o’clock we heard the sound of a cannon⁠—boom!⁠—shaking the whole town.

“O’Connor loosens his sword in its scabbard and jumps for the door. I went as far as the door and stood in it.

“People were sticking their heads out of doors and windows. But there was one grand sight that made the landscape look tame.

“General Tumbalo, the comandante, was rolling down the steps of his residential dugout, waving a five-foot sabre in his hand. He wore his cocked and plumed hat and his dress-parade coat covered with gold braid and buttons. Sky-blue pajamas, one rubber boot, and one red-plush slipper completed his makeup.

“The general had heard the cannon, and he puffed down the sidewalk toward the soldiers’ barracks as fast as his rudely awakened two hundred pounds could travel.

“O’Connor sees him and lets out a battle-cry and draws his father’s sword and rushes across the street and tackles the enemy.

“Right there in the street he and the general gave an exhibition of blacksmithing and butchery. Sparks flew from their blades, the general roared, and O’Connor gave the slogan of his race and proclivities.

“Then the general’s sabre broke in two; and he took to his ginger-colored heels crying out, ‘Policios,’ at every jump. O’Connor chased him a block, imbued with the sentiment of manslaughter, and slicing buttons off the general’s coat tails with the paternal weapon. At the corner five barefooted policemen in cotton undershirts and straw fiats climbed over O’Connor and subjugated him according to the municipal statutes.

“They brought him past the late revolutionary headquarters on the way to jail. I stood in the door. A policeman had him by each hand and foot, and they dragged him on his back through the grass like a turtle. Twice they stopped, and the odd policeman took another’s place while he rolled a cigarette. The great soldier of fortune turned his head and looked at me as they passed. I blushed, and lit another cigar. The procession passed on, and at ten minutes past twelve everybody had gone back to sleep again.

“In the afternoon the interpreter came around and smiled as he laid his hand on the big red jar we usually kept ice-water in.

“ ‘The iceman didn’t call today,’ says I. ‘What’s the matter with everything, Sancho?’

“ ‘Ah, yes,’ says the liver-colored linguist. ‘They just tell me in the town. Verree bad act that Señor O’Connor make fight with General Tumbalo. Yes, general Tumbalo great soldier and big mans.’

“ ‘What’ll they do to Mr. O’Connor?’ I asks.

“ ‘I talk little while presently with the Juez de la Paz⁠—what you call Justice-with-the-peace,’ says Sancho. ‘He tell me it verree bad crime that one Señor Americano try kill General Tumbalo. He say they keep señor O’Connor in jail six months; then have trial and shoot him with guns. Verree sorree.’

“ ‘How about this revolution that was to be pulled off?’ I asks.

“ ‘Oh,’ says this Sancho, ‘I think too hot weather for revolution. Revolution better in wintertime. Maybe so next winter. Quién sabe?’

“ ‘But the cannon went off,’ says I. ‘The signal was given.’

“ ‘That big sound?’ says Sancho, grinning. ‘The boiler in ice factory he blow up⁠—boom! Wake everybody up from siesta. Verree sorree. No ice. Mucho hot day.’

“About sunset I went over to the jail, and they let me talk to O’Connor through the bars.

“ ‘What’s the news, Bowers?’ says he. ‘Have we taken the town? I’ve been expecting a rescue party all the afternoon. I haven’t heard any firing. Has any word been received from the capital?’

“ ‘Take it easy, Barney,’ says I. ‘I think there’s been a change of plans. There’s something more important to talk about. Have you any money?’

“ ‘I have not,’ says O’Connor. ‘The last dollar went to pay our hotel bill yesterday. Did our troops capture the customhouse? There ought be plenty of government money there.’

“ ‘Segregate your mind from battles,’ says I. ‘I’ve been making inquiries. You’re to be shot six months from date for assault and battery. I’m expecting to receive fifty years at hard labor for vagrancy. All they furnish you while you’re a prisoner is water. You depend on your friends for food. I’ll see what I can do.’

“I went away and found a silver Chile dollar in an old vest of O’Connor’s. I took him some fried fish and rice for his supper. In the morning I went down to a lagoon and had a drink of water, and then went back to the jail. O’Connor had a porterhouse steak look in his eye.

“ ‘Barney,’ says I, ‘I’ve found a pond full of the finest kind of water. It’s the grandest, sweetest, purest water in the world. Say the word and I’ll go fetch you a bucket of it and you can throw this vile government stuff out the window. I’ll do anything I can for a friend.’

“ ‘Has it come to this?’ says O’Connor, raging up and down his cell. ‘Am I to be starved to death and then shot? I’ll make those traitors feel the weight of an O’Connor’s hand when I get out of this.’ And then he comes to the bars and speaks softer. ‘Has nothing been heard from Dona Isabel?’ he asks. ‘Though everyone else in the world fail,’ says he, ‘I trust those eyes of hers. She will find a way to effect my release. Do ye think ye could communicate with her? One word from her⁠—even a rose would make me sorrow light. But don’t let her know except with the utmost delicacy, Bowers. These high-bred Castilians are sensitive and proud.’

“ ‘Well said, Barney,’ says I. ‘You’ve given me an idea. I’ll report later. Something’s got to be pulled off quick, or we’ll both starve.’

“I