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

faces of walking, talking, mama-ing, and eye-closing French Mabelles and Violettes. The advertisement was a last resort.

Black Riley came from behind the stove and approached Fuzzy in his one-sided parabolic way.

The Christmas mummer, flushed with success, had tucked Betsy under his arm, and was about to depart to the filling of impromptu dates elsewhere.

“Say, ’Bo,” said Black Riley to him, “where did you cop out dat doll?”

“This doll?” asked Fuzzy, touching Betsy with his forefinger to be sure that she was the one referred to. “Why, this doll was presented to me by the Emperor of Beloochistan. I have seven hundred others in my country home in Newport. This doll⁠—”

“Cheese the funny business,” said Riley. “You swiped it or picked it up at de house on de hill where⁠—but never mind dat. You want to take fifty cents for de rags, and take it quick. Me brother’s kid at home might be wantin’ to play wid it. Hey⁠—what?”

He produced the coin.

Fuzzy laughed a gurgling, insolent, alcoholic laugh in his face. Go to the office of Sarah Bernhardt’s manager and propose to him that she be released from a night’s performance to entertain the Tackytown Lyceum and Literary Coterie. You will hear the duplicate of Fuzzy’s laugh.

Black Riley gauged Fuzzy quickly with his blueberry eye as a wrestler does. His hand was itching to play the Roman and wrest the rag Sabine from the extemporaneous merry-andrew who was entertaining an angel unaware. But he refrained. Fuzzy was fat and solid and big. Three inches of well-nourished corporeity, defended from the winter winds by dingy linen, intervened between his vest and trousers. Countless small, circular wrinkles running around his coat-sleeves and knees guaranteed the quality of his bone and muscle. His small, blue eyes, bathed in the moisture of altruism and wooziness, looked upon you kindly, yet without abashment. He was whiskerly, whiskyly, fleshily formidable. So, Black Riley temporized.

“Wot’ll you take for it, den?” he asked.

“Money,” said Fuzzy, with husky firmness, “cannot buy her.”

He was intoxicated with the artist’s first sweet cup of attainment. To set a faded-blue, earth-stained rag-doll on a bar, to hold mimic converse with it, and to find his heart leaping with the sense of plaudits earned and his throat scorching with free libations poured in his honor⁠—could base coin buy him from such achievements? You will perceive that Fuzzy had the temperament.

Fuzzy walked out with the gait of a trained sea-lion in search of other cafés to conquer.

Though the dusk of twilight was hardly yet apparent, lights were beginning to spangle the city like popcorn bursting in a deep skillet. Christmas Eve, impatiently expected, was peeping over the brink of the hour. Millions had prepared for its celebration. Towns would be painted red. You, yourself, have heard the horns and dodged the capers of the Saturnalians.

“Pigeon” McCarthy, Black Riley, and “One-ear” Mike held a hasty converse outside Grogan’s. They were narrow-chested, pallid striplings, not fighters in the open, but more dangerous in their ways of warfare than the most terrible of Turks. Fuzzy, in a pitched battle, could have eaten the three of them. In a go-as-you-please encounter he was already doomed.

They overtook him just as he and Betsy were entering Costigan’s Casino. They deflected him, and shoved the newspaper under his nose. Fuzzy could read⁠—and more.

“Boys,” said he, “you are certainly damn true friends. Give me a week to think it over.”

The soul of a real artist is quenched with difficulty.

The boys carefully pointed out to him that advertisements were soulless, and that the deficiencies of the day might not be supplied by the morrow.

“A cool hundred,” said Fuzzy thoughtfully and mushily.

“Boys,” said he, “you are true friends. I’ll go up and claim the reward. The show business is not what it used to be.”

Night was falling more surely. The three tagged at his sides to the foot of the rise on which stood the Millionaire’s house. There Fuzzy turned upon them acrimoniously.

“You are a pack of putty-faced beagle-hounds,” he roared. “Go away.”

They went away⁠—a little way.

In “Pigeon” McCarthy’s pocket was a section of one-inch gas-pipe eight inches long. In one end of it and in the middle of it was a lead plug. One-half of it was packed tight with solder. Black Riley carried a slung-shot, being a conventional thug. “One-ear” Mike relied upon a pair of brass knucks⁠—an heirloom in the family.

“Why fetch and carry,” said Black Riley, “when someone will do it for ye? Let him bring it out to us. Hey⁠—what?”

“We can chuck him in the river,” said “Pigeon” McCarthy, “with a stone tied to his feet.”

“Youse guys make me tired,” said “One-ear” Mike sadly. “Ain’t progress ever appealed to none of yez? Sprinkle a little gasoline on ’im, and drop ’im on the Drive⁠—well?”

Fuzzy entered the Millionaire’s gate and zigzagged toward the softly glowing entrance of the mansion. The three goblins came up to the gate and lingered⁠—one on each side of it, one beyond the roadway. They fingered their cold metal and leather, confident.

Fuzzy rang the doorbell, smiling foolishly and dreamily. An atavistic instinct prompted him to reach for the button of his right glove. But he wore no gloves; so his left hand dropped, embarrassed.

The particular menial whose duty it was to open doors to silks and laces shied at first sight of Fuzzy. But a second glance took in his passport, his card of admission, his surety of welcome⁠—the lost rag-doll of the daughter of the house dangling under his arm.

Fuzzy was admitted into a great hall, dim with the glow from unseen lights. The hireling went away and returned with a maid and the Child. The doll was restored to the mourning one. She clasped her lost darling to her breast; and then, with the inordinate selfishness and candor of childhood, stamped her foot and whined hatred and fear of the odious being who had rescued her from the depths of sorrow and despair. Fuzzy wriggled himself into an ingratiatory attitude and essayed the idiotic smile and