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

the milliner’s apprentice who reads this, expecting a Reginald Montressor in straits, to peruse no further. The young man was no other than Thomas McQuade, ex-coachman, discharged for drunkenness one month before, and now reduced to the grimy ranks of the one-night bed seekers.

If you live in smaller New York you must know the Van Smuythe family carriage, drawn by the two 1,500-pound, 100 to 1-shot bays. The carriage is shaped like a bathtub. In each end of it reclines an old lady Van Smuythe holding a black sunshade the size of a New Year’s Eve feather tickler. Before his downfall Thomas McQuade drove the Van Smuythe bays and was himself driven by Annie, the Van Smuythe lady’s maid. But it is one of the saddest things about romance that a tight shoe or an empty commissary or an aching tooth will make a temporary heretic of any Cupid-worshiper. And Thomas’s physical troubles were not few. Therefore, his soul was less vexed with thoughts of his lost lady’s maid than it was by the fancied presence of certain nonexistent things that his racked nerves almost convinced him were flying, dancing, crawling, and wriggling on the asphalt and in the air above and around the dismal campus of the Bed Line army. Nearly four weeks of straight whisky and a diet limited to crackers, bologna, and pickles often guarantees a psycho-zoological sequel. Thus desperate, freezing, angry, beset by phantoms as he was, he felt the need of human sympathy and intercourse.

The Bed Liner standing at his right was a young man of about his own age, shabby but neat.

“What’s the diagnosis of your case, Freddy?” asked Thomas, with the freemasonic familiarity of the damned⁠—“Booze? That’s mine. You don’t look like a panhandler. Neither am I. A month ago I was pushing the lines over the backs of the finest team of Percheron buffaloes that ever made their mile down Fifth Avenue in 2.85. And look at me now! Say; how do you come to be at this bed bargain-counter rummage sale?”

The other young man seemed to welcome the advances of the airy ex-coachman.

“No,” said he, “mine isn’t exactly a case of drink. Unless we allow that Cupid is a bartender. I married unwisely, according to the opinion of my unforgiving relatives. I’ve been out of work for a year because I don’t know how to work; and I’ve been sick in Bellevue and other hospitals for months. My wife and kid had to go back to her mother. I was turned out of the hospital yesterday. And I haven’t a cent. That’s my tale of woe.”

“Tough luck,” said Thomas. “A man alone can pull through all right. But I hate to see the women and kids get the worst of it.”

Just then there hummed up Fifth Avenue a motor car so splendid, so red, so smoothly running, so craftily demolishing the speed regulations that it drew the attention even of the listless Bed Liners. Suspended and pinioned on its left side was an extra tire.

When opposite the unfortunate company the fastenings of this tire became loosed. It fell to the asphalt, bounded and rolled rapidly in the wake of the flying car.

Thomas McQuade, scenting an opportunity, darted from his place among the Preacher’s goats. In thirty seconds he had caught the rolling tire, swung it over his shoulder, and was trotting smartly after the car. On both sides of the avenue people were shouting, whistling, and waving canes at the red car, pointing to the enterprising Thomas coming up with the lost tire.

One dollar, Thomas had estimated, was the smallest guerdon that so grand an automobilist could offer for the service he had rendered, and save his pride.

Two blocks away the car had stopped. There was a little, brown, muffled chauffeur driving, and an imposing gentleman wearing a magnificent sealskin coat and a silk hat on a rear seat.

Thomas proffered the captured tire with his best ex-coachman manner and a look in the brighter of his reddened eyes that was meant to be suggestive to the extent of a silver coin or two and receptive up to higher denominations.

But the look was not so construed. The sealskinned gentleman received the tire, placed it inside the car, gazed intently at the ex-coachman, and muttered to himself inscrutable words.

“Strange⁠—strange!” said he. “Once or twice even I, myself, have fancied that the Chaldean Chiroscope has availed. Could it be possible?”

Then he addressed less mysterious words to the waiting and hopeful Thomas.

“Sir, I thank you for your kind rescue of my tire. And I would ask you, if I may, a question. Do you know the family of Van Smuythes living in Washington Square North?”

“Oughtn’t I to?” replied Thomas. “I lived there. Wish I did yet.”

The sealskinned gentleman opened a door of the car.

“Step in please,” he said. “You have been expected.”

Thomas McQuade obeyed with surprise but without hesitation. A seat in a motor car seemed better than standing room in the Bed Line. But after the lap-robe had been tucked about him and the auto had sped on its course, the peculiarity of the invitation lingered in his mind.

“Maybe the guy hasn’t got any change,” was his diagnosis. “Lots of these swell rounders don’t lug about any ready money. Guess he’ll dump me out when he gets to some joint where he can get cash on his mug. Anyhow, it’s a cinch that I’ve got that open-air bed convention beat to a finish.”

Submerged in his greatcoat, the mysterious automobilist seemed, himself, to marvel at the surprises of life. “Wonderful! amazing! strange!” he repeated to himself constantly.

When the car had well entered the crosstown Seventies it swung eastward a half block and stopped before a row of high-stooped, brownstone-front houses.

“Be kind enough to enter my house with me,” said the sealskinned gentleman when they had alighted. “He’s going to dig up, sure,” reflected Thomas, following him inside.

There was a dim light in the hall. His host conducted him through a door to the left, closing