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

“ ‘Keep that little roll for me, Mr. Peters,’ says he, ‘and oblige. I’ll ask you fer it when I want it. I guess I know when I’m among friends. A man that’s done business on Beekman sSreet for twenty years, right in the heart of the wisest old village on earth, ought to know what he’s about. I guess I can tell a gentleman from a con man or a flimflammer when I meet him. I’ve got some odd change in my clothes⁠—enough to start the game with, I guess.’

“He goes through his pockets and rains $20 gold certificates on the table till it looked like a $10,000 ‘Autumn Day in a Lemon Grove’ picture by Turner in the salons. Andy almost smiled.

“The first round that was dealt, this boulevardier slaps down his hand, claims low and jack and big casino and rakes in the pot.

“Andy always took a pride in his poker playing. He got up from the table and looked sadly out of the window at the street cars.

“ ‘Well, gentlemen,’ says the cigar man, ‘I don’t blame you for not wanting to play. I’ve forgotten the fine points of the game, I guess, it’s been so long since I indulged. Now, how long are you gentlemen going to be in the city?’

“I told him about a week longer. He says that’ll suit him fine. His cousin is coming over from Brooklyn that evening and they are going to see the sights of New York. His cousin, he says, is in the artificial limb and lead casket business, and hasn’t crossed the bridge in eight years. They expect to have the time of their lives, and he winds up by asking me to keep his roll of money for him till next day. I tried to make him take it, but it only insulted him to mention it.

“ ‘I’ll use what I’ve got in loose change,’ says he. ‘You keep the rest for me. I’ll drop in on you and Mr. Tucker tomorrow afternoon about 6 or 7,’ says he, ‘and we’ll have dinner together. Be good.’

“After Whiskers had gone Andy looked at me curious and doubtful.

“ ‘Well, Jeff,’ says he, ‘it looks like the ravens are trying to feed us two Elijahs so hard that if we turned ’em down again we ought to have the Audubon Society after us. It won’t do to put the crown aside too often. I know this is something like paternalism, but don’t you think Opportunity has skinned its knuckles about enough knocking at our door?’

“I put my feet up on the table and my hands in my pockets, which is an attitude unfavorable to frivolous thoughts.

“ ‘Andy,’ says I, ‘this man with the hirsute whiskers has got us in a predicament. We can’t move hand or foot with his money. You and me have got a gentleman’s agreement with Fortune that we can’t break. We’ve done business in the West where it’s more of a fair game. Out there the people we skin are trying to skin us, even the farmers and the remittance men that the magazines send out to write up Goldfields. But there’s little sport in New York city for rod, reel or gun. They hunt here with either one of two things⁠—a slungshot or a letter of introduction. The town has been stocked so full of carp that the game fish are all gone. If you spread a net here, do you catch legitimate suckers in it, such as the Lord intended to be caught⁠—fresh guys who know it all, sports with a little coin and the nerve to play another man’s game, street crowds out for the fun of dropping a dollar or two and village smarties who know just where the little pea is? No, sir,’ says I. ‘What the grafters live on here is widows and orphans, and foreigners who save up a bag of money and hand it out over the first counter they see with an iron railing to it, and factory girls and little shopkeepers that never leave the block they do business on. That’s what they call suckers here. They’re nothing but canned sardines, and all the bait you need to catch ’em is a pocketknife and a soda cracker.

“ ‘Now, this cigar man,’ I went on, ‘is one of the types. He’s lived twenty years on one street without learning as much as you would in getting a once-over shave from a lockjawed barber in a Kansas crossroads town. But he’s a New Yorker, and he’ll brag about that all the time when he isn’t picking up live wires or getting in front of street cars or paying out money to wiretappers or standing under a safe that’s being hoisted into a skyscraper. When a New Yorker does loosen up,’ says I, ‘it’s like the spring decomposition of the ice jam in the Allegheny River. He’ll swamp you with cracked ice and backwater if you don’t get out of the way.

“ ‘It’s mighty lucky for us, Andy,’ says I, ‘that this cigar exponent with the parsley dressing saw fit to bedeck us with his childlike trust and altruism. For,’ says I, ‘this money of his is an eyesore to my sense of rectitude and ethics. We can’t take it, Andy; you know we can’t,’ says I, ‘for we haven’t a shadow of a title to it⁠—not a shadow. If there was the least bit of a way we could put in a claim to it I’d be willing to see him start in for another twenty years and make another $5,000 for himself, but we haven’t sold him anything, we haven’t been embroiled in a trade or anything commercial. He approached us friendly,’ says I, ‘and with blind and beautiful idiocy laid the stuff in our hands. We’ll have to give it back to him when he wants it.’

“ ‘Your arguments,’ says Andy, ‘are past criticism or comprehension. No, we can’t walk off with the money⁠—as things now stand. I admire your conscious