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

got up and dressed carefully. I took my temperature, which I was pleased to find 104. I paid almost dainty attention to my dress, choosing solicitously a necktie of a dull and subdued hue. The mirror showed that I was looking little the worse from my illness. The fever gave brightness to my eyes and color to my face. And while I looked at my reflection my color went and came again as I thought of Chloe Greene and the millions of eons that had passed since I’d seen her, and of Louis Devoe and the time he had gained on me.

I went straight to her house. I seemed to float rather than walk; I hardly felt the ground under my feet; I thought pernicious fever must be a great boon to make one feel so strong.

I found Chloe and Louis Devoe sitting under the awning in front of the house. She jumped up and met me with a double handshake.

“I’m glad, glad, glad to see you out again!” she cried, every word a pearl strung on the string of her sentence. “You are well, Tommy⁠—or better, of course. I wanted to come to see you, but they wouldn’t let me.”

“Oh yes,” said I, carelessly, “it was nothing. Merely a little fever. I am out again, as you see.”

We three sat there and talked for half an hour or so. Then Chloe looked out yearningly and almost piteously across the ocean. I could see in her sea-blue eyes some deep and intense desire. Devoe, curse him! saw it too.

“What is it?” we asked, in unison.

“Coconut-pudding,” said Chloe, pathetically. “I’ve wanted some⁠—oh, so badly, for two days. It’s got beyond a wish; it’s an obsession.”

“The coconut season is over,” said Devoe, in that voice of his that gave thrilling interest to his most commonplace words. “I hardly think one could be found in Mojada. The natives never use them except when they are green and the milk is fresh. They sell all the ripe ones to the fruiterers.”

“Wouldn’t a broiled lobster or a Welsh rabbit do as well?” I remarked, with the engaging idiocy of a pernicious-fever convalescent.

Chloe came as near to pouting as a sweet disposition and a perfect profile would allow her to come.

The Reverend Homer poked his ermine-lined face through the doorway and added a concordance to the conversation.

“Sometimes,” said he, “old Campos keeps the dried nuts in his little store on the hill. But it would be far better, my daughter, to restrain unusual desires, and partake thankfully of the daily dishes that the Lord has set before us.”

“Stuff!” said I.

“How was that?” asked the Reverend Homer, sharply.

“I say it’s tough,” said I, “to drop into the vernacular, that Miss Greene should be deprived of the food she desires⁠—a simple thing like kalsomine-pudding. Perhaps,” I continued, solicitously, “some pickled walnuts or a fricassee of Hungarian butternuts would do as well.”

Everyone looked at me with a slight exhibition of curiosity.

Louis Devoe arose and made his adieus. I watched him until he had sauntered slowly and grandiosely to the corner, around which he turned to reach his great warehouse and store. Chloe made her excuses, and went inside for a few minutes to attend to some detail affecting the seven-o’clock dinner. She was a passed mistress in housekeeping. I had tasted her puddings and bread with beatitude.

When all had gone, I turned casually and saw a basket made of plaited green withes hanging by a nail outside the doorjamb. With a rush that made my hot temples throb there came vividly to my mind recollections of the headhunters⁠—those grim, flinty, relentless little men, never seen, but chilling the warmest noonday by the subtle terror of their concealed presence⁠ ⁠… From time to time, as vanity or ennui or love or jealousy or ambition may move him, one creeps forth with his snickersnee and takes up the silent trail⁠ ⁠… Back he comes, triumphant, bearing the severed, gory head of his victim⁠ ⁠… His particular brown or white maid lingers, with fluttering bosom, casting soft tiger’s eyes at the evidence of his love for her.

I stole softly from the house and returned to my hut. From its supporting nails in the wall I took a machete as heavy as a butcher’s cleaver and sharper than a safety-razor. And then I chuckled softly to myself, and set out to the fastidiously appointed private office of Monsieur Louis Devoe, usurper to the hand of the Pearl of the Pacific.

He was never slow at thinking; he gave one look at my face and another at the weapon in my hand as I entered his door, and then he seemed to fade from my sight. I ran to the back door, kicked it open, and saw him running like a deer up the road toward the wood that began two hundred yards away. I was after him, with a shout. I remember hearing children and women screaming, and seeing them flying from the road.

He was fleet, but I was stronger. A mile, and I had almost come up with him. He doubled cunningly and dashed into a brake that extended into a small canyon. I crashed through this after him, and in five minutes had him cornered in an angle of insurmountable cliffs. There his instinct of self-preservation steadied him, as it will steady even animals at bay. He turned to me, quite calm, with a ghastly smile.

“Oh, Rayburn!” he said, with such an awful effort at ease that I was impolite enough to laugh rudely in his face. “Oh, Rayburn!” said he, “come, let’s have done with this nonsense. Of course, I know it’s the fever and you’re not yourself; but collect yourself, man⁠—give me that ridiculous weapon, now, and let’s go back and talk it over.”

“I will go back,” said I, “carrying your head with me. We will see how charmingly it can discourse when it lies in the basket at her door.”

“Come,” said he, persuasively, “I think better of you than to suppose that