Short Fiction by O. Henry (librera reader txt) π
Description
William Sydney Porter, known to readers as O. Henry, was a true raconteur. As a draftsman, a bank teller, a newspaper writer, a fugitive from justice in Central America, and a writer living in New York City, he told stories at each stop and about each stop. His stories are known for their vivid characters who come to life, and sometimes death, in only a few pages. But the most famous characteristic of O. Henryβs stories are the famous βtwistβ endings, where the outcome comes as a surprise both to the characters and the readers. O. Henryβs work was widely recognized and lauded, so much so that a few years after his death an award was founded in his name to recognize the best American short story (now stories) of the year.
This collection gathers all of his available short stories that are in the U.S. public domain. They were published in various popular magazines of the time, as well as in the Houston Post, where they were not attributed to him until many years after his death.
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- Author: O. Henry
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I became placated. The proposition showed that Tripp appreciated past favors, although he did not return them. If he had been wise enough to strike me for a quarter then he would have got it.
βWhat is the story?β I asked, poising my pencil with a finely calculated editorial air.
βIβll tell you,β said Tripp. βItβs a girl. A beauty. One of the howlingest Amsdenβs Junes you ever saw. Rosebuds covered with dewβ βviolets in their mossy bedβ βand truck like that. Sheβs lived on Long Island twenty years and never saw New York City before. I ran against her on Thirty-fourth Street. Sheβd just got in on the East River ferry. I tell you, sheβs a beauty that would take the hydrogen out of all the peroxides in the world. She stopped me on the street and asked me where she could find George Brown. Asked me where she could find βGeorge Brown in New York City!β What do you think of that?
βI talked to her, and found that she was going to marry a young farmer named Doddβ βHiram Doddβ βnext week. But it seems that George Brown still holds the championship in her youthful fancy. George had greased his cowhide boots some years ago, and came to the city to make his fortune. But he forgot to remember to show up again at Greenburg, and Hiram got in as second-best choice. But when it comes to the scratch Adaβ βher nameβs Ada Loweryβ βsaddles a nag and rides eight miles to the railroad station and catches the 6:45 a.m. train for the city. Looking for George, you knowβ βyou understand about womenβ βGeorge wasnβt there, so she wanted him.
βWell, you know, I couldnβt leave her loose in Wolftown-on-the-Hudson. I suppose she thought the first person she inquired of would say: βGeorge Brown?β βwhy, yesβ βlemme seeβ βheβs a short man with light-blue eyes, ainβt he? Oh yesβ βyouβll find George on One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street, right next to the grocery. Heβs bill-clerk in a saddle-and-harness store.β Thatβs about how innocent and beautiful she is. You know those little Long Island waterfront villages like Greenburgβ βa couple of duck-farms for sport, and clams and about nine summer visitors for industries. Thatβs the kind of a place she comes from. But, sayβ βyou ought to see her!
βWhat could I do? I donβt know what money looks like in the morning. And sheβd paid her last cent of pocket-money for her railroad ticket except a quarter, which she had squandered on gumdrops. She was eating them out of a paper bag. I took her to a boardinghouse on Thirty-second Street where I used to live, and hocked her. Sheβs in soak for a dollar. Thatβs old Mother McGinnisβ price per day. Iβll show you the house.β
βWhat words are these, Tripp?β said I. βI thought you said you had a story. Every ferryboat that crosses the East River brings or takes away girls from Long Island.β
The premature lines on Trippβs face grew deeper. He frowned seriously from his tangle of hair. He separated his hands and emphasized his answer with one shaking forefinger.
βCanβt you see,β he said, βwhat a rattling fine story it would make? You could do it fine. All about the romance, you know, and describe the girl, and put a lot of stuff in it about true love, and sling in a few stickfuls of funny businessβ βjoshing the Long Islanders about being green, and, wellβ βyou know how to do it. You ought to get fifteen dollars out of it, anyhow. And itβll cost you only about four dollars. Youβll make a clear profit of eleven.β
βHow will it cost me four dollars?β I asked, suspiciously.
βOne dollar to Mrs. McGinnis,β Tripp answered, promptly, βand two dollars to pay the girlβs fare back home.β
βAnd the fourth dimension?β I inquired, making a rapid mental calculation.
βOne dollar to me,β said Tripp. βFor whiskey. Are you on?β
I smiled enigmatically and spread my elbows as if to begin writing again. But this grim, abject, specious, subservient, burr-like wreck of a man would not be shaken off. His forehead suddenly became shiningly moist.
βDonβt you see,β he said, with a sort of desperate calmness, βthat this girl has got to be sent home todayβ βnot tonight nor tomorrow, but today? I canβt do anything for her. You know, Iβm the janitor and corresponding secretary of the Down-and-Out Club. I thought you could make a newspaper story out of it and win out a piece of money on general results. But, anyhow, donβt you see that sheβs got to get back home before night?β
And then I began to feel that dull, leaden, soul-depressing sensation known as the sense of duty. Why should that sense fall upon one as a weight and a burden? I knew that I was doomed that day to give up the bulk of my store of hard-wrung coin to the relief of this Ada Lowery. But I swore to myself that Trippβs whiskey dollar would not be forthcoming. He might play knight-errant at my expense, but he would indulge in no wassail afterward, commemorating my weakness and gullibility. In a kind of chilly anger I put on my coat and hat.
Tripp, submissive, cringing, vainly endeavoring to please, conducted me via the streetcars to the human pawnshop of Mother McGinnis. I paid the fares. It seemed that the collodion-scented Don Quixote and the smallest minted coin were strangers.
Tripp pulled the bell at the door of the mouldy redbrick boardinghouse. At its faint tinkle he paled, and crouched as a rabbit makes ready to spring away at the sound of a hunting-dog. I guessed what a life he had led, terror-haunted by the coming footsteps of landladies.
βGive me one of the dollarsβ βquick!β he said.
The door opened six inches. Mother McGinnis stood there with white eyesβ βthey were white, I sayβ βand a yellow face, holding together at her throat with one hand a dingy pink flannel dressing-sack. Tripp thrust the dollar through the space without a word, and it bought us entry.
βSheβs in the parlor,β said the McGinnis, turning the back of her
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