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

culminated in a sudden flat-footed stamp, leaving the dancer erect and as motionless as a pillar of the colonial portico of a mansion in a Kentucky prohibition town. Mac felt that he had done his best and that Del Delano would turn his back upon him in derisive scorn.

An approximate silence followed, broken only by the mewing of a café cat and the hubbub and uproar of a few million citizens and transportation facilities outside.

Mac turned a hopeless but nervy eye upon Del Delano’s face. In it he read disgust, admiration, envy, indifference, approval, disappointment, praise, and contempt.

Thus, in the countenances of those we hate or love we find what we most desire or fear to see. Which is an assertion equalling in its wisdom and chiaroscuro the most famous sayings of the most foolish philosophers that the world has ever known.

Del Delano retired within his overcoat and hat. In two minutes he emerged and turned his left side to Mac. Then he spoke.

“You’ve got a foot movement, kid, like a baby hippopotamus trying to sidestep a jab from a hummingbird. And you hold yourself like a truck driver having his picture taken in a Third Avenue photograph gallery. And you haven’t got any method or style. And your knees are about as limber as a couple of Yale passkeys. And you strike the eye as weighing, let us say, 450 pounds while you work. But, say, would you mind giving me your name?”

“McGowan,” said the humbled amateur⁠—“Mac McGowan.”

Delano the Great slowly lighted a cigarette and continued, through its smoke:

“In other words, you’re rotten. You can’t dance. But I’ll tell you one thing you’ve got.”

“Throw it all off of your system while you’re at it,” said Mac. “What’ve I got?”

“Genius,” said Del Delano. “Except myself, it’s up to you to be the best fancy dancer in the United States, Europe, Asia, and the colonial possessions of all three.”

“Smoke up!” said Mac McGowan.

“Genius,” repeated the Master⁠—“you’ve got a talent for genius. Your brains are in your feet, where a dancer’s ought to be. You’ve been self-taught until you’re almost ruined, but not quite. What you need is a trainer. I’ll take you in hand and put you at the top of the profession. There’s room there for the two of us. You may beat me,” said the Master, casting upon him a cold, savage look combining so much rivalry, affection, justice, and human hate that it stamped him at once as one of the little great ones of the earth⁠—“you may beat me; but I doubt it. I’ve got the start and the pull. But at the top is where you belong. Your name, you say, is Robinson?”

“McGowan,” repeated the amateur, “Mac McGowan.”

“It don’t matter,” said Delano. “Suppose you walk up to my hotel with me. I’d like to talk to you. Your footwork is the worst I ever saw, Madigan⁠—but⁠—well, I’d like to talk to you. You may not think so, but I’m not so stuck up. I came off of the West Side myself. That overcoat cost me eight hundred dollars; but the collar ain’t so high but what I can see over it. I taught myself to dance, and I put in most of nine years at it before I shook a foot in public. But I had genius. I didn’t go too far wrong in teaching myself as you’ve done. You’ve got the rottenest method and style of anybody I ever saw.”

“Oh, I don’t think much of the few little steps I take,” said Mac, with hypocritical lightness.

“Don’t talk like a package of self-raising buckwheat flour,” said Del Delano. “You’ve had a talent handed to you by the Proposition Higher Up; and it’s up to you to do the proper thing with it. I’d like to have you go up to my hotel for a talk, if you will.”

In his rooms in the King Clovis Hotel, Del Delano put on a scarlet house coat bordered with gold braid and set out Apollinaris and a box of sweet crackers.

Mac’s eye wandered.

“Forget it,” said Del. “Drink and tobacco may be all right for a man who makes his living with his hands; but they won’t do if you’re depending on your head or your feet. If one end of you gets tangled, so does the other. That’s why beer and cigarettes don’t hurt piano players and picture painters. But you’ve got to cut ’em out if you want to do mental or pedal work. Now, have a cracker, and then we’ll talk some.”

“All right,” said Mac. “I take it as an honor, of course, for you to notice my hopping around. Of course I’d like to do something in a professional line. Of course I can sing a little and do card tricks and Irish and German comedy stuff, and of course I’m not so bad on the trapeze and comic bicycle stunts and Hebrew monologues and⁠—”

“One moment,” interrupted Del Delano, “before we begin. I said you couldn’t dance. Well, that wasn’t quite right. You’ve only got two or three bad tricks in your method. You’re handy with your feet, and you belong at the top, where I am. I’ll put you there. I’ve got six weeks continuous in New York; and in four I can shape up your style till the booking agents will fight one another to get you. And I’ll do it, too. I’m of, from, and for the West Side. ‘Del Delano’ looks good on billboards, but the family name’s Crowley. Now, Mackintosh⁠—McGowan, I mean⁠—you’ve got your chance⁠—fifty times a better one than I had.”

“I’d be a shine to turn it down,” said Mac. “And I hope you understand I appreciate it. Me and my cousin Cliff McGowan was thinking of getting a tryout at Creary’s on amateur night a month from tomorrow.”

“Good stuff!” said Delano. “I got mine there. Junius T. Rollins, the booker for Kuhn & Dooley, jumped on the stage and engaged me after my dance. And the boards were an inch