The
Cop
and
the
Anthem
by
O
Henry
On
his
bench
in
Madison
Square
Soapy
moved
uneasily
When
wild
geese
honk
high
of
nights
and
when
women
without
sealskin
coats
grow
kind
to
their
husbands
and
when
Soapy
moves
uneasily
on
his
bench
in
the
park
you
may
know
that
winter
is
near
at
hand
A
dead
leaf
fell
in
Soapys
lap
That
was
Jack
Frosts
card
Jack
is
kind
to
the
regular
denizens
of
Madison
Square
and
gives
fair
warning
of
his
annual
call
At
the
corners
of
four
streets
he
hands
his
pasteboard
to
the
North
Wind
footman
of
the
mansion
of
All
Outdoors
so
that
the
inhabitants
thereof
may
make
ready
Soapys
mind
became
cognizant
of
the
fact
that
the
time
had
come
for
him
to
resolve
himself
info
a
singular
Committee
of
Ways
and
Means
to
provide
against
the
coming
rigor
And
therefore
he
moved
uneasily
on
his
bench
The
hibernatorial
ambitions
of
Soapy
were
not
of
the
highest
In
them
were
no
considerations
of
Mediterranean
cruises
of
soporific
Southern
skies
or
drifting
in
the
Vesuvian
Bay
Three
months
on
the
Island
was
what
his
soul
craved
Three
months
of
assured
board
and
bed
and
congenial
company
safe
from
Boreas
and
blue
Coats
seemed
to
Soapy
the
essence
of
things
desirable
For
years
the
hospitab1e
Blackwells
had
been
his
winter
quarters
Just
as
his
more
fortunate
fellow
New
Yorkers
had
bought
their
tickets
to
Palm
Beach
and
the
Riviera
each
winter
so
Soapy
had
made
his
humble
arrangements
for
his
annual
hegira
to
the
PAGE
26
Island
And
now
the
time
was
come
On
the
previous
night
three
Sabbath
newspapers
distributed
beneath
his
coat
about
his
ankles
and
over
his
lap
had
failed
to
repulse
the
cold
as
he
slept
on
his
bench
near
the
spurring
fountain
in
the
ancient
square
So
the
Island
loomed
big
and
timely
in
Soapys
mind
He
scorned
the
provisions
made
in
the
name
of
charity
for
the
citys
dependents
In
Soapys
opinion
the
Law
was
more
benign
than
Philanthropy
There
was
an
endless
round
of
institutions
municipal
and
eleemosynary
on
which
he
might
set
out
and
receive
lodging
and
food
accordant
with
the
simple
life
But
to
one
of
Soapys
proud
spirit
the
gifts
of
charity
are
encumbered
If
not
in
coin
you
must
pay
in
humiliation
of
spirit
for
every
benefit
received
at
the
hands
of
philanthropy
As
Caesar
had
his
Brutus
every
bed
of
charity
must
have
its
toll
of
a
bath
every
loaf
of
bread
its
compensation
of
a
private
and
personal
inquisition
Wherefore
it
is
better
to
be
a
guest
of
the
law
which
though
conducted
by
rules
does
not
meddle
unduly
with
a
gentlemans
private
affairs
I
Soapy
having
decided
to
go
to
the
Island
at
once
set
about
accomplishing
his
desire
There
were
many
easy
ways
of
doing
this
The
pleasantest
was
to
dine
luxuriously
at
some
expensive
restaurant
and
then
after
declaring
Insolvency
be
handed
over
quietly
and
without
uproar
to
a
policeman
An
accommodating
magistrate
would
do
the
rest
Soapy
left
his
bench
and
strolled
out
of
the
square
and
across
the
level
sea
of
asphalt
where
Broadway
and
Fifth
Avenue
flow
together
Up
Broadway
he
turned
and
halted
at
a
glittering
cafe
where
are
gathered
together
nightly
the
choicest
products
of
the
grape
the
silkworm
and
the
protoplasm
Soapy
had
confidence
in
himself
from
the
lowest
button
of
his
vest
upward
He
was
shaven
and
his
coat
was
decent
and
his
neat
black
ready
tied
four
in
hand
had
been
presented
to
him
by
a
lady
missionary
on
Thanksgiving
Day
If
he
could
reach
a
table
in
the
restaurant
unsuspected
success
would
be
his
The
portion
of
him
that
would
show
above
the
table
would
raise
no
doubt
in
the
waiters
mind
A
roasted
mallard
duck
thought
Soapy
would
PAGE
27
be
about
the
thing&emdash
with
a
bottle
of
Chablis
and
then
Camembert
a
demitasse
and
a
cigar
One
dollar
for
the
cigar
would
be
enough
The
total
would
not
be
so
high
as
to
call
forth
any
supreme
manifestation
of
revenge
from
the
cafe
management
and
yet
the
meat
would
leave
him
filled
and
happy
for
the
journey
to
his
winter
refuge
But
as
Soapy
set
foot
in
side
the
restaurant
door
the
head
waiters
eye
fell
upon
his
frayed
trousers
and
decadent
shoes
Strong
and
ready
hands
turned
him
about
and
conveyed
him
in
silence
and
haste
to
the
sidewalk
and
averted
the
ignoble
fate
of
the
menaced
mallard
Soapy
turned
off
Broadway
It
seemed
that
his
route
to
the
coveted
Island
was
not
to
be
an
epicurean
one
Some
other
way
of
entering
limbo
must
be
thought
of
At
a
corner
of
Sixth
Avenue
electric
lights
and
cunningly
displayed
wares
behind
plateglass
made
a
shop
window
conspicuous
Soapy
took
a
cobblestone
and
dashed
it
through
the
glass
People
came
running
around
the
corner
a
policeman
in
the
lead
Soapy
stood
still
with
his
hands
in
his
pockets
arid
smiled
at
the
sight
of
brass
buttons
Wheres
the
man
that
done
that
inquired
the
officer
excitedly
Dont
you
figure
out
that
I
might
have
had
something
to
do
with
it
said
Soapy
not
without
sarcasm
but
friendly
as
one
greets
good
fortune
The
policemans
mind
refused
to
accept
Soapy
even
as
a
clue
Men
who
smash
windows
do
not
remain
to
parley
with
the
laws
minions
They
take
to
their
heels
The
policeman
saw
a
man
halfway
down
the
block
running
to
catch
a
cat
With
drawn
club
he
joined
in
the
pursuit
Soapy
with
disgust
in
his
heart
loafed
along
twice
unsuccessful
On
the
opposite
side
of
the
street
was
a
restaurant
Of
no
great
pretensions
It
catered
to
large
appetites
and
modest
purses
Its
crockery
and
atmosphere
were
thick
its
soup
and
napery
thin
Into
this
place
Soapy
took
his
accusive
shoes
and
telltale
trousers
PAGE
28
without
challenge
At
a
table
he
sat
and
consumed
beefsteak
flapjacks
doughnuts
and
pie
And
then
to
the
waiter
he
betrayed
the
fact
that
the
minutest
coin
and
himself
were
strangers
Now
get
busy
and
call
a
cop
said
Soapy
And
dont
keep
a
gentleman
waiting
No
cop
for
youse
said
the
waiter
with
a
voice
like
butter
cakes
and
an
eye
like
the
cherry
in
a
Manhattan
cocktail
Hey
Con
Neatly
upon
his
left
ear
on
the
callous
pavement
two
waiters
pitched
Soapy
He
arose
joint
by
joint
as
a
carpenters
rule
opens
and
beat
the
lust
from
his
clothes
Arrest
seemed
but
a
rosy
dream
The
Island
seemed
very
far
away
A
policeman
who
stood
before
a
drug
store
two
doors
away
laughed
and
walked
down
the
street
Five
blocks
Soapy
travelled
before
his
courage
permitted
him
to
woo
capture
again
This
time
the
opportunity
presented
what
he
fatuously
termed
to
himself
a
cinch
A
young
woman
of
a
modest
and
pleasing
guise
was
standing
before
a
show
window
gazing
with
sprightly
interest
at
its
display
of
shaving
mugs
and
inkstands
and
two
yards
from
the
window
a
large
policeman
of
severe
demeanor
leaned
against
a
water
plug
It
was
Soapys
design
to
assume
the
role
of
the
despicable
and
execrated
masher
The
refined
and
elegant
appearance
of
his
victim
and
the
contiguity
of
the
conscientious
cop
encouraged
him
to
believe
that
he
would
soon
feel
the
pleasant
official
clutch
upon
his
arm
that
would
insure
his
winter
quarters
on
the
right
little
tight
little
isle
Soapy
straightened
the
lady
missionarys
ready
made
tie
dragged
his
shrinking
cuffs
into
the
open
set
his
hat
at
a
killing
cant
and
sidled
toward
the
young
woman
He
made
eyes
at
her
was
taken
with
sudden
coughs
and
hems
smiled
smirked
and
went
brazenly
through
the
impudent
and
contemptible
litany
of
the
masher
With
half
an
eye
Soapy
saw
that
the
policeman
was
watching
him
fixedly
The
young
woman
moved
away
a
few
steps
and
again
bestowed
her
absorbed
attention
upon
the
shaving
PAGE
29
mugs
Soapy
followed
boldly
stepping
to
her
side
raised
his
hat
and
said
Ah
there
Bedelia
Dont
you
want
to
come
and
play
in
my
yard
The
policeman
was
still
looking
The
persecuted
young
woman
had
but
to
beckon
a
finger
and
Soapy
would
be
practically
en
route
for
his
insular
haven
Already
be
imagined
he
could
feel
tile
cozy
warmth
of
the
station
house
The
young
woman
faced
him
and
stretching
out
a
hand
caught
Soapys
Coat
sleeve
Sure
Mike
she
Said
joyfully
if
youll
blow
me
to
a
pail
of
suds
Id
have
spoke
to
you
sooner
but
the
cop
was
watching
With
the
young
woman
playing
the
clinging
ivy
to
his
oak
Soapy
walked
past
the
policeman
overcome
with
gloom
He
seemed
doomed
to
liberty
At
the
next
corner
he
shook
off
his
companion
and
ran
He
halted
in
the
district
where
by
night
are
found
the
lightest
streets
hearts
vows
and
librettos
Women
in
furs
and
men
in
greatcoats
moved
gaily
in
the
wintry
air
A
sudden
fear
seized
Soapy
that
some
dreadful
enchantment
had
rendered
him
immune
to
arrest
The
thought
brought
a
little
of
panic
upon
it
and
when
he
came
upon
another
policeman
lounging
grandly
in
front
of
a
transplendent
theatre
he
caught
at
the
immediate
straw
of
disorderly
conduct
On
the
sidewalk
Soapy
began
to
yell
drunken
gibberish
at
the
top
of
his
harsh
voice
He
danced
howled
raved
and
otherwise
disturbed
the
welkin
The
policeman
twirled
his
club
turned
his
back
to
Soapy
and
remarked
to
a
citizen
Tis
one
of
them
Yale
lads
celebratin
the
goose
egg
they
give
to
the
Hartford
College
Noisy
but
no
harm
Weve
instructions
to
lave
them
be
Disconsolate
Soapy
ceased
his
unavailing
racket
Would
never
a
policeman
lay
hands
on
him
In
his
fancy
the
Island
seemed
an
unattainable
Arcadia
He
buttoned
his
thin
coat
against
the
chilling
wind
PAGE
30
In
a
cigar
store
he
saw
a
well
dressed
man
]lighting
a
cigar
at
a
swinging
light
His
silk
umbrella
he
had
set
by
the
door
on
entering
Soapy
stepped
inside
secured
the
umbrella
and
sauntered
off
with
it
slowly
The
man
at
the
cigar
light
followed
hastily
My
umbrella
he
said
sternly
Oh
is
it
sneered
Soapy
adding
insult
to
petit
larceny
Well
why
dont
you
call
a
policeman
I
took
it
Your
umbrella
Why
dont
you
call
a
cop
There
stands
one
on
the
corner
The
umbrella
owner
slowed
his
steps
Soapy
did
likewise
with
a
presentiment
that
luck
would
again
run
against
him
The
policeman
looked
at
the
two
curiously
Of
course
said
the
umbrella
man&emdash
that
is&emdash
well
you
know
how
these
mistakes
occur&emdash
I&emdash
if
its
your
umbrella
I
hope
youll
excuse
me&emdash
I
picked
it
up
this
morning
in
a
restaurant&emdash
If
you
recognize
it
as
yours
why&emdash
I
hope
youll
Of
course
its
mine
said
Soapy
viciously
The
ex
umbrella
man
retreated
The
policeman
hurried
to
assist
a
tall
blonde
in
an
opera
cloak
across
the
street
in
front
of
a
street
car
that
was
approaching
two
blocks
away
Soapy
walked
eastward
through
a
street
damaged
by
improvements
He
hurled
the
umbrella
wrathfully
into
an
excavation
He
muttered
against
the
men
who
wear
helmets
and
carry
clubs
Because
he
wanted
to
fall
into
their
clutches
they
seemed
to
regard
him
as
a
king
who
could
do
no
wrong
At
length
Soapy
reached
one
of
the
avenues
to
the
east
where
the
glitter
and
turmoil
was
but
faint
He
set
his
face
down
this
toward
Madison
Square
for
the
homing
instinct
survives
even
when
the
home
is
a
park
bench
But
on
an
unusually
quiet
corner
Soapy
came
to
a
standstill
Here
was
an
old
church
quaint
and
rambling
and
gabled
Through
one
violet
stained
window
a
soft
light
glowed
where
no
doubt
the
organist
loitered
over
the
keys
making
sure
of
his
mastery
of
the
coming
Sabbath
anthem
For
there
drifted
out
to
Soapys
ears
sweet
music
that
caught
and
held
him
transfixed
against
the
convolutions
of
the
iron
fence
PAGE
31
The
moon
was
above
lustrous
and
serene
vehicles
and
pedestrians
were
few
sparrows
twittered
sleepily
in
the
eaves&emdash
for
a
little
while
the
scene
might
have
been
a
country
churchyard
And
the
anthem
that
the
organist
played
cemented
Soapy
to
the
iron
fence
for
he
had
known
it
well
in
the
days
when
his
life
contained
such
things
as
mothers
and
roses
and
ambitions
and
friends
and
immaculate
thoughts
and
collars
The
conjunction
of
Soapys
receptive
state
of
mind
and
the
influences
about
the
old
church
wrought
a
sudden
and
wonderful
change
in
his
soul
He
viewed
with
swift
horror
the
pit
into
which
he
had
tumbled
the
degraded
days
unworthy
desires
dead
hopes
wrecked
faculties
and
base
motives
that
made
up
his
existence
And
also
in
a
moment
his
heart
responded
thrillingly
to
this
novel
mood
An
instantaneous
and
strong
impulse
moved
him
to
battle
with
his
desperate
fate
He
would
pull
himself
out
of
the
mire
he
would
make
a
man
of
himself
again
he
would
conquer
the
evil
that
had
taken
possession
of
him
There
was
time
he
was
comparatively
young
yet
he
would
resurrect
his
old
eager
ambitions
and
pursue
them
without
faltering
Those
solemn
but
sweet
organ
notes
had
set
up
a
revolution
in
him
Tomorrow
he
would
go
into
the
roaring
downtown
district
and
find
work
A
fur
importer
had
once
offered
him
a
place
as
driver
He
would
find
him
to
morrow
and
ask
for
the
position
He
would
be
somebody
in
the
world
He
would
Soapy
felt
a
hand
laid
on
his
arm
He
looked
quickly
around
into
the
broad
face
of
a
policeman
What
are
you
doin
here
asked
the
officer
Nothin
said
Soapy
Then
come
along
said
the
policeman
Three
months
on
the
Island
said
the
Magistrate
in
the
Police
Court
the
next
morning
The
Gift
of
the
Magi
by
O.
Henry
ONE
DOLLAR
AND
EIGHTY-SEVEN
CENTS.
THAT
WAS
ALL.
AND
SIXTY
CENTS
of
it
was
in
pennies.
Pennies
saved
one
and
two
at
a
time
by
bulldozing
the
grocer
and
the
vegetable
man
and
the
butcher
until
one's
cheeks
burned
with
the
silent
imputation
of
parsimony
that
such
close
dealing
implied.
Three
times
Della
counted
it.
One
dollar
and
eighty-seven
cents.
And
the
next
day
would
be
Christmas.
There
was
clearly
nothing
left
to
do
but
flop
down
on
the
shabby
little
couch
and
howl.
So
Della
did
it.
Which
instigates
the
moral
reflection
that
life
is
made
up
of
sobs,
sniffles,
and
smiles,
with
sniffles
predominating.
While
the
mistress
of
the
home
is
gradually
subsiding
from
the
first
stage
to
the
second,
take
a
look
at
the
home.
A
furnished
flat
at
$8
per
week.
It
did
not
exactly
beggar
description,
but
it
certainly
had
that
word
on
the
look-out
for
the
mendicancy
squad.
In
the
vestibule
below
was
a
letter-box
into
which
no
letter
would
go,
and
an
electric
button
from
which
no
mortal
finger
could
coax
a
ring.
Also
appertaining
thereunto
was
a
card
bearing
the
name
"Mr.
James
Dillingham
Young."
The
"Dillingham"
had
been
flung
to
the
breeze
during
a
former
period
of
prosperity
when
its
possessor
was
being
paid
$30
per
week.
Now,
when
the
income
was
shrunk
to
$20,
the
letters
of
"Dillingham"
looked
blurred,
as
though
they
were
thinking
seriously
of
contracting
to
a
modest
and
unassuming
D.
But
whenever
Mr.
James
Dillingham
Young
came
home
and
reached
his
flat
above
he
was
called
"Jim"
and
greatly
hugged
by
Mrs.
James
Dillingham
Young,
already
introduced
to
you
as
Della.
Which
is
all
very
good.
Della
finished
her
cry
and
attended
to
her
cheeks
with
the
powder
rag.
She
stood
by
the
window
and
looked
out
dully
at
a
grey
cat
walking
a
grey
fence
in
a
grey
backyard.
To-morrow
would
be
Christmas
Day,
and
she
had
only
$1.87
with
which
to
buy
Jim
a
present.
She
had
been
saving
every
penny
she
could
for
months,
with
this
result.
Twenty
dollars
a
week
doesn't
go
far.
Expenses
had
been
greater
than
she
had
calculated.
They
always
are.
Only
$1.87
to
buy
a
present
for
Jim.
Her
Jim.
Many
a
happy
hour
she
had
spent
planning
for
something
nice
for
him.
Something
fine
and
rare
and
sterling--something
just
a
little
bit
near
to
being
worthy
of
the
honour
of
being
owned
by
Jim.
There
was
a
pier-glass
between
the
windows
of
the
room.
Perhaps
you
have
seen
a
pier-glass
in
an
$8
Bat.
A
very
thin
and
very
agile
person
may,
by
observing
his
reflection
in
a
rapid
sequence
of
longitudinal
strips,
obtain
a
fairly
accurate
conception
of
his
looks.
Della,
being
slender,
had
mastered
the
art.
Suddenly
she
whirled
from
the
window
and
stood
before
the
glass.
Her
eyes
were
shining
brilliantly,
but
her
face
had
lost
its
colour
within
twenty
seconds.
Rapidly
she
pulled
down
her
hair
and
let
it
fall
to
its
full
length.
Now,
there
were
two
possessions
of
the
James
Dillingham
Youngs
in
which
they
both
took
a
mighty
pride.
One
was
Jim's
gold
watch
that
had
been
his
father's
and
his
grandfather's.
The
other
was
Della's
hair.
Had
the
Queen
of
Sheba
lived
in
the
flat
across
the
airshaft,
Della
would
have
let
her
hair
hang
out
of
the
window
some
day
to
dry
just
to
depreciate
Her
Majesty's
jewels
and
gifts.
Had
King
Solomon
been
the
janitor,
with
all
his
treasures
piled
up
in
the
basement,
Jim
would
have
pulled
out
his
watch
every
time
he
passed,
just
to
see
him
pluck
at
his
beard
from
envy.
So
now
Della's
beautiful
hair
fell
about
her,
rippling
and
shining
like
a
cascade
of
brown
waters.
It
reached
below
her
knee
and
made
itself
almost
a
garment
for
her.
And
then
she
did
it
up
again
nervously
and
quickly.
Once
she
faltered
for
a
minute
and
stood
still
while
a
tear
or
two
splashed
on
the
worn
red
carpet.
On
went
her
old
brown
jacket;
on
went
her
old
brown
hat.
With
a
whirl
of
skirts
and
with
the
brilliant
sparkle
still
in
her
eyes,
she
cluttered
out
of
the
door
and
down
the
stairs
to
the
street.
Where
she
stopped
the
sign
read:
"Mme
Sofronie.
Hair
Goods
of
All
Kinds."
One
Eight
up
Della
ran,
and
collected
herself,
panting.
Madame,
large,
too
white,
chilly,
hardly
looked
the
"Sofronie."
"Will
you
buy
my
hair?"
asked
Della.
"I
buy
hair,"
said
Madame.
"Take
yer
hat
off
and
let's
have
a
sight
at
the
looks
of
it."
Down
rippled
the
brown
cascade.
"Twenty
dollars,"
said
Madame,
lifting
the
mass
with
a
practised
hand.
"Give
it
to
me
quick"
said
Della.
Oh,
and
the
next
two
hours
tripped
by
on
rosy
wings.
Forget
the
hashed
metaphor.
She
was
ransacking
the
stores
for
Jim's
present.
She
found
it
at
last.
It
surely
had
been
made
for
Jim
and
no
one
else.
There
was
no
other
like
it
in
any
of
the
stores,
and
she
had
turned
all
of
them
inside
out.
It
was
a
platinum
fob
chain
simple
and
chaste
in
design,
properly
proclaiming
its
value
by
substance
alone
and
not
by
meretricious
ornamentation--as
all
good
things
should
do.
It
was
even
worthy
of
The
Watch.
As
soon
as
she
saw
it
she
knew
that
it
must
be
Jim's.
It
was
like
him.
Quietness
and
value--the
description
applied
to
both.
Twenty-one
dollars
they
took
from
her
for
it,
and
she
hurried
home
with
the
78
cents.
With
that
chain
on
his
watch
Jim
might
be
properly
anxious
about
the
time
in
any
company.
Grand
as
the
watch
was,
he
sometimes
looked
at
it
on
the
sly
on
account
of
the
old
leather
strap
that
he
used
in
place
of
a
chain.
When
Della
reached
home
her
intoxication
gave
way
a
little
to
prudence
and
reason.
She
got
out
her
curling
irons
and
lighted
the
gas
and
went
to
work
repairing
the
ravages
made
by
generosity
added
to
love.
Which
is
always
a
tremendous
task
dear
friends--a
mammoth
task.
Within
forty
minutes
her
head
was
covered
with
tiny,
close-lying
curls
that
made
her
look
wonderfully
like
a
truant
schoolboy.
She
looked
at
her
reflection
in
the
mirror
long,
carefully,
and
critically.
"If
Jim
doesn't
kill
me,"
she
said
to
herself,
"before
he
takes
a
second
look
at
me,
he'll
say
I
look
like
a
Coney
Island
chorus
girl.
But
what
could
I
do--oh!
what
could
I
do
with
a
dollar
and
eighty-seven
cents?"
At
7
o'clock
the
coffee
was
made
and
the
frying-pan
was
on
the
back
of
the
stove
hot
and
ready
to
cook
the
chops.
Jim
was
never
late.
Della
doubled
the
fob
chain
in
her
hand
and
sat
on
the
corner
of
the
table
near
the
door
that
he
always
entered.
Then
she
heard
his
step
on
the
stair
away
down
on
the
first
flight,
and
she
turned
white
for
just
a
moment.
She
had
a
habit
of
saying
little
silent
prayers
about
the
simplest
everyday
things,
and
now
she
whispered:
"Please,
God,
make
him
think
I
am
still
pretty."
The
door
opened
and
Jim
stepped
in
and
closed
it.
He
looked
thin
and
very
serious.
Poor
fellow,
he
was
only
twenty-two--and
to
be
burdened
with
a
family!
He
needed
a
new
overcoat
and
he
was
with
out
gloves.
Jim
stepped
inside
the
door,
as
immovable
as
a
setter
at
the
scent
of
quail.
His
eyes
were
fixed
upon
Della,
and
there
was
an
expression
in
them
that
she
could
not
read,
and
it
terrified
her.
It
was
not
anger,
nor
surprise,
nor
disapproval,
nor
horror,
nor
any
of
the
sentiments
that
she
had
been
prepared
for.
He
simply
stared
at
her
fixedly
with
that
peculiar
expression
on
his
face.
Della
wriggled
off
the
table
and
went
for
him.
"Jim,
darling,"
she
cried,
"don't
look
at
me
that
way.
I
had
my
hair
cut
off
and
sold
it
because
I
couldn't
have
lived
through
Christmas
without
giving
you
a
present.
It'll
grow
out
again--you
won't
mind,
will
you?
I
just
had
to
do
it.
My
hair
grows
awfully
fast.
Say
'Merry
Christmas!'
Jim,
and
let's
be
happy.
You
don't
know
what
a
nice-what
a
beautiful,
nice
gift
I've
got
for
you."
"You've
cut
off
your
hair?"
asked
Jim,
laboriously,
as
if
he
had
not
arrived
at
that
patent
fact
yet,
even
after
the
hardest
mental
labour.
"Cut
it
off
and
sold
it,"
said
Della.
"Don't
you
like
me
just
as
well,
anyhow?
I'm
me
without
my
hair,
ain't
I?"
Jim
looked
about
the
room
curiously.
"You
say
your
hair
is
gone?"
he
said,
with
an
air
almost
of
idiocy.
"You
needn't
look
for
it,"
said
Della.
"It's
sold,
I
tell
you--sold
and
gone,
too.
It's
Christmas
Eve,
boy.
Be
good
to
me,
for
it
went
for
you.
Maybe
the
hairs
of
my
head
were
numbered,"
she
went
on
with
a
sudden
serious
sweetness,
"but
nobody
could
ever
count
my
love
for
you.
Shall
I
put
the
chops
on,
Jim?"
Out
of
his
trance
Jim
seemed
quickly
to
wake.
He
enfolded
his
Della.
For
ten
seconds
let
us
regard
with
discreet
scrutiny
some
inconsequential
object
in
the
other
direction.
Eight
dollars
a
week
or
a
million
a
year--what
is
the
difference?
A
mathematician
or
a
wit
would
give
you
the
wrong
answer.
The
magi
brought
valuable
gifts,
but
that
was
not
among
them.
I
his
dark
assertion
will
be
illuminated
later
on.
Jim
drew
a
package
from
his
overcoat
pocket
and
threw
it
upon
the
table.
"Don't
make
any
mistake,
Dell,"
he
said,
"about
me.
I
don't
think
there's
anything
in
the
way
of
a
haircut
or
a
shave
or
a
shampoo
that
could
make
me
like
my
girl
any
less.
But
if
you'll
unwrap
that
package
you
may
see
why
you
had
me
going
a
while
at
first."
White
fingers
and
nimble
tore
at
the
string
and
paper.
And
then
an
ecstatic
scream
of
joy;
and
then,
alas!
a
quick
feminine
change
to
hysterical
tears
and
wails,
necessitating
the
immediate
employment
of
all
the
comforting
powers
of
the
lord
of
the
flat.
For
there
lay
The
Combs--the
set
of
combs,
side
and
back,
that
Della
had
worshipped
for
long
in
a
Broadway
window.
Beautiful
combs,
pure
tortoise-shell,
with
jewelled
rims--just
the
shade
to
wear
in
the
beautiful
vanished
hair.
They
were
expensive
combs,
she
knew,
and
her
heart
had
simply
craved
and
yearned
over
them
without
the
least
hope
of
possession.
And
now,
they
were
hers,
but
the
tresses
that
should
have
adorned
the
coveted
adornments
were
gone.
But
she
hugged
them
to
her
bosom,
and
at
length
she
was
able
to
look
up
with
dim
eyes
and
a
smile
and
say:
"My
hair
grows
so
fast,
Jim!"
And
then
Della
leaped
up
like
a
little
singed
cat
and
cried,
"Oh,
oh!"
Jim
had
not
yet
seen
his
beautiful
present.
She
held
it
out
to
him
eagerly
upon
her
open
palm.
The
dull
precious
metal
seemed
to
{lash
with
a
reflection
of
her
bright
and
ardent
spirit.
"Isn't
it
a
dandy,
Jim?
I
hunted
all
over
town
to
find
it.
You'll
have
to
look
at
the
time
a
hundred
times
a
day
now.
Give
me
your
watch.
I
want
to
see
how
it
looks
on
it."
Instead
of
obeying,
Jim
tumbled
down
on
the
couch
and
put
his
hands
under
the
back
of
his
head
and
smiled.
"Dell,"
said
he,
"let's
put
our
Christmas
presents
away
and
keep
'em
a
while.
They're
too
nice
to
use
just
at
present.
I
sold
the
watch
to
get
the
money
to
buy
Your
combs.
And
now
suppose
you
put
the
chops
on."
The
magi,
as
you
know,
were
wise
men--wonderfully
wise
men-who
brought
gifts
to
the
Babe
in
the
manger.
They
invented
the
art
of
giving
Christmas
presents.
Being
wise,
their
gifts
were
no
doubt
wise
ones,
possibly
bearing
the
privilege
of
exchange
in
case
of
duplication.
And
here
I
have
lamely
related
to
you
the
uneventful
chronicle
of
two
foolish
children
in
a
flat
who
most
unwisely
sacrificed
for
each
other
the
greatest
treasures
of
their
house.
But
in
a
last
word
to
the
wise
of
these
days
let
it
be
said
that
of
all
who
give
gifts
these
two
were
the
wisest.
Of
all
who
give
and
receive
gifts,
such
as
they
are
wisest.
Everywhere
they
are
wisest.
They
are
the
magi.
The
Ransom
of
Red
Chief
by
O
Henry
It
looked
like
a
good
thing:
but
wait
till
I
tell
you.
We
were
down
South,
in
Alabama--Bill
Driscoll
and
myself-when
this
kidnapping
idea
struck
us.
It
was,
as
Bill
afterward
expressed
it,
"during
a
moment
of
temporary
mental
apparition";
but
we
didn't
find
that
out
till
later.
There
was
a
town
down
there,
as
flat
as
a
flannel-cake,
and
called
Summit,
of
course.
It
contained
inhabitants
of
as
undeleterious
and
self-satisfied
a
class
of
peasantry
as
ever
clustered
around
a
Maypole.
Bill
and
me
had
a
joint
capital
of
about
six
hundred
dollars,
and
we
needed
just
two
thousand
dollars
more
to
pull
off
a
fraudulent
town-lot
scheme
in
Western
Illinois
with.
We
talked
it
over
on
the
front
steps
of
the
hotel.
Philoprogenitiveness,
says
we,
is
strong
in
semi-rural
communities
therefore,
and
for
other
reasons,
a
kidnapping
project
ought
to
do
better
there
than
in
the
radius
of
newspapers
that
send
reporters
out
in
plain
clothes
to
stir
up
talk
about
such
things.
We
knew
that
Summit
couldn't
get
after
us
with
anything
stronger
than
constables
and,
maybe,
some
lackadaisical
bloodhounds
and
a
diatribe
or
two
in
the
Weekly
Farmers'
Budget.
So,
it
looked
good.
We
selected
for
our
victim
the
only
child
of
a
prominent
citizen
named
Ebenezer
Dorset.
The
father
was
respectable
and
tight,
a
mortgage
fancier
and
a
stern,
upright
collection-plate
passer
and
forecloser.
The
kid
was
a
boy
of
ten,
with
bas-relief
freckles,
and
hair
the
colour
of
the
cover
of
the
magazine
you
buy
at
the
news-stand
when
you
want
to
catch
a
train.
Bill
and
me
figured
that
Ebenezer
would
melt
down
for
a
ransom
of
two
thousand
dollars
to
a
cent.
But
wait
till
I
tell
you.
About
two
miles
from
Summit
was
a
little
mountain,
covered
with
a
dense
cedar
brake.
On
the
rear
elevation
of
this
mountain
was
a
cave.
There
we
stored
provisions.
One
evening
after
sundown,
we
drove
in
a
buggy
past
old
Dorset's
house.
The
kid
was
in
the
street,
throwing
rocks
at
a
kitten
on
the
opposite
fence.
"Hey,
little
boy!"
says
Bill,
"would
you
like
to
have
a
bag
of
candy
and
a
nice
ride?"
The
boy
catches
Bill
neatly
in
the
eye
with
a
piece
of
brick.
"That
will
cost
the
old
man
an
extra
five
hundred
dollars,"
says
Bill,
climbing
over
the
wheel.
That
boy
put
up
a
fight
like
a
welter-weight
cinnamon
bear;
but,
at
last,
we
got
him
down
in
the
bottom
of
the
buggy
and
drove
away.
We
took
him
up
to
the
cave,
and
I
hitched
the
horse
in
the
cedar
brake.
After
dark
I
drove
the
buggy
to
the
little
village,
three
miles
away,
where
we
had
hired
it,
and
walked
back
to
the
mountain.
Bill
was
pasting
court-plaster
over
the
scratches
and
bruises
on
his
features.
There
was
a
fire
burning
behind
the
big
rock
at
the
entrance
of
the
cave,
and
the
boy
was
watching
a
pot
of
boiling
coffee,
with
two
buzzard
tailfeathers
stuck
in
his
red
hair.
He
points
a
stick
at
me
when
I
come
up,
and
says:
"Ha!
cursed
paleface,
do
you
dare
to
enter
the
camp
of
Red
Chief,
the
terror
of
the
plains?"
"He's
all
right
now,"
says
Bill,
rolling
up
his
trousers
and
examining
some
bruises
on
his
shins.
"We're
playing
Indian.
We're
making
Buffalo
Bill's
show
look
like
magic-lantern
views
of
Palestine
in
the
town
hall.
I'm
Old
Hank,
the
Trapper,
Red
Chief's
captive,
and
I'm
to
be
scalped
at
daybreak.
By
Geronimo!
that
kid
can
kick
hard."
Yes,
sir,
that
boy
seemed
to
be
having
the
time
of
his
life.
The
fun
of
camping
out
in
a
cave
had
made
him
forget
that
he
was
a
captive
himself.
He
immediately
christened
me
Snake-eye,
the
Spy,
and
announced
that,
when
his
braves
returned
from
the
warpath,
I
was
to
be
broiled
at
the
stake
at
the
rising
of
the
sun.
Then
we
had
supper;
and
he
filled
his
mouth
full
of
bacon
and
bread
and
gravy,
and
began
to
talk.
He
made
a
during-dinner
speech
something
like
this:
"I
like
this
fine.
I
never
camped
out
before;
but
I
had
a
pet
'possum
once,
and
I
was
nine
last
birthday.
I
hate
to
go
to
school.
Rats
ate
up
sixteen
of
Jimmy
Talbot's
aunt's
speckled
hen's
eggs.
Are
there
any
real
Indians
in
these
woods?
I
want
some
more
gravy.
Does
the
trees
moving
make
the
wind
blow?
We
had
five
puppies.
What
makes
your
nose
so
red,
Hank?
My
father
has
lots
of
money.
Are
the
stars
hot?
I
whipped
Ed
Walker
twice,
Saturday.
I
don't
like
girls.
You
dassent
catch
toads
unless
with
a
string.
Do
oxen
make
any
noise?
Why
are
oranges
round?
Have
you
got
beds
to
sleep
on
in
this
cave?
Amos
Murray
has
got
six
toes.
A
parrot
can
talk,
but
a
monkey
or
a
fish
can't.
How
many
does
it
take
to
make
twelve?"
Every
few
minutes
he
would
remember
that
he
was
a
pesky
redskin,
and
pick
up
his
stick
rifle
and
tiptoe
to
the
mouth
of
the
cave
to
rubber
for
the
scouts
of
the
hated
paleface.
Now
and
then
he
would
let
out
a
warwhoop
that
made
Old
Hank
the
Trapper,
shiver.
That
boy
had
Bill
terrorized
from
the
start.
"Red
Chief,"
says
I
to
the
kid,
"would
you
like
to
go
home?"
"Aw,
what
for?"
says
he.
"I
don't
have
any
fun
at
home.
I
hate
to
go
to
school.
I
like
to
camp
out.
You
won't
take
me
back
home
again,
Snake-eye,
will
you?"
"Not
right
away,"
says
I.
"We'll
stay
here
in
the
cave
a
while."
"All
right!"
says
he.
"That'll
be
fine.
I
never
had
such
fun
in
all
my
life."
We
went
to
bed
about
eleven
o'clock.
We
spread
down
some
wide
blankets
and
quilts
and
put
Red
Chief
between
us.
We
weren't
afraid
he'd
run
away.
He
kept
us
awake
for
three
hours,
jumping
up
and
reaching
for
his
rifle
and
screeching:
"Hist!
pard,"
in
mine
and
Bill's
ears,
as
the
fancied
crackle
of
a
twig
or
the
rustle
of
a
leaf
revealed
to
his
young
imagination
the
stealthy
approach
of
the
outlaw
band.
At
last,
I
fell
into
a
troubled
sleep,
and
dreamed
that
I
had
been
kidnapped
and
chained
to
a
tree
by
a
ferocious
pirate
with
red
hair.
Just
at
daybreak,
I
was
awakened
by
a
series
of
awful
screams
from
Bill.
They
weren't
yells,
or
howls,
or
shouts,
or
whoops,
or
yawps,
such
as
you'd
expect
from
a
manly
set
of
vocal
organs--they
were
simply
indecent,
terrifying,
humiliating
screams,
such
as
women
emit
when
they
see
ghosts
or
caterpillars.
It's
an
awful
thing
to
hear
a
strong,
desperate,
fat
man
scream
incontinently
in
a
cave
at
daybreak.
I
jumped
up
to
see
what
the
matter
was.
Red
Chief
was
sitting
on
Bill's
chest,
with
one
hand
twined
in
Bill's
hair.
In
the
other
he
had
the
sharp
case-knife
we
used
for
slicing
bacon;
and
he
was
industriously
and
realistically
trying
to
take
Bill's
scalp,
according
to
the
sentence
that
had
been
pronounced
upon
him
the
evening
before.
I
got
the
knife
away
from
the
kid
and
made
him
lie
down
again.
But,
from
that
moment,
Bill's
spirit
was
broken.
He
laid
down
on
his
side
of
the
bed,
but
he
never
closed
an
eye
again
in
sleep
as
long
as
that
boy
was
with
us.
I
dozed
off
for
a
while,
but
along
toward
sun-up
I
remembered
that
Red
Chief
had
said
I
was
to
be
burned
at
the
stake
at
the
rising
of
the
sun.
I
wasn't
nervous
or
afraid;
but
I
sat
up
and
lit
my
pipe
and
leaned
against
a
rock.
"What
you
getting
up
so
soon
for,
Sam?"
asked
Bill.
"Me?"
says
I.
"Oh,
I
got
a
kind
of
a
pain
in
my
shoulder.
I
thought
sitting
up
would
rest
it."
"You're
a
liar!"
says
Bill.
"You're
afraid.
You
was
to
be
burned
at
sunrise,
and
you
was
afraid
he'd
do
it.
And
he
would,
too,
if
he
could
find
a
match.
Ain't
it
awful,
Sam?
Do
you
think
anybody
will
pay
out
money
to
get
a
little
imp
like
that
back
home?"
"Sure,"
said
I.
"A
rowdy
kid
like
that
is
just
the
kind
that
parents
dote
on.
Now,
you
and
the
Chief
get
up
and
cook
breakfast,
while
I
go
up
on
the
top
of
this
mountain
and
reconnoitre."
I
went
up
on
the
peak
of
the
little
mountain
and
ran
my
eye
over
the
contiguous
vicinity.
Over
toward
Summit
I
expected
to
see
the
sturdy
yeomanry
of
the
village
armed
with
scythes
and
pitchforks
beating
the
countryside
for
the
dastardly
kidnappers.
But
what
I
saw
was
a
peaceful
landscape
dotted
with
one
man
ploughing
with
a
dun
mule.
Nobody
was
dragging
the
creek;
no
couriers
dashed
hither
and
yon,
bringing
tidings
of
no
news
to
the
distracted
parents.
There
was
a
sylvan
attitude
of
somnolent
sleepiness
pervading
that
section
of
the
external
outward
surface
of
Alabama
that
lay
exposed
to
my
view.
"Perhaps,"
says
I
to
myself,
"it
has
not
yet
been
discovered
that
the
wolves
have
borne
away
the
tender
lambkin
from
the
fold.
Heaven
help
the
wolves!"
says
I,
and
I
went
down
the
mountain
to
breakfast.
When
I
got
to
the
cave
I
found
Bill
backed
up
against
the
side
of
it,
breathing
hard,
and
the
boy
threatening
to
smash
him
with
a
rock
half
as
big
as
a
cocoanut.
"He
put
a
red-hot
boiled
potato
down
my
back,"
explained
Bill,
"and
then
mashed
it
with
his
foot;
and
I
boxed
his
ears.
Have
you
got
a
gun
about
you,
Sam?"
I
took
the
rock
away
from
the
boy
and
kind
of
patched
up
the
argument.
"I'll
fix
you,"
says
the
kid
to
Bill.
"No
man
ever
yet
struck
the
Red
Chief
but
what
he
got
paid
for
it.
You
better
beware!"
After
breakfast
the
kid
takes
a
piece
of
leather
with
strings
wrapped
around
it
out
of
his
pocket
and
goes
outside
the
cave
unwinding
it.
"What's
he
up
to
now?"
says
Bill,
anxiously.
"You
don't
think
he'll
run
away,
do
you,
Sam?"
"No
fear
of
it,"
says
I.
"He
don't
seem
to
be
much
of
a
home
body.
But
we've
got
to
fix
up
some
plan
about
the
ransom.
There
don't
seem
to
be
much
excitement
around
Summit
on
account
of
his
disappearance;
but
maybe
they
haven't
realized
yet
that
he's
gone.
His
folks
may
think
he's
spending
the
night
with
Aunt
Jane
or
one
of
the
neighbours.
Anyhow,
he'll
be
missed
to-day.
To-night
we
must
get
a
message
to
his
father
demanding
the
two
thousand
dollars
for
his
return."
Just
then
we
heard
a
kind
of
war-whoop,
such
as
David
might
have
emitted
when
he
knocked
out
the
champion
Goliath.
It
was
a
sling
that
Red
Chief
had
pulled
out
of
his
pocket,
and
he
was
whirling
it
around
his
head.
I
dodged,
and
heard
a
heavy
thud
and
a
kind
of
a
sigh
from
Bill,
like
a
horse
gives
out
when
you
take
his
saddle
off.
A
niggerhead
rock
the
size
of
an
egg
had
caught
Bill
just
behind
his
left
ear.
He
loosened
himself
all
over
and
fell
in
the
fire
across
the
frying
pan
of
hot
water
for
washing
the
dishes.
I
dragged
him
out
and
poured
cold
water
on
his
head
for
half
an
hour.
By
and
by,
Bill
sits
up
and
feels
behind
his
ear
and
says:
"Sam,
do
you
know
who
my
favourite
Biblical
character
is?"
"Take
it
easy,"
says
I.
"You'll
come
to
your
senses
presently."
"King
Herod,"
says
he.
"You
won't
go
away
and
leave
me
here
alone,
will
you,
Sam?"
I
went
out
and
caught
that
boy
and
shook
him
until
his
freckles
rattled.
"If
you
don't
behave,"
says
I,
"I'll
take
you
straight
home.
Now,
are
you
going
to
be
good,
or
not?"
"I
was
only
funning,"
says
he
sullenly.
"I
didn't
mean
to
hurt
Old
Hank.
But
what
did
he
hit
me
for?
I'll
behave,
Snake-eye,
if
you
won't
send
me
home,
and
if
you'll
let
me
play
the
Black
Scout
to-day."
"I
don't
know
the
game,"
says
I.
"That's
for
you
and
Mr.
Bill
to
decide.
He's
your
playmate
for
the
day.
I'm
going
away
for
a
while,
on
business.
Now,
you
come
in
and
make
friends
with
him
and
say
you
are
sorry
for
hurting
him,
or
home
you
go,
at
once."
I
made
him
and
Bill
shake
hands,
and
then
I
took
Bill
aside
and
told
him
I
was
going
to
Poplar
Cove,
a
little
village
three
miles
from
the
cave,
and
find
out
what
I
could
about
how
the
kidnapping
had
been
regarded
in
Summit.
Also,
I
thought
it
best
to
send
a
peremptory
letter
to
old
man
Dorset
that
day,
demanding
the
ransom
and
dictating
how
it
should
be
paid.
"You
know,
Sam,"
says
Bill,
"I've
stood
by
you
without
batting
an
eye
in
earthquakes,
fire
and
flood--in
poker
games,
dynamite
outrages,
police
raids,
train
robberies
and
cyclones.
I
never
lost
my
nerve
yet
till
we
kidnapped
that
two-legged
skyrocket
of
a
kid.
He's
got
me
going.
You
won't
leave
me
long
with
him,
will
you,
Sam?"
"I'll
be
back
some
time
this
afternoon,"
says
I.
"You
must
keep
the
boy
amused
and
quiet
till
I
return.
And
now
we'll
write
the
letter
to
old
Dorset."
Bill
and
I
got
paper
and
pencil
and
worked
on
the
letter
while
Red
Chief,
with
a
blanket
wrapped
around
him,
strutted
up
and
down,
guarding
the
mouth
of
the
cave.
Bill
begged
me
tearfully
to
make
the
ransom
fifteen
hundred
dollars
instead
of
two
thousand.
"I
ain't
attempting,"
says
he,
"to
decry
the
celebrated
moral
aspect
of
parental
affection,
but
we're
dealing
with
humans,
and
it
ain't
human
for
anybody
to
give
up
two
thousand
dollars
for
that
forty-pound
chunk
of
freckled
wildcat.
I'm
willing
to
take
a
chance
at
fifteen
hundred
dollars.
You
can
charge
the
difference
up
to
me."
So,
to
relieve
Bill,
I
acceded,
and
we
collaborated
a
letter
that
ran
this
way:
Ebenezer
Dorset,
Esq.:
We
have
your
boy
concealed
in
a
place
far
from
Summit.
It
is
useless
for
you
or
the
most
skilful
detectives
to
attempt
to
find
him.
Absolutely,
the
only
terms
on
which
you
can
have
him
restored
to
you
are
these:
We
demand
fifteen
hundred
dollars
in
large
bills
for
his
return;
the
money
to
be
left
at
midnight
to-night
at
the
same
spot
and
in
the
same
box
as
your
reply--as
hereinafter
described.
If
you
agree
to
these
terms,
send
your
answer
in
writing
by
a
solitary
messenger
to-night
at
half-past
eight
o'clock.
After
crossing
Owl
Creek,
on
the
road
to
Poplar
Cove,
there
are
three
large
trees
about
a
hundred
yards
apart,
close
to
the
fence
of
the
wheat
field
on
the
right-hand
side.
At
the
bottom
of
the
fence-post,
opposite
the
third
tree,
will
be
found
a
small
pasteboard
box.
The
messenger
will
place
the
answer
in
this
box
and
return
immediately
to
Summit.
If
you
attempt
any
treachery
or
fail
to
comply
with
our
demand
as
stated,
you
will
never
see
your
boy
again.
If
you
pay
the
money
as
demanded,
he
will
be
returned
to
you
safe
and
well
within
three
hours.
These
terms
are
final,
and
if
you
do
not
accede
to
them
no
further
communication
will
be
attempted.
TWO
DESPERATE
MEN.
I
addressed
this
letter
to
Dorset,
and
put
it
in
my
pocket.
As
I
was
about
to
start,
the
kid
comes
up
to
me
and
says:
"Aw,
Snake-eye,
you
said
I
could
play
the
Black
Scout
while
you
was
gone."
"Play
it,
of
course,"
says
I.
"Mr.
Bill
will
play
with
you.
What
kind
of
a
game
is
it?"
"I'm
the
Black
Scout,"
says
Red
Chief,
"and
I
have
to
ride
to
the
stockade
to
warn
the
settlers
that
the
Indians
are
coming.
I
'm
tired
of
playing
Indian
myself.
I
want
to
be
the
Black
Scout."
"All
right,"
says
I.
"It
sounds
harmless
to
me.
I
guess
Mr.
Bill
will
help
you
foil
the
pesky
savages."
"What
am
I
to
do?"
asks
Bill,
looking
at
the
kid
suspiciously.
"You
are
the
hoss,"
says
Black
Scout.
"Get
down
on
your
hands
and
knees.
How
can
I
ride
to
the
stockade
without
a
hoss?"
"You'd
better
keep
him
interested,"
said
I,
"till
we
get
the
scheme
going.
Loosen
up."
Bill
gets
down
on
his
all
fours,
and
a
look
comes
in
his
eye
like
a
rabbit's
when
you
catch
it
in
a
trap.
"
How
far
is
it
to
the
stockade,
kid?
"
he
asks,
in
a
husky
manner
of
voice.
"Ninety
miles,"
says
the
Black
Scout.
"And
you
have
to
hump
yourself
to
get
there
on
time.
Whoa,
now!"
The
Black
Scout
jumps
on
Bill's
back
and
digs
his
heels
in
his
side.
"For
Heaven's
sake,"
says
Bill,
"hurry
back,
Sam,
as
soon
as
you
can.
I
wish
we
hadn't
made
the
ransom
more
than
a
thousand.
Say,
you
quit
kicking
me
or
I
'11
get
up
and
warm
you
good."
I
walked
over
to
Poplar
Cove
and
sat
around
the
postoffice
and
store,
talking
with
the
chawbacons
that
came
in
to
trade.
One
whiskerand
says
that
he
hears
Summit
is
all
upset
on
account
of
Elder
Ebenezer
Dorset's
boy
having
been
lost
or
stolen.
That
was
all
I
wanted
to
know.
I
bought
some
smoking
tobacco,
referred
casually
to
the
price
of
black-eyed
peas,
posted
my
letter
surreptitiously
and
came
away.
The
postmaster
said
the
mail-carrier
would
come
by
in
an
hour
to
take
the
mail
on
to
Summit.
When
I
got
back
to
the
cave
Bill
and
the
boy
were
not
to
be
found.
I
explored
the
vicinity
of
the
cave,
and
risked
a
yodel
or
two,
but
there
was
no
response.
So
I
lighted
my
pipe
and
sat
down
on
a
mossy
bank
to
await
developments.
In
about
half
an
hour
I
heard
the
bushes
rustle,
and
Bill
wabbled
out
into
the
little
glade
in
front
of
the
cave.
Behind
him
was
the
kid,
stepping
softly
like
a
scout,
with
a
broad
grin
on
his
face.
Bill
stopped,
took
off
his
hat
and
wiped
his
face
with
a
red
handkerchief.
The
kid
stopped
about
eight
feet
behind
him.
"Sam,"
says
Bill,
"I
suppose
you'll
think
I'm
a
renegade,
but
I
couldn't
help
it.
I'm
a
grown
person
with
masculine
proclivities
and
habits
of
self-defence,
but
there
is
a
time
when
all
systems
of
egotism
and
predominance
fail.
The
boy
is
gone.
I
have
sent
him
home.
All
is
off.
There
was
martyrs
in
old
times,"
goes
on
Bill,
"that
suffered
death
rather
than
give
up
the
particular
graft
they
enjoyed.
None
of
'em
ever
was
subjugated
to
such
supernatural
tortures
as
I
have
been.
I
tried
to
be
faithful
to
our
articles
of
depredation;
but
there
came
a
limit."
"What's
the
trouble,
Bill?"
I
asks
him.
"I
was
rode,"
says
Bill,
"the
ninety
miles
to
the
stockade,
not
barring
an
inch.
Then,
when
the
settlers
was
rescued,
I
was
given
oats.
Sand
ain't
a
palatable
substitute.
And
then,
for
an
hour
I
had
to
try
to
explain
to
him
why
there
was
nothin'
in
holes,
how
a
road
can
run
both
ways
and
what
makes
the
grass
green.
I
tell
you,
Sam,
a
human
can
only
stand
so
much.
I
takes
him
by
the
neck
of
his
clothes
and
drags
him
down
the
mountain.
On
the
way
he
kicks
my
legs
black-and-blue
from
the
knees
down;
and
I've
got
two
or
three
bites
on
my
thumb
and
hand
cauterized.
"But
he's
gone"--continues
Bill--"gone
home.
I
showed
him
the
road
to
Summit
and
kicked
him
about
eight
feet
nearer
there
at
one
kick.
I'm
sorry
we
lose
the
ransom;
but
it
was
either
that
or
Bill
Driscoll
to
the
madhouse."
Bill
is
puffing
and
blowing,
but
there
is
a
look
of
ineffable
peace
and
growing
content
on
his
rose-pink
features.
"Bill,"
says
I,
"there
isn't
any
heart
disease
in
your
family,
is
there?"
"No,"
says
Bill,
"nothing
chronic
except
malaria
and
accidents.
Why?"
"Then
you
might
turn
around,"
says
I,
"and
have
a
look
behind
you."
Bill
turns
and
sees
the
boy,
and
loses
his
complexion
and
sits
down
plump
on
the
ground
and
begins
to
pluck
aimlessly
at
grass
and
little
sticks.
For
an
hour
I
was
afraid
for
his
mind.
And
then
I
told
him
that
my
scheme
was
to
put
the
whole
job
through
immediately
and
that
we
would
get
the
ransom
and
be
off
with
it
by
midnight
if
old
Dorset
fell
in
with
our
proposition.
So
Bill
braced
up
enough
to
give
the
kid
a
weak
sort
of
a
smile
and
a
promise
to
play
the
Russian
in
a
Japanese
war
with
him
as
soon
as
he
felt
a
little
better.
I
had
a
scheme
for
collecting
that
ransom
without
danger
of
being
caught
by
counterplots
that
ought
to
commend
itself
to
professional
kidnappers.
The
tree
under
which
the
answer
was
to
be
left--and
the
money
later
on--was
close
to
the
road
fence
with
big,
bare
fields
on
all
sides.
If
a
gang
of
constables
should
be
watching
for
any
one
to
come
for
the
note
they
could
see
him
a
long
way
off
crossing
the
fields
or
in
the
road.
But
no,
sirree!
At
half-past
eight
I
was
up
in
that
tree
as
well
hidden
as
a
tree
toad,
waiting
for
the
messenger
to
arrive.
Exactly
on
time,
a
half-grown
boy
rides
up
the
road
on
a
bicycle,
locates
the
pasteboard
box
at
the
foot
of
the
fencepost,
slips
a
folded
piece
of
paper
into
it
and
pedals
away
again
back
toward
Summit.
I
waited
an
hour
and
then
concluded
the
thing
was
square.
I
slid
down
the
tree,
got
the
note,
slipped
along
the
fence
till
I
struck
the
woods,
and
was
back
at
the
cave
in
another
half
an
hour.
I
opened
the
note,
got
near
the
lantern
and
read
it
to
Bill.
It
was
written
with
a
pen
in
a
crabbed
hand,
and
the
sum
and
substance
of
it
was
this:
Two
Desperate
Men.
Gentlemen:
I
received
your
letter
to-day
by
post,
in
regard
to
the
ransom
you
ask
for
the
return
of
my
son.
I
think
you
are
a
little
high
in
your
demands,
and
I
hereby
make
you
a
counter-proposition,
which
I
am
inclined
to
believe
you
will
accept.
You
bring
Johnny
home
and
pay
me
two
hundred
and
fifty
dollars
in
cash,
and
I
agree
to
take
him
off
your
hands.
You
had
better
come
at
night,
for
the
neighbours
believe
he
is
lost,
and
I
couldn't
be
responsible
for
what
they
would
do
to
anybody
they
saw
bringing
him
back.
Very
respectfully,
EBENEZER
DORSET.
"Great
pirates
of
Penzance!"
says
I;
"of
all
the
impudent--"
But
I
glanced
at
Bill,
and
hesitated.
He
had
the
most
appealing
look
in
his
eyes
I
ever
saw
on
the
face
of
a
dumb
or
a
talking
brute.
"Sam,"
says
he,
"what's
two
hundred
and
fifty
dollars,
after
all?
We've
got
the
money.
One
more
night
of
this
kid
will
send
me
to
a
bed
in
Bedlam.
Besides
being
a
thorough
gentleman,
I
think
Mr.
Dorset
is
a
spendthrift
for
making
us
such
a
liberal
offer.
You
ain't
going
to
let
the
chance
go,
are
you?"
"Tell
you
the
truth,
Bill,"
says
I,
"this
little
he
ewe
lamb
has
somewhat
got
on
my
nerves
too.
We'll
take
him
home,
pay
the
ransom
and
make
our
get-away."
We
took
him
home
that
night.
We
got
him
to
go
by
telling
him
that
his
father
had
bought
a
silver-mounted
rifle
and
a
pair
of
moccasins
for
him,
and
we
were
going
to
hunt
bears
the
next
day.
It
was
just
twelve
o'clock
when
we
knocked
at
Ebenezer's
front
door.
Just
at
the
moment
when
I
should
have
been
abstracting
the
fifteen
hundred
dollars
from
the
box
under
the
tree,
according
to
the
original
proposition,
Bill
was
counting
out
two
hundred
and
fifty
dollars
into
Dorset's
hand.
When
the
kid
found
out
we
were
going
to
leave
him
at
home
he
started
up
a
howl
like
a
calliope
and
fastened
himself
as
tight
as
a
leech
to
Bill's
leg.
His
father
peeled
him
away
gradually,
like
a
porous
plaster.
"How
long
can
you
hold
him?"
asks
Bill.
"I'm
not
as
strong
as
I
used
to
be,"
says
old
Dorset,
"but
I
think
I
can
promise
you
ten
minutes."
"Enough,"
says
Bill.
"In
ten
minutes
I
shall
cross
the
Central,
Southern
and
Middle
Western
States,
and
be
legging
it
trippingly
for
the
Canadian
border."
And,
as
dark
as
it
was,
and
as
fat
as
Bill
was,
and
as
good
a
runner
as
I
am,
he
was
a
good
mile
and
a
half
out
of
summit
before
I
could
catch
up
with
him.
The
Voice
of
the
City
by
O
Henry
Twenty-five
years
ago
the
school
children
used
to
chant
their
lessons.
The
manner
of
their
delivery
was
a
singsong
recitative
between
the
utterance
of
an
Episcopal
minister
and
the
drone
of
a
tired
sawmill.
I
mean
no
disrespect.
We
must
have
lumber
and
sawdust.
I
remember
one
beautiful
and
instructive
little
lyric
that
emanated
from
the
physiology
class.
The
most
striking
line
of
it
was
this:
"The
shin-bone
is
the
long-est
bone
in
the
hu-man
bod-y."
What
an
inestimable
boon
it
would
have
been
if
all
the
corporeal
and
spiritual
facts
pertaining
to
man
bad
thus
been
tunefully
and
logically
inculcated
in
our
youthful
minds!
But
what
we
gained
in
anatomy,
music
and
philosophy
was
meagre.
The
other
day
I
became
confused.
I
needed
a
ray
of
light.
I
turned
back
to
those
school
days
for
aid.
But
in
all
the
nasal
harmonies
we
whined
forth
from
those
bard
benches
I
could
not
recall
one
that
treated
of
the
voice
of
agglomerated
mankind.
In
other
words,
of
the
composite
vocal
message
of
massed
humanity.
In
other
words,
of
the
Voice
of
a
Big
City.
Now,
the
individual
voice
is
not
lacking.
We
can
understand
the
song
of
the
poet,
the
ripple
of
the
brook,
the
meaning
of
the
man
who
wants
$5
until
next
Monday,
the
inscriptions
on
the
tombs
of
the
Pharaohs,
the
language
of
flowers,
the
"step
lively"
of
the
conductor,
and
the
prelude
of
the
milk
cans
at
4
A.
M.
Certain
large-eared
ones
even
assert
that
they
are
wise
to
the
vibrations
of
the
tympanum
proneed
by
concussion
of
the
air
emanating
from
Mr.
H.
James.
But
who
can
comprehend
the
meaning
of
the
voice
of
the
city?
I
went
out
for
to
see.
First,
I
asked
Aurelia.
She
wore
white
Swiss
and
a
bat
with
flowers
on
it,
and
ribbons
and
ends
of
things
fluttered
here
and
there.
"Tell
me,"
I
said,
stammeringly,
for
I
have
no
voice
of
my
own,
"what
does
this
big
-
er
enormous
-
er
-
whopping
city
say?
It
must
have
a
voice
of
some
kind.
Does
it
ever
speak
to
you?
How
do
you
interpret
its
meaning?
It
is
a
tremendous
mass,
but
it
must
have
a
key:'
"Like
a
Saratoga
trunk?"
asked
Aurelia.
"No,"
said
I.
"Please
do
not
refer
to
the
lid.
I
have
a
fancy
that
every
city
has
a
voice.
Each
one
has
something
to
say
to
the
one
who
can
hear
it.
What
does
the
big
one
say
to
you?
"
"All
cities,"
said
Aurelia,
judicially,
"say
the
same
thing.
When
they
get
through
saying
it
there
is
an
echo
from
Philadelphia.
So,
they
are
unanimous."
"Here
are
4,000,000
people,"
said
I,
scholastically,
"compressed
upon
an
island,
which
is
mostly
lamb
surrounded
by
Wall
Street
water.
The
conjunction
of
so
many
units
into
so
small
a
space
must
result
in
an
identity
-
or,
or
rather
a
homogeneity
that
finds
its
oral
expression
through
a
common
channel.
It
is,
as
you
might
say,
a
consensus
of
translation,
concentrating
in
a
crystallized,
general
idea
which
reveals
itself
in
what
may
be
termed
the
Voice
of
the
City.
Can
you
tell
me
what
it
is?
Aurelia
smiled
wonderfully.
She
sat
on
the
high
stoop.
A
spray
of
insolent
ivy
bobbed
against
her
right
ear.
A
ray
of
impudent
moonlight
flickered
upon
her
nose.
But
I
was
adamant,
nickelplated.
"I
must
go
and
find
out,"
I
said,
"what
is
the
Voice
of
this
city.
Other
cities
have
voices.
It
is
an
assignment.
I
must
have
it.
New
York,"
I
continned,
in
a
rising
tone,
"had
better
not
hand
me
a
cigar
and
say:
'
Old
man,
I
can't
talk
for
publication.'
No
other
city
acts
in
that
way.
Chicago
says,
unhesitatingly,
'I
will;'
I
Philadelphia
says,
'I
should;'
New
Orleans
says,
'
I
used
to;'
Louisville
says,
'Don't
care
if
I
do;'
St.
Louis
says,
'Excuse
me;'
Pittsburg
says,
'Smoke
up.'
Now,
New
York
-
"
Aurelia
smiled.
"Very
well,"
said
I,
"I
must
go
elsewhere
and
find
out."
I
went
into
a
palace,
tile-floored,
cherub-ceilinged
and
square
with
the
cop.
I
put
my
foot
on
the
brass
rail
and
said
to
Billy
Magnus,
the
best
bartender
in
the
diocese:
Billy,
you've
lived
in
New
York
a
long
time
what
kind
of
a
song-and-dance
does
this
old
town
give
you?
What
I
mean
is,
doesn't
the
gab
of
it
seem
to
kind
of
bunch
up
and
slide
over
the
bar
to
you
in
a
sort
of
amalgamated
tip
that
bits
off
the
burg
in
a
kind
of
an
epigram
with
a
dash
of
bitters
and
a
slice
of
-
"
"Excuse
me
a
minute,"
said
Billy,
"somebody's
punching
the
button
at
the
side
door."
He
went
away;
came
back
with
an
empty
tin
bucket;
again
vanished
with
it
full;
returned
and
said
to
me:
"That
was
Mame.
She
rings
twice.
She
likes
a
glass
of
beer
for
supper.
Her
and
the
kid.
If
you
ever
saw
that
little
skeesicks
of
mine
brace
up
in
his
high
chair
and
take
his
beer
and
-
But,
say,
what
was
yours?
I
get
kind
of
excited
when
I
bear
them
two
rings
-was
it
the
baseball
score
or
gin
fizz
you
asked
for?"
"Ginger
ale,"
I
answered.
I
walked
up
to
Broadway.
I
saw
a
cop
on
the
corner.
The
cops
take
kids
up,
women
across,
and
men
in.
I
went
up
to
him.
If
I'm
not
exceeding
the
spiel
limit,"
I
said,
"let
me
ask
you.
You
see
New
York
during
its
vocative
hours.
It
is
the
function
of
you
and
your
brother
cops
to
preserve
the
acoustics
of
the
city.
There
must
be
a
civic
voice
that
is
intelligible
to
you.
At
night
during
your
lonely
rounds
you
must
have
beard
it.
What
is
the
epitome
of
its
turmoil
and
shouting?
What
does
the
city
say
to
you?
"Friend,"
said
the
policeman,
spinning
his
club,
"it
don't
say
nothing.
I
get
my
orders
from
the
man
higher
up.
Say,
I
guess
you're
all
right.
Stand
here
for
a
few
minutes
and
keep
an
eye
open
for
the
roundsman."
The
cop
melted
into
the
darkness
of
the
side
street.
In
ten
minutes
be
had
returned.
"Married
last
Tuesday,"
be
said,
half
gruffly.
"You
know
bow
they
are.
She
comes
to
that
corner
at
nine
every
night
for
a
-
comes
to
say
'
hello!
'
I
generally
manage
to
be
there.
Say,
what
was
it
you
asked
me
a
bit
ago
-
what's
doing
in
the
city?
Oh,
there's
a
roof-garden
or
two
just
opened,
twelve
blocks
up."
I
crossed
a
crow's-foot
of
street-car
tracks,
and
skirted
the
edge
of
an
umbrageous
park.
An
artificial
Diana,
gilded,
heroic,
poised,
wind-ruled,
on
the
tower,
shimmered
in
the
clear
light
of
her
namesake
in
the
sky.
Along
came
my
poet,
hurrying,
hatted,
haired,
emitting
dactyls,
spondees
and
dactylis.
I
seized
him.
"Bill,"
said
I
(in
the
magazine
he
is
Cleon),
"give
me
a
lift.
I
am
on
an
assignment
to
find
out
the
Voice
of
the
city.
You
see,
it's
a
special
order.
Ordinarily
a
symposium
comprising
the
views
of
Henry
Clews,
John
L.
Sullivan,
Edwin
Markham,
May
Irwin
and
Charles
Schwab
would
be
about
all.
But
this
is
a
different
matter.
We
want
a
broad,
poetic,
mystic
vocalization
of
the
city's
soul
and
meaning.
You
are
the
very
chap
to
give
me
a
hint.
Some
years
ago
a
man
got
at
the
Niagara
Falls
and
gave
us
its
pitch.
The
note
was
about
two
feet
below
the
lowest
G
on
the
piano.
Now,
you
can't
put
New
York
into
a
note
unless
it's
better
indorsed
than
that.
But
give
me
an
idea
of
what
it
would
say
if
it
should
speak.
It
is
bound
to
be
a
mighty
and
far-reaching
utterance.
To
arrive
at
it
we
must
take
the
tremendous
crash
of
the
chords
of
the
day's
traffic,
the
laughter
and
music
of
the
night,
the
solemn
tones
of
Dr.
Parkhurst,
the
rag-time,
the
weeping,
the
stealthy
bum
of
cab-wbeels,
the
shout
of
the
press
agent,
the
tinkle
of
fountains
on
the
roof
gardens,
the
hullabaloo
of
the
strawberry
vender
and
the
covers
of
Everybody's
Magazine,
the
whispers
of
the
lovers
in
the
parks
-
all
these
sounds,
must
go
into
your
Voice
-
not
combined,
but
mixed,
and
of
the
mixture
an
essence
made;
and
of
the
essence
an
extract
-
an
audible
extract,
of
which
one
drop
shall
form
the
thing
we
seek."
"Do
you
remember,"
asked
the
poet,
with
a
chuckle,
"that
California
girl
we
met
at
Stiver's
studio
last
week?
Well,
I'm
on
my
way
to
see
her.
She
repeated
that
poem
of
mine,
'
The
Tribute
of
Spring,'
word
for
word.
She's
the
smartest
proposition
in
this
town
just
at
present.
Say,
how
does
this
confounded
tie
look?
I
spoiled
four
before
I
got
one
to
set
right."
"And
the
Voice
that
I
asked
you
about?"
I
inquired.
"Oh,
she
doesn't
sing,"
said
Cleon.
"But
you
ought
to
bear
her
recite
my
'Angel
of
the
Inshore
Wind.'"
I
passed
on.
I
cornered
a
newsboy
and
be
flashed
at
me
prophetic
pink
papers
that
outstripped
the
news
by
two
revolutions
of
the
clock's
longest
hand.
"Son,"
I
said,
while
I
pretended
to
chase
coins
in
my
penny
pocket,
"doesn't
it
sometimes
seem
to
you
as
if
the
city
ought
to
be
able
to
talk?
All
these
ups
and
downs
and
funny
business
and
queer
things
happening
every
daywhat
would
it
say,
do
you
think,
if
it
could
speak?
"Quit
yer
kiddin',"
said
the
boy.
"Wot
paper
yer
want?
I
got
no
time
to
waste.
It's
Mag's
birthday,
and
I
want
thirty
cents
to
git
her
a
present."
Here
was
no
interpreter
of
the
city's
mouthpiece.
I
bought
a
paper,
and
consigned
its
undeclared
treaties,
its
premeditated
murders
and
unfought
battles
to
an
ash
can.
Again
I
repaired
to
the
park
and
sat
in
the
moon
shade.
I
thought
and
thought,
and
wondered
why
none
could
tell
me
what
I
asked
for.
And
then,
as
swift
as
light
from
a
fixed
star,
the
answer
came
to
me.
I
arose
and
hurried
-
hurried
as
so
many
reasoners
must,
back
around
my
circle.
I
knew
the
answer
and
I
bugged
it
in
my
breast
as
I
flew,
fearing
lest
some
one
would
stop
me
and
demand
my
secret.
Aurelia
was
still
on
the
stoop.
The
moon
was
higher
and
the
ivy
shadows
were
deeper.
I
sat
at
her
side
and
we
watched
a
little
cloud
tilt
at
the
drifting
moon
and
go
asunder,
quite
pale
and
discomfited.
And
then,
wonder
of
wonders
and
delight
of
delights!
our
hands
somehow
touched,
and
our
fingers
closed
together
and
did
not
part.
After
half
an
hour
Aurelia
said,
with
that
smile
of
hers:
"Do
you
know,
you
haven't
spoken
a
word
since
you
came
back!
"
"That,"
said
I,
nodding
wisely,
"is
the
Voice
of
the
City."