Rolling Stones
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ROLLING STONES
by
O. HENRY
Author of "The Four Million," "The Voice of the City," "The Trimmed
Lamp," "Strictly Business," "Sixes and Sevens," etc.
1919
[Illustration: The last photograph of O. Henry, taken by
W. M. Vanderwayde (New York) in 1909]
O. Henry, Afrite-Chef of all delight--
Of all delectables conglomerate
That stay the starved brain and rejuvenate
The Mental Man! The aesthetic appetite--
So long enhungered that the "inards" fight
And growl gutwise--its pangs thou dost abate
And all so amiably alleviate,
Joy pats his belly as a hobo might
Who haply hath obtained a cherry pie
With no burnt crust at all, ner any seeds;
Nothin' but crisp crust, and the thickness fit.
And squashin'-juicy, an' jes' mighty nigh
Too dratted, drippin'-sweet for human needs,
But fer the sosh of milk that goes with it.
Written in the character of "Sherrard
Plummer" by James Whitcomb Riley
CONTENTS
Introduction
The Dream
A Ruler of Men
The Atavism of John Tom Little Bear
Helping the Other Fellow
The Marionettes
The Marquis and Miss Sally
A Fog in Santone
The Friendly Call
A Dinner at ----*
Sound and Fury
Tictocq
Tracked to Doom
A Snapshot at the President
An Unfinished Christmas Story
The Unprofitable Servant
Aristocracy Versus Hash
The Prisoner of Zembla
A Strange Story
Fickle Fortune, or How Gladys Hustled
An Apology
Lord Oakhurst's Curse
Bexar Scrip No. 2692
Queries and Answers
Poems
The Pewee
Nothing to Say
The Murderer
Some Postscripts
Two Portraits
A Contribution
The Old Farm
Vanity
The Lullaby Boy
Chanson de Boheme
Hard to Forget
Drop a Tear in This Slot
Tamales
Letters
ILLUSTRATIONS
The Last Photograph of O. Henry (Frontispiece)
The Editor's Own Statement of His Aims
(Advertisement for _The Rolling Stone_)
Record of Births and Deaths from the Porter Family Bible
O. Henry at the Age of Two
The "Hill City Quartet," to Which O. Henry Belonged
As a Young Man in Austin
O. Henry in Austin, Texas, 1896
Emigrants' Camp (an Early Drawing by O. Henry)
"Can the Horse Run?" (Cartoon from _The Rolling Stone_)
"Will You Go In?" (Cartoon from _The Rolling Stone_)
"Here We Have Kate and John." (Cartoon from _The Rolling Stone_)
"Did He Go Up?" (Cartoon from _The Rolling Stone_)
"See Tom and the Dog." (Cartoon from _The Rolling Stone_)
"See Him Do It." (Cartoon from _The Rolling Stone_)
Letters That the Boy Will Porter Brought Along from
North Carolina to Texas
Letter: "A Young Man of Good Moral Character and
an A No. 1 Druggist."
"The Plunkville Patriot," April 2, 1895
_The Rolling Stone_, January 26, 1895
A Page from "The Plunkville Patriot"
A Front Page of _The Rolling Stone_
A Page from "The Plunkville Patriot"
"Dear Me, General, Who Is That Dreadful Man?" (Cartoon)
"Well, I Declare, Those Gentlemen Must Be Brothers." (Cartoon)
"Oh Papa, What Is That?"
(Cartoon from _The Rolling Stone_, April 27, 1895)
Cartoon by O. Henry
Cartoon by O. Henry
Can He Make the Jump?
(Cartoon from _The Rolling Stone_, October 13, 1894
Page from "The Plunkville Patriot"
A Letter to His Daughter Margaret.
+------------------------------------------------+
| |
| THE |
| ROLLING STONE |
| is a weekly paper published in Austin, Texas |
| every Saturday and will endeavor to fill a |
| long-felt want that does not appear, |
| by the way, to be altogether in- |
| satiable at present. |
| |
| THE IDEA IS |
| to fill its pages with matter that will make a |
| heart-rending appeal to every lover of |
| good literature, and every person who |
| has a taste for reading print; |
| and a dollar and a half for |
| a year's subscription. |
| |
| OUR SPECIAL PREMIUM |
| For the next thirty days and from that time |
| on indefinitely, whoever will bring two dol- |
| lars in cash to _The Rolling Stone_ office |
| will be entered on the list of sub- |
| scribers for one year and will |
| have returned to him |
| on the spot |
| FIFTY CENTS IN CASH |
| |
+------------------------------------------------+
The editor's own statement of his aims
INTRODUCTION
This the twelfth and final volume of O. Henry's work gets its title from
an early newspaper venture of which he was the head and front. On April
28, 1894, there appeared in Austin, Texas, volume 1, number 3, of The
Rolling Stone, with a circulation greatly in excess of that of the only
two numbers that had gone before. Apparently the business office was
encouraged. The first two issues of one thousand copies each had been
bought up. Of the third an edition of six thousand was published and
distributed FREE, so that the business men of Austin, Texas, might know
what a good medium was at hand for their advertising. The editor and
proprietor and illustrator of _The Rolling Stone_ was Will Porter,
incidentally Paying and Receiving Teller in Major Brackenridge's bank.
Perhaps the most characteristic feature of the paper was "The Plunkville
Patriot," a page each week--or at least with the regularity of the
somewhat uncertain paper itself--purporting to be reprinted from a
contemporary journal. The editor of the Plunkville _Patriot_ was Colonel
Aristotle Jordan, unrelenting enemy of his enemies. When the Colonel's
application for the postmastership in Plunkville is ignored, his columns
carry a bitter attack on the administration at Washington. With the
public weal at heart, the _Patriot_ announces that "there is a dangerous
hole in the front steps of the Elite saloon." Here, too, appears the
delightful literary item that Mark Twain and Charles Egbert Craddock are
spending the summer together in their Adirondacks camp. "Free," runs its
advertising column, "a clergyman who cured himself of fits will send
one book containing 100 popular songs, one repeating rifle, two decks
easywinner cards and 1 liver pad free of charge for $8. Address Sucker
& Chump, Augusta, Me." The office moves nearly every week, probably in
accordance with the time-honored principle involving the comparative
ease of moving and paying rent. When the Colonel publishes his own
candidacy for mayor, he further declares that the _Patriot_ will accept
no announcements for municipal offices until after "our" (the editor's)
canvass. Adams & Co., grocers, order their $2.25 ad. discontinued and
find later in the _Patriot_ this estimate of their product: "No less
than three children have been poisoned by eating their canned vegetables,
and J. O. Adams, the senior member of the firm, was run out of Kansas
City for adulterating codfish balls. It pays to advertise." Here is the
editorial in which the editor first announces his campaign: "Our worthy
mayor, Colonel Henry Stutty, died this morning after an illness of about
five minutes, brought on by carrying a bouquet to Mrs. Eli Watts just
as Eli got in from a fishing trip. Ten minutes later we had dodgers out
announcing our candidacy for the office. We have lived in Plunkville
going on five years and have never been elected anything yet. We
understand the mayor business thoroughly and if elected some people will
wish wolves had stolen them from their cradles . . ."
The page from the _Patriot_ is presented with an array of perfectly
confused type, of artistic errors in setting up, and when an occasional
line gets shifted (intentionally, of course) the effect is alarming.
Anybody who knows the advertising of a small country weekly can, as
he reads, pick out, in the following, the advertisement from the
"personal."
Miss Hattie Green of Paris, Ill., is
Steel-riveted seam or water power
automatic oiling thoroughly tested
visiting her sister Mrs. G. W. Grubes
Little Giant Engines at Adams & Co.
Also Sachet powders Mc. Cormick Reapers and
oysters.
All of this was a part of _The Rolling Stone_, which flourished, or at
least wavered, in Austin during the years 1894 and 1895. Years before,
Porter's strong instinct to write had been gratified in letters. He
wrote, in his twenties, long imaginative letters, occasionally stuffed
with execrable puns, but more than often buoyant, truly humorous, keenly
incisive into the unreal, especially in fiction. I have included a
number of these letters to Doctor Beall of Greensboro, N. C., and to his
early friend in Texas, Mr. David Harrell.
In 1895-1896 Porter went to Houston, Texas, to work on the Houston
_Post_. There he "conducted" a column which he called "Postscripts."
Some of the contents of the pages that follow have been taken from
these old files in the fair hope that admirers of the matured O. Henry
will find in them pleasurable marks of the later genius.
Before the days of _The Rolling Stone_ there are eleven years in Texas
over which, with the exception of the letters mentioned, there are few
"traces" of literary performance; but there are some very interesting
drawings, some of which are reproduced in this volume. A story is back
of them. They were the illustrations to a book. "Joe" Dixon, prospector
and inveterate fortune-seeker, came to Austin from the Rockies in 1883,
at the constant urging of his old pal, Mr. John Maddox, "Joe," kept
writing Mr. Maddox, "your fortune's in your pen, not your pick. Come
to Austin and write an account of your adventures." It was hard to woo
Dixon from the gold that wasn't there, but finally Maddox wrote him he
must come and try the scheme. "There's a boy here from North Carolina,"
wrote Maddox. "His name is Will Porter and he can make the pictures.
He's all right." Dixon came. The plan was that, after Author and Artist
had done their work, Patron would step in, carry the manuscript to New
York, bestow it on a deserving publisher and then return to await, with
the other two, the avalanche of royalties. This version of the story
comes from Mr. Maddox. There were forty pictures in all and they were
very true to the life of the Rockies in the seventies. Of course, the
young artist had no "technique"--no anything except what was native.
But wait! As the months went by Dixon worked hard, but he began to have
doubts. Perhaps the book was no good. Perhaps John would only lose his
money. He was a miner, not a writer, and he ought not to let John go to
any expense. The result of this line of thought was the Colorado River
for the manuscript and the high road for the author. The pictures,
fortunately, were saved. Most of them Porter gave later to Mrs.
Hagelstein of San Angelo, Texas. Mr. Maddox, by the way, finding a note
from Joe that "explained all," hastened to the river and recovered a few
scraps of the great book that had lodged against a sandbar. But there
was no putting them together again.
So much for the title. It is a real O. Henry title. Contents of this
last volume are drawn not only from letters, old newspaper files, and
_The Rolling Stone_, but from magazines and unpublished manuscripts.
Of the short stories, several were written at the very height of his
powers and popularity and were lost, inexplicably, but lost. Of the
poems, there are a few whose authorship might have been in doubt if the
compiler of this collection had not secured external evidence that made
them certainly the work of O. Henry. Without this very strong evidence,
they might have been rejected because they were not entirely the kind
of poems the readers of O. Henry would expect from him. Most of them
however, were found in his own indubitable manuscript or over his own
signature.
There is extant a mass of O. Henry correspondence that has not been
included in this collection. During the better part of a decade in
New York City he wrote constantly to editors, and in many instances
intimately. This is very important material, and permission has been
secured to use nearly all of it in a biographical volume that will be
issued within the next two or three years. The letters in this volume
have been chosen as an "exihibit," as early specimens of his writing and
for their particularly characteristic turns of thought and phrase. The
collection is not "complete" in any historical sense.
1912.
H.P.S.
This record of births and deaths is copied from the Porter Family Bible,
just lately discovered.
BIRTHS
ALGERNON SIDNEY PORTER
Son of
SIDNEY AND RUTH C. PORTER
Was born
August 22, 1825
MONDAY EVENING, May 29, 1858
Still-born Son of
A. S. AND M. V. PORTER
MONDAY, August 6, 1860, 9 o'clock P.M.
SHIRLEY WORTH
Son of A. S. AND M. V. PORTER
THURSDAY, September 11, 1862, 9 o'clock P.M.
WILLIAM SIDNEY [1]
Son of
A. S. AND M. V. PORTER
SUNDAY, March 26, 1865, at 8 o'clock A. M.
DAVID WEIR
Son of
A. S. AND M. V. PORTER
MARY JANE VIRGINIA SWAIM [2]
Daughter of
WILLIAM AND ABIAH SWAIM
Was born
February 12, 1833
DEATHS
MARY VIRGINIA PORTER
TUESDAY EVENING, September 26, 1865
At 7:30 o'clock
ATHOL ESTES PORTER
SUNDAY EVENING, July 25,1897
At 6 o'clock
ALGERNON SIDNEY PORTER
SUNDAY MORNING, September 30, 1888
At 20 minutes of 2 o'clock
[Footnote 1: O. Henry]
[Footnote 2: Mother of O. Henry]
[Illustration: O. Henry at the age of two]
THE DREAM
[This was the last work of O. Henry. The _Cosmopolitan
Magazine_ had ordered it from him and, after his death, the
unfinished manuscript was found in his room, on his dusty
desk. The story as it here appears was published in the
_Cosmopolitan_ for September, 1910.]
Murray dreamed a dream.
Both psychology and science grope when they would explain to us the
strange adventures of our immaterial selves when wandering in the realm
of "Death's twin brother, Sleep." This story will not attempt to be
illuminative; it is no more than a record of Murray's dream. One of the
most puzzling phases of that strange waking sleep is that dreams which
seem to cover months or even years may take place within a few seconds
or minutes.
Murray was waiting in his cell in the ward of the condemned. An electric
arc light in the ceiling of the corridor shone brightly upon his table.
On a sheet of white paper an ant crawled wildly here and there as Murray
blocked its way with an envelope. The electrocution was set for eight
o'clock in the evening. Murray smiled at the antics of the wisest of
insects.
There were seven other condemned men in the chamber. Since he had been
there Murray had seen three taken out to their fate; one gone mad and
fighting like a wolf caught in a trap; one, no less mad, offering up a
sanctimonious lip-service to Heaven; the third, a weakling, collapsed
and strapped to a board. He wondered with what credit to himself his
own heart, foot, and face would meet his punishment; for this was his
evening. He thought it must be nearly eight o'clock.
Opposite his own in the two rows of cells was the cage of Bonifacio, the
Sicilian slayer of his betrothed and of two officers who came to arrest
him. With him Murray had played checkers many a long hour, each calling
his move to his unseen opponent across the corridor.
Bonifacio's great booming voice with its indestructible singing quality
called out:
"Eh, Meestro Murray; how you feel--all-a right--yes?"
"All right, Bonifacio," said Murray steadily, as he allowed the ant to
crawl upon the envelope and then dumped it gently on the stone floor.
"Dat's good-a, Meestro Murray. Men like us, we must-a die like-a men. My
time come nex'-a week. All-a right. Remember, Meestro Murray, I beat-a
you dat las' game of de check. Maybe we play again some-a time. I don'-a
know. Maybe we have to call-a de move damn-a loud to play de check where
dey goin' send us."
Bonifacio's hardened philosophy, followed closely by his deafening,
musical peal of laughter, warmed rather than chilled Murray's numbed
heart. Yet, Bonifacio had until next week to live.
The cell-dwellers heard the familiar, loud click of the steel bolts
as the door at the end of the corridor was opened. Three men came to
Murray's cell and unlocked it. Two were prison guards; the other was
"Len"--no; that was in the old days; now the Reverend Leonard Winston,
a friend and neighbor from their barefoot days.
"I got them to let me take the prison chaplain's place," he said, as he
gave Murray's hand one short, strong grip. In his left hand he held a
small Bible, with his forefinger marking a page.
Murray smiled slightly and arranged two or three books and some
penholders orderly on his small table. He would have spoken, but no
appropriate words seemed to present themselves to his mind.
The prisoners had christened this cellhouse, eighty feet long,
twenty-eight feet wide, Limbo Lane. The regular guard of Limbo Lane,
an immense, rough, kindly man, drew a pint bottle of whiskey from his
pocket and offered it to Murray, saying:
"It's the regular thing, you know. All has it who feel like they need a
bracer. No danger of it becoming a habit with 'em, you see."
Murray drank deep into the bottle.
"That's the boy!" said the guard. "Just a little nerve tonic, and
everything goes smooth as silk."
They stepped into the corridor, and each one of the doomed seven knew.
Limbo Lane is a world on the outside of the world; but it had learned,
when deprived of one or more of the five senses, to make another sense
supply the deficiency. Each one knew that it was nearly eight, and that
Murray was to go to the chair at eight. There is also in the many Limbo
Lanes an aristocracy of crime. The man who kills in the open, who beats
his enemy or pursuer down, flushed by the primitive emotions and the
ardor of combat, holds in contempt the human rat, the spider, and the
snake.
So, of the seven condemned only three called their farewells to Murray
as he marched down the corridor between the two guards--Bonifacio,
Marvin, who had killed a guard while trying to escape from the prison,
and Bassett, the train-robber, who was driven to it because the
express-messenger wouldn't raise his hands when ordered to do so. The
remaining four smoldered, silent, in their cells, no doubt feeling their
social ostracism in Limbo Lane society more keenly than they did the
memory of their less picturesque offences against the law.
Murray wondered at his own calmness and nearly indifference. In the
execution room were about twenty men, a congregation made up of prison
officers, newspaper reporters, and lookers-on who had succeeded
* * * * * *
Here, in the very middle of a sentence, the hand of Death interrupted
the telling of O. Henry's last story. He had planned to make this story
different from his others, the beginning of a new series in a style he
had not previously attempted. "I want to show the public," he said,
"that I can write something new--new for me, I mean--a story without
slang, a straightforward dramatic plot treated in a way that will
come nearer my idea of real story-writing." Before starting to write
the present story, he outlined briefly how he intended to develop it:
Murray, the criminal accused and convicted of the brutal murder of his
sweetheart--a murder prompted by jealous rage--at first faces the death
penalty, calm, and, to all outward appearances, indifferent to his
fate. As he nears the electric chair he is overcome by a revulsion of
feeling. He is left dazed, stupefied, stunned. The entire scene in the
death-chamber--the witnesses, the spectators, the preparations for
execution--become unreal to him. The thought flashes through his brain
that a terrible mistake is being made. Why is he being strapped to the
chair? What has he done? What crime has he committed? In the few moments
while the straps are being adjusted a vision comes to him. He dreams a
dream. He sees a little country cottage, bright, sun-lit, nestling in
a bower of flowers. A woman is there, and a little child. He speaks
with them and finds that they are his wife, his child--and the cottage
their home. So, after all, it is a mistake. Some one has frightfully,
irretrievably blundered. The accusation, the trial, the conviction, the
sentence to death in the electric chair--all a dream. He takes his wife
in his arms and kisses the child. Yes, here is happiness. It was a
dream. Then--at a sign from the prison warden the fatal current is
turned on.
Murray had dreamed the wrong dream.
[Illustration: The "Hill City Quartet," to which O. Henry
belonged as a young man in Austin]
A RULER OF MEN
[Written at the prime of his popularity and power,
this characteristic and amusing story was published
in _Everybody's Magazine_ in August, 1906.]
I walked the streets of the City of Insolence, thirsting for the sight
of a stranger face. For the City is a desert of familiar types as thick
and alike as the grains in a sand-storm; and you grow to hate them as
you do a friend who is always by you, or one of your own kin.
And my desire was granted, for I saw near a corner of Broadway and
Twenty-ninth Street, a little flaxen-haired man with a face like a
scaly-bark hickory-nut, selling to a fast-gathering crowd a tool
that omnigeneously proclaimed itself a can-opener, a screw-driver, a
button-hook, a nail-file, a shoe-horn, a watch-guard, a potato-peeler,
and an ornament to any gentleman's key-ring.
And then a stall-fed cop shoved himself through the congregation of
customers. The vender, plainly used to having his seasons of trade thus
abruptly curtailed, closed his satchel and slipped like a weasel through
the opposite segment of the circle. The crowd scurried aimlessly away
like ants from a disturbed crumb. The cop, suddenly becoming oblivious
of the earth and its inhabitants, stood still, swelling his bulk and
putting his club through an intricate drill of twirls. I hurried after
Kansas Bill Bowers, and caught him by an arm.
Without his looking at me or slowing his pace, I found a five-dollar
bill crumpled neatly into my hand.
"I wouldn't have thought, Kansas Bill," I said, "that you'd hold an old
friend that cheap."
Then he turned his head, and the hickory-nut cracked into a wide smile.
"Give back the money," said he, "or I'll have the cop after you for
false pretenses. I thought you was the cop."
"I want to talk to you, Bill," I said. "When did you leave Oklahoma?
Where is Reddy McGill now? Why are you selling those impossible
contraptions on the street? How did your Big Horn gold-mine pan out? How
did you get so badly sunburned? What will you drink?"
"A year ago," answered Kansas Bill systematically. "Putting up windmills
in Arizona. For pin money to buy etceteras with. Salted. Been down in
the tropics. Beer."
We foregathered in a propitious place and became Elijahs, while a waiter
of dark plumage played the raven to perfection. Reminiscence needs must
be had before I could steer Bill into his epic mood.
"Yes," said he, "I mind the time Timoteo's rope broke on that cow's
horns while the calf was chasing you. You and that cow! I'd never forget
it."
"The tropics," said I, "are a broad territory. What part of Cancer of
Capricorn have you been honoring with a visit?"
"Down along China or Peru--or maybe the Argentine Confederacy," said
Kansas Bill. "Anyway 'twas among a great race of people, off-colored but
progressive. I was there three months."
"No doubt you are glad to be back among the truly great race," I
surmised. "Especially among New Yorkers, the most progressive and
independent citizens of any country in the world," I continued, with the
fatuity of the provincial who has eaten the Broadway lotus.
"Do you want to start an argument?" asked Bill.
"Can there be one?" I answered.
"Has an Irishman humor, do you think?" asked he.
"I have an hour or two to spare," said I, looking at the cafe clock.
"Not that the Americans aren't a great commercial nation," conceded
Bill. "But the fault laid with the people who wrote lies for fiction."
"What was this Irishman's name?" I asked.
"Was that last beer cold enough?" said he.
"I see there is talk of further outbreaks among the Russian peasants," I
remarked.