Rolling Stones

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"Thank you," said Van Sweller, rather coolly, "you are hardly courteous.
But take care! it is at your own risk that you attempt to disregard a
fundamental principle in metropolitan fiction--one that is dear alike to
author and reader. I shall, of course attend to my duty when it comes
time to rescue your heroine; but I warn you that it will be your loss if
you fail to send me to-night to dine at ---- [8]."


[Footnote 8: See advertising column, "Where to Dine Well,"
in the daily newspapers.]


"I will take the consequences if there are to be any," I replied. "I am
not yet come to be sandwich man for an eating-house."

I walked over to a table where I had left my cane and gloves. I heard
the whirr of the alarm in the cab below and I turned quickly. Van
Sweller was gone.

I rushed down the stairs and out to the curb. An empty hansom was just
passing. I hailed the driver excitedly.

"See that auto cab halfway down the block?" I shouted. "Follow it. Don't
lose sight of it for an instant, and I will give you two dollars!"

If I only had been one of the characters in my story instead of myself I
could easily have offered $10 or $25 or even $100. But $2 was all I felt
justified in expending, with fiction at its present rates.

The cab driver, instead of lashing his animal into a foam, proceeded at
a deliberate trot that suggested a by-the-hour arrangement.

But I suspected Van Sweller's design; and when we lost sight of his cab
I ordered my driver to proceed at once to ----. [9]


[Footnote 9: See advertising column, "Where to Dine Well,"
in the daily newspapers.]


I found Van Sweller at a table under a palm, just glancing over the
menu, with a hopeful waiter hovering at his elbow.

"Come with me," I said, inexorably. "You will not give me the slip
again. Under my eye you shall remain until 11:30."

Van Sweller countermanded the order for his dinner, and arose to
accompany me. He could scarcely do less. A fictitious character is but
poorly equipped for resisting a hungry but live author who comes to drag
him forth from a restaurant. All he said was: "You were just in time;
but I think you are making a mistake. You cannot afford to ignore the
wishes of the great reading public."

I took Van Sweller to my own rooms--to my room. He had never seen
anything like it before.

"Sit on that trunk," I said to him, "while I observe whether the
landlady is stalking us. If she is not, I will get things at a
delicatessen store below, and cook something for you in a pan over the
gas jet. It will not be so bad. Of course nothing of this will appear
in the story."

"Jove! old man!" said Van Sweller, looking about him with interest,
"this is a jolly little closet you live in! Where the devil do you
sleep?--Oh, that pulls down! And I say--what is this under the corner of
the carpet?--Oh, a frying pan! I see--clever idea! Fancy cooking over
the gas! What larks it will be!"

"Think of anything you could eat?" I asked; "try a chop, or what?"

"Anything," said Van Sweller, enthusiastically, "except a grilled bone."



Two weeks afterward the postman brought me a large, fat envelope. I
opened it, and took out something that I had seen before, and this
typewritten letter from a magazine that encourages society fiction:


Your short story, "The Badge of Policeman O'Roon," is herewith
returned.

We are sorry that it has been unfavorably passed upon; but it
seems to lack in some of the essential requirements of our
publication.

The story is splendidly constructed; its style is strong and
inimitable, and its action and character-drawing deserve
the highest praise. As a story _per se_ it has merit beyond
anything that we have read for some time. But, as we have said,
it fails to come up to some of the standards we have set.

Could you not re-write the story, and inject into it the social
atmosphere, and return it to us for further consideration? It
is suggested to you that you have the hero, Van Sweller, drop
in for luncheon or dinner once or twice at ---- [10] or at the
---- [11] which will be in line with the changes desired.

Very truly yours
THE EDITORS.


[Footnote 10: See advertising column, "Where to Dine Well,"
in the daily newspapers.]

[Footnote 11: See advertising column, "Where to Dine Well,"
in the daily newspapers.]



[Illustration: "See him do it." (cartoon from _The Rolling
Stone_)]




SOUND AND FURY


[O. Henry wrote this for _Ainslee's Magazine_, where it
appeared in March, 1903.]


PERSONS OF THE DRAMA

Mr. PENNE . . . . . . An Author
Miss LORE . . . . . . An Amanuensis

SCENE--Workroom of Mr. Penne's popular novel factory.

MR. PENNE--Good morning, Miss Lore. Glad to see you so prompt. We
should finish that June installment for the _Epoch_ to-day. Leverett is
crowding me for it. Are you quite ready? We will resume where we left
off yesterday. (Dictates.) "Kate, with a sigh, rose from his knees,
and--"

MISS LORE--Excuse me; you mean "rose from her knees," instead of "his,"
don't you?

MR. PENNE--Er--no--"his," if you please. It is the love scene in the
garden. (Dictates.) "Rose from his knees where, blushing with youth's
bewitching coyness, she had rested for a moment after Cortland had
declared his love. The hour was one of supreme and tender joy. When
Kate--scene that Cortland never--"

MISS LORE--Excuse me; but wouldn't it be more grammatical to say "when
Kate SAW," instead of "seen"?

MR. PENNE--The context will explain. (Dictates.) "When Kate--scene that
Cortland never forgot--came tripping across the lawn it seemed to him
the fairest sight that earth had ever offered to his gaze."

Miss LORE--Oh!

MR. PENNE (dictates)--"Kate had abandoned herself to the joy of her
new-found love so completely, that no shadow of her former grief was
cast upon it. Cortland, with his arm firmly entwined about her waist,
knew nothing of her sighs--"

MISS LORE--Goodness! If he couldn't tell her size with his arm around--

MR. PENNE (frowning)--"Of her sighs and tears of the previous night."

MISS LORE--Oh!

MR. PENNE (dictates)--"To Cortland the chief charm of this girl was her
look of innocence and unworldiness. Never had nun--"

MISS LORE--How about changing that to "never had any?"

MR. PENNE (emphatically)--"Never had nun in cloistered cell a face more
sweet and pure."

MISS LORE--Oh!

MR. PENNE (dictates)--"But now Kate must hasten back to the house lest
her absence be discovered. After a fond farewell she turned and sped
lightly away. Cortland's gaze followed her. He watched her rise--"

MISS LORE--Excuse me, Mr. Penne; but how could he watch her eyes while
her back was turned toward him?

MR. PENNE (with extreme politeness)--Possibly you would gather my
meaning more intelligently if you would wait for the conclusion of the
sentence. (Dictates.) "Watched her rise as gracefully as a fawn as she
mounted the eastern terrace."

MISS LORE--Oh!

Mr. PENNE (dictates)--"And yet Cortland's position was so far above that
of this rustic maiden that he dreaded to consider the social upheaval
that would ensue should he marry her. In no uncertain tones the
traditional voices of his caste and world cried out loudly to him to let
her go. What should follow--"

MISS LORE (looking up with a start)--I'm sure I can't say, Mr. Penne.
Unless (with a giggle) you would want to add "Gallegher."

Mr. PENNE (coldly)--Pardon me. I was not seeking to impose upon you the
task of a collaborator. Kindly consider the question a part of the text.

MISS LORE--Oh!

Mr. PENNE (dictates)--"On one side was love and Kate; on the other side
his heritage of social position and family pride. Would love win? Love,
that the poets tell us will last forever! (Perceives that Miss Lore
looks fatigued, and looks at his watch.) That's a good long stretch.
Perhaps we'd better knock off a bit."

(Miss Lore does not reply.)

Mr. PENNE--I said, Miss Lore, we've been at it quite a long time--
wouldn't you like to knock off for a while?

MISS LORE--Oh! Were you addressing me before? I put what you said down.
I thought it belonged in the story. It seemed to fit in all right. Oh,
no; I'm not tired.

MR. PENNE--Very well, then, we will continue. (Dictates.) "In spite of
these qualms and doubts, Cortland was a happy man. That night at the
club he silently toasted Kate's bright eyes in a bumper of the rarest
vintage. Afterward he set out for a stroll with, as Kate on--"

MISS LORE--Excuse me, Mr. Penne, for venturing a suggestion; but don't
you think you might state that in a less coarse manner?

MR. PENNE (astounded)--Wh-wh--I'm afraid I fail to understand you.

MISS LORE--His condition. Why not say he was "full" or "intoxicated"? It
would sound much more elegant than the way you express it.

MR. PENNE (still darkly wandering)--Will you kindly point out, Miss
Lore, where I have intimated that Cortland was "full," if you prefer
that word?

MISS LORE (calmly consulting her stenographic notes)--It is right here,
word for word. (Reads.) "Afterward he set out for a stroll with a skate
on."

MR. PENNE (with peculiar emphasis)--Ah! And now will you kindly take
down the expurgated phrase? (Dictates.) "Afterward he set out for a
stroll with, as Kate on one occasion had fancifully told him, her spirit
leaning upon his arm."

MISS LORE--Oh!

Mr. PENNE (dictates)--Chapter thirty-four. Heading--"What Kate Found
in the Garden." "That fragrant summer morning brought gracious tasks
to all. The bees were at the honeysuckle blossoms on the porch. Kate,
singing a little song, was training the riotous branches of her favorite
woodbine. The sun, himself, had rows--"

MISS LORE--Shall I say "had risen"?

MR. PENNE (very slowly and with desperate deliberation)--"The--sun--
himself--had--rows--of--blushing--pinks--and--bollyhocks--and--
hyacinths--waiting--that--he--might--dry--their--dew-drenched--cups."

MISS LORE--Oh!

MR. PENNE (dictates)--"The earliest trolley, scattering the birds from
its pathway like some marauding cat, brought Cortland over from Oldport.
He had forgotten his fair--"

MISS LORE--Hm! Wonder how he got the conductor to--

Mr. PENNE (very loudly)--"Forgotten his fair and roseate visions of the
night in the practical light of the sober morn."

MISS LORE--Oh!

MR. PENNE (dictates)--"He greeted her with his usual smile and manner.
'See the waves,' he cried, pointing to the heaving waters of the sea,
'ever wooing and returning to the rockbound shore.'" "'Ready to break,'
Kate said, with--"

MISS LORE--My! One evening he has his arm around her, and the next
morning he's ready to break her head! Just like a man!

MR. PENNE (with suspicious calmness)--There are times, Miss Lore, when
a man becomes so far exasperated that even a woman--But suppose we
finish the sentence. (Dictates.) "'Ready to break,' Kate said, with
the thrilling look of a soul-awakened woman, 'into foam and spray,
destroying themselves upon the shore they love so well."

MISS LORE--Oh!

MR. PENNE (dictates)--"Cortland, in Kate's presence heard faintly the
voice of caution. Thirty years had not cooled his ardor. It was in
his power to bestow great gifts upon this girl. He still retained the
beliefs that he had at twenty." (To Miss Lore, wearily) I think that
will be enough for the present.

MISS LORE (wisely)--Well, if he had the twenty that he believed he had,
it might buy her a rather nice one.

MR. PENNE (faintly)--The last sentence was my own. We will discontinue
for the day, Miss Lore.

MISS LORE--Shall I come again to-morrow?

MR. PENNE (helpless under the spell)--If you will be so good.

(Exit Miss Lore.)

ASBESTOS CURTAIN



[Illustrations: Two letters of reference taken by young Will
Porter from North Carolina to Texas]




TICTOCQ


[These two farcical stories about Tictocq appeared in
_The Rolling Stone_. They are reprinted here with all of
their local references because, written hurriedly and for
neighborly reading, they nevertheless have an interest
for the admirer of O. Henry. They were written in 1894.]


THE GREAT FRENCH DETECTIVE, IN AUSTIN


A Successful Political Intrigue


CHAPTER I

It is not generally known that Tictocq, the famous French detective, was
in Austin last week. He registered at the Avenue Hotel under an assumed
name, and his quiet and reserved manners singled him out at once for one
not to be singled out.

No one knows why he came to Austin, but to one or two he vouchsafed the
information that his mission was an important one from the French
Government.

One report is that the French Minister of State has discovered an old
statute among the laws of the empire, resulting from a treaty between
the Emperor Charlemagne and Governor Roberts which expressly provides
for the north gate of the Capital grounds being kept open, but this is
merely a conjecture.

Last Wednesday afternoon a well-dressed gentleman knocked at the door of
Tictocq's room in the hotel.

The detective opened the door.

"Monsieur Tictocq, I believe," said the gentleman.

"You will see on the register that I sign my name Q. X. Jones," said
Tictocq, "and gentlemen would understand that I wish to be known as
such. If you do not like being referred to as no gentleman, I will give
you satisfaction any time after July 1st, and fight Steve O'Donnell,
John McDonald, and Ignatius Donnelly in the meantime if you desire."

"I do not mind it in the least," said the gentleman. "In fact, I am
accustomed to it. I am Chairman of the Democratic Executive Committee,
Platform No. 2, and I have a friend in trouble. I knew you were Tictocq
from your resemblance to yourself."

"Entrez vous," said the detective.

The gentleman entered and was handed a chair.

"I am a man of few words," said Tictoq. "I will help your friend if
possible. Our countries are great friends. We have given you Lafayette
and French fried potatoes. You have given us California champagne
and--taken back Ward McAllister. State your case."

"I will be very brief," said the visitor. "In room No. 76 in this hotel
is stopping a prominent Populist Candidate. He is alone. Last night some
one stole his socks. They cannot be found. If they are not recovered,
his party will attribute their loss to the Democracy. They will make
great capital of the burglary, although I am sure it was not a political
move at all. The socks must be recovered. You are the only man that can
do it."

Tictocq bowed.

"Am I to have carte blanche to question every person connected with the
hotel?"

"The proprietor has already been spoken to. Everything and everybody is
at your service."

Tictocq consulted his watch.

"Come to this room to-morrow afternoon at 6 o'clock with the landlord,
the Populist Candidate, and any other witnesses elected from both
parties, and I will return the socks."

"Bien, Monsieur; schlafen sie wohl."

"Au revoir."

The Chairman of the Democratic Executive Committee, Platform No.2, bowed
courteously and withdrew.

* * * * * *

Tictocq sent for the bell boy.

"Did you go to room 76 last night?"

"Yes, sir."

"Who was there?"

"An old hayseed what come on the 7:25."

"What did he want?"

"The bouncer."

"What for?"

"To put the light out."

"Did you take anything while in the room?"

"No, he didn't ask me."

"What is your name?"

"Jim."

"You can go."


CHAPTER II

The drawing-rooms of one of the most magnificent private residences in
Austin are a blaze of lights. Carriages line the streets in front, and
from gate to doorway is spread a velvet carpet, on which the delicate
feet of the guests may tread.

The occasion is the entree into society of one of the fairest buds in
the City of the Violet Crown. The rooms are filled with the culture, the
beauty, the youth and fashion of society. Austin society is acknowledged
to be the wittiest, the most select, and the highest bred to be found
southwest of Kansas City.

Mrs. Rutabaga St. Vitus, the hostess, is accustomed to draw around her
a circle of talent, and beauty, rarely equalled anywhere. Her evenings
come nearer approaching the dignity of a salon than any occasion,
except, perhaps, a Tony Faust and Marguerite reception at the Iron
Front.

Miss St. Vitus, whose advent into society's maze was heralded by such an
auspicious display of hospitality, is a slender brunette, with large,
lustrous eyes, a winning smile, and a charming ingenue manner. She wears
a china silk, cut princesse, with diamond ornaments, and a couple of
towels inserted in the back to conceal prominence of shoulder blades.
She is chatting easily and naturally on a plush covered tete-a-tete with
Harold St. Clair, the agent for a Minneapolis pants company. Her friend
and schoolmate, Elsie Hicks, who married three drummers in one day, a
week or two before, and won a wager of two dozen bottles of Budweiser
from the handsome and talented young hack-driver, Bum Smithers, is
promenading in and out the low French windows with Ethelbert Windup, the
popular young candidate for hide inspector, whose name is familiar to
every one who reads police court reports.

Somewhere, concealed by shrubbery, a band is playing, and during the
pauses in conversation, onions can be smelt frying in the kitchen.

Happy laughter rings out from ruby lips, handsome faces grow tender as
they bend over white necks and drooping beads; timid eyes convey things
that lips dare not speak, and beneath silken bodice and broadcloth,
hearts beat time to the sweet notes of "Love's Young Dream."

"And where have you been for some time past, you recreant cavalier?"
says Miss St. Vitus to Harold St. Clair. "Have you been worshipping at
another shrine? Are you recreant to your whilom friends? Speak, Sir
Knight, and defend yourself."

"Oh, come off," says Harold, in his deep, musical baritone; "I've been
having a devil of a time fitting pants on a lot of bow-legged jays from
the cotton-patch. Got knobs on their legs, some of 'em big as gourds,
and all expect a fit. Did you every try to measure a bow-legged--I
mean--can't you imagine what a jam-swizzled time I have getting pants to
fit 'em? Business dull too, nobody wants 'em over three dollars."

"You witty boy," says Miss St. Vitus. "Just as full of bon mots and
clever sayings as ever. What do you take now?"

"Oh, beer."

"Give me your arm and let's go into the drawing-room and draw a cork.
I'm chewing a little cotton myself."

Arm in arm, the handsome couple pass across the room, the cynosure of
all eyes. Luderic Hetherington, the rising and gifted night-watchman
at the Lone Star slaughter house, and Mabel Grubb, the daughter of the
millionaire owner of the Humped-backed Camel saloon, are standing under
the oleanders as they go by.

"She is very beautiful," says Luderic.

"Rats," says Mabel.

A keen observer would have noted all this time the figure of a solitary
man who seemed to avoid the company but by adroit changing of his
position, and perfectly cool and self-possessed manner, avoided drawing
any especial attention to himself.

The lion of the evening is Herr Professor Ludwig von Bum, the pianist.

He had been found drinking beer in a saloon on East Pecan Street by
Colonel St. Vitus about a week before, and according to the Austin
custom in such cases, was invited home by the colonel, and the next day
accepted into society, with large music classes at his service.

Professor von Bum is playing the lovely symphony in G minor from
Beethoven's "Songs Without Music." The grand chords fill the room with
exquisite harmony. He plays the extremely difficult passages in the
obligato home run in a masterly manner, and when he finishes with that
grand te deum with arpeggios on the side, there is that complete hush in
the room that is dearer to the artist's heart than the loudest applause.

The professor looks around.

The room is empty.

Empty with the exception of Tictocq, the great French detective, who
springs from behind a mass of tropical plants to his side.

The professor rises in alarm.

"Hush," says Tictocq: "Make no noise at all. You have already made
enough."

Footsteps are heard outside.

"Be quick," says Tictocq: "give me those socks. There is not a moment to
spare."

"Vas sagst du?"

"Ah, he confesses," says Tictocq. "No socks will do but those you
carried off from the Populist Candidate's room."

The company is returning, no longer hearing the music.

Tictooq hesitates not. He seizes the professor, throws him upon the
floor, tears off his shoes and socks, and escapes with the latter
through the open window into the garden.


CHAPTER III

Tictocq's room in the Avenue Hotel.

A knock is heard at the door.

Tictocq opens it and looks at his watch.

"Ah," he says, "it is just six. Entrez, Messieurs."

The messieurs entrez. There are seven of them; the Populist Candidate
who is there by invitation, not knowing for what purpose; the chairman
of the Democratic Executive Committee, platform No. 2, the hotel
proprietor, and three or four Democrats and Populists, as near as could
be found out.

"I don't know," begins the Populist Candidate, "what in the h----"

"Excuse me," says Tictocq, firmly. "You will oblige me by keeping silent
until I make my report. I have been employed in this case, and I have
unravelled it. For the honor of France I request that I be heard with
attention."

"Certainly," says the chairman; "we will be pleased to listen."

Tictocq stands in the centre of the room. The electric light burns
brightly above him. He seems the incarnation of alertness, vigor,
cleverness, and cunning.

The company seat themselves in chairs along the wall.

"When informed of the robbery," begins Tictocq, "I first questioned the
bell boy. He knew nothing. I went to the police headquarters. They knew
nothing. I invited one of them to the bar to drink. He said there used
to be a little colored boy in the Tenth Ward who stole things and kept
them for recovery by the police, but failed to be at the place agreed
upon for arrest one time, and had been sent to jail.

"I then began to think. I reasoned. No man, said I, would carry a
Populist's socks in his pocket without wrapping them up. He would not
want to do so in the hotel. He would want a paper. Where would he get
one? At the _Statesman office_, of course. I went there. A young man
with his hair combed down on his forehead sat behind the desk. I knew
he was writing society items, for a young lady's slipper, a piece of
cake, a fan, a half emptied bottle of cocktail, a bunch of roses, and
a police whistle lay on the desk before him.

"'Can you tell me if a man purchased a paper here in the last three
months?' I said.

"'Yes,' he replied; 'we sold one last night.'

"'Can you describe the man?'

"'Accurately. He had blue whiskers, a wart between his shoulder blades,
a touch of colic, and an occupation tax on his breath.'

"'Which way did he go?'

"'Out.'

"I then went--"

"Wait a minute," said the Populist Candidate, rising; "I don't see why
in the h----"

"Once more I must beg that you will be silent," said Tictocq, rather
sharply. "You should not interrupt me in the midst of my report."

"I made one false arrest," continued Tictocq. "I was passing two finely
dressed gentlemen on the street, when one of them remarked that he had
'stole his socks.' I handcuffed him and dragged him to a lighted store,
when his companion explained to me that he was somewhat intoxicated and
his tongue was not entirely manageable. He had been speaking of some
business transaction, and what he intended to say was that he had 'sold
his stocks.'

"I then released him.

"An hour afterward I passed a saloon, and saw this Professor von Bum
drinking beer at a table. I knew him in Paris. I said 'here is my man.'
He worshipped Wagner, lived on limburger cheese, beer, and credit, and
would have stolen anybody's socks. I shadowed him to the reception at
Colonel St. Vitus's, and in an opportune moment I seized him and tore
the socks from his feet. There they are."

With a dramatic gesture, Tictocq threw a pair of dingy socks upon the
table, folded his arms, and threw back his head.

With a loud cry of rage, the Populist Candidate sprang once more to his
feet.

"Gol darn it! I WILL say what I want to. I--"

The two other Populists in the room gazed at him coldly and sternly.

"Is this tale true?" they demanded of the Candidate.

"No, by gosh, it ain't!" he replied, pointing a trembling finger at the
Democratic Chairman. "There stands the man who has concocted the whole
scheme. It is an infernal, unfair political trick to lose votes for
our party. How far has thing gone?" he added, turning savagely to the
detective.

"All the newspapers have my written report on the matter, and the
_Statesman_ will have it in plate matter next week," said Tictocq,
complacently.

"All is lost!" said the Populists, turning toward the door.

"For God's sake, my friends," pleaded the Candidate, following them;
"listen to me; I swear before high heaven that I never wore a pair of
socks in my life. It is all a devilish campaign lie."

The Populists turn their backs.