by O Henry
These are the directions for finding the I office of Carteret
Carteret, Mill Supplies and Leather Belting: You follow the Broadway
trail down until you pass the Crosstown Line, the Bread Line, and the
Dead Line, and come to the Big Canons of the Moneygrubber Tribe. Then
you turn to the left, to the right, dodge a push-cart and the tongue
of a two-ton, four-horse dray and hop, skip, and jump to a granite
ledge on the side of a twenty-one-story synthetic mountain of stone
and iron. In the twelfth story is the office of Carteret Carteret.
The factory where they make the mill supplies and leather belting is
in Brooklyn. Those commodities—to say nothing of Brooklyn—not being
of interest to you, let us hold the incidents within the confines of a
one-act, one-scene play, thereby lessening the toil of the reader and
the expenditure of the publisher. So, if you have the courage to face
four pages of type and Carteret Carteret's office boy, Percival, you
shall sit on a varnished chair in the inner office and peep at the
little comedy of the Old Nigger Man, the Hunting-Case Watch, and the
Open-Faced Question—mostly borrowed from the late Mr. Frank
Stockton, as you will conclude.
First, biography (but pared to the quick) must intervene. I am for
the inverted sugar-coated quinine pill—the bitter on the outside.
The Carterets were, or was (Columbia College professors please
rule), an old Virginia family. Long time ago the gentlemen of the
family had worn lace ruffles and carried tinless foils and owned
plantations and had slaves to burn. But the war had greatly reduced
their holdings. (Of course you can perceive at once that this flavor
has been shoplifted from Mr. F. Hopkinson Smith, in spite of the
"et" after "Carter.") Well, anyhow:
In digging up the Carteret history I shall not take you farther
back than the year 1620. The two original American Carterets came
over in that year, but by different means of transportation. One
brother, named John, came in the Mayflower and became a Pilgrim
Father. You've seen his picture on the covers of the Thanksgiving
magazines, hunting turkeys in the deep snow with a blunderbuss.
Blandford Carteret, the other brother, crossed the pond in his own
brigantine, landed on the Virginia coast, and became an F.F.V. John
became distinguished for piety and shrewdness in business; Blandford
for his pride, juleps; marksmanship, and vast slave-cultivated
Then came the Civil War. (I must condense this historical
interpolation.) Stonewall Jackson was shot; Lee surrendered; Grant
toured the world; cotton went to nine cents; Old Crow whiskey and
Jim Crow cars were invented; the Seventy-ninth Massachusetts
Volunteers returned to the Ninety-seventh Alabama Zouaves the battle
flag of Lundy's Lane which they bought at a second-hand store in
Chelsea kept by a man named Skzchnzski; Georgia sent the President a
sixty-pound watermelon—and that brings us up to the time when the
story begins. My! but that was sparring for an opening! I really must
brush op on my Aristotle.
The Yankee Carterets went into business in New York long before the
war. Their house, as far as Leather Belting and Mill Supplies was
concerned, was as musty and arrogant and solid as one of those old
East India tea-importing concerns that you read about in Dickens.
There were some rumors of a war behind its counters, but not enough to
affect the business.
During and after the war, Blandford Carteret, F.F.V., lost his
plantations, juleps, marksmanship, and life. He bequeathed little
more than his pride to his surviving family. So it came to pass that
Blandford Carteret, the Fifth, aged fifteen, was invited by the
leather-and-millsupplies branch of that name to come North and learn
business instead of hunting foxes and boasting of the glory of his
fathers on the reduced acres of his impoverished family. The boy
jumped at the chance; and, at the age of twenty-five, sat in the
office of the firm equal partner with John, the Fifth, of the
blunderbuss-and-turkey branch. Here the story begins again.
The young men were about the same age, smooth of face, alert, easy
of manner, and with an air that promised mental and physical
quickness. They were razored, blue-serged, straw-hatted, and pearl
stick-pinned like other young New Yorkers who might be millionaires or
One afternoon at four o'clock, in the private office of the firm,
Blandford Carteret opened a letter that a clerk had just brought to
his desk. After reading it, he chuckled audibly for nearly a minute.
John looked around from his desk inquiringly.
"It's from mother," said Blandford. "I'll read you the funny part
of it. She tells me all the neighborhood news first, of course, and
then cautions me against getting my feet wet and musical comedies.
After that come some vital statistics about calves and pigs and an
estimate of the wheat crop. And now I'll quote some:
"'And what do you think! Old Uncle Jake, who was seventy-six last
Wednesday, must go travelling. Nothing would do but he must go to New
York and see his "young Marster Blandford." Old as he is, he has a
deal of common sense, so I've let him go. I couldn't refuse him—he
seemed to have concentrated all his hopes and desires into this one
adventure into the wide world. You know he was born on the
plantation, and has never been ten miles away from it in his life.
And he was your father's body servant during the war, and has been
always a faithful vassal and servant of the family. He has often seen
the gold watch—the watch that was your father's and your father's
father's. I told him it was to be yours, And he begged me to allow
him to take it to you and to put it into your hands himself.
"'So he has it, carefully inclosed in a buck-skin case, and is
bringing it to you with all the pride and importance of a king's
messenger. I gave him money for the round trip and for a two weeks'
stay in the city. I wish you would see to it that he gets comfortable
quarters—Jake won't need much looking after—he's able to take care
of himself. But I have read in the papers that African bishops and
colored potentates generally have much trouble in obtaining food and
lodging in the Yankee metropolis. That may be all right; but I don't
see why the best hotel there shouldn't take Jake in. Still, I suppose
it's a rule.
"'I gave him full directions about finding you, and packed his
valise myself. You won't have to bother with him; but I do hope
you'll see that he is made comfortable. Take the watch that he brings
you—it's almost a decoration. It has been worn by true Carterets,
and there isn't a stain upon it nor a false movement of the wheels.
Bringing it to you is the crowning joy of old Jake's life. I wanted
him to have that little outing and that happiness before it is too
late. You have often heard us talk about how Jake, pretty badly
wounded himself, crawled through the reddened grass at
Chancellorsville to where your father lay with the bullet in his dear
heart, and took the watch from his pocket to keep it from the "Yanks."
"'So, my son, when the old man comes consider him as a frail but
worthy messenger from the old-time life and home.
"'You have been so long away from home and so long among the people
that we have always regarded as aliens that I'm not sure that Jake
will know you when he sees you. But Jake has a keen perception, and I
rather believe that he will know a Virginia Carteret at sight. I
can't conceive that even ten years in Yankee-land could change a boy
of mine. Anyhow, I'm sure you will know Jake. I put eighteen collars
in his valise. If he should have to buy others, he wears a number 15
1/2. Please see that he gets the right ones. He will be no trouble
to you at all.
"'If you are not too busy, I'd like for you to find him a place to
board where they have white-meal corn-bread, and try to keep him from
taking his shoes off in your office or on the street. His right foot
swells a little, and he likes to be comfortable.
"'If you can spare the time, count his handkerchiefs when they come
back from the wash. I bought him a dozen new ones before he left. He
should be there about the time this letter reaches you. I told him to
go straight to your office when he arrives.'"
As soon as Blandford had finished the reading of this, something
happened (as there should happen in stories and must happen on the
Percival, the office boy, with his air of despising the world's
output of mill supplies and leather belting, came in to announce that
a colored gentleman was outside to see Mr. Blandford Carteret.
"Bring him in," said Blandford, rising.
John Carteret swung around in his chair and said to Percival: "Ask
him to wait a few minutes outside. We'll let you know when to bring
Then he turned to his cousin with one of those broad, slow smiles
that was an inheritance of all the Carterets, and said:
"Bland, I've always had a consuming curiosity to understand the
differences that you haughty Southerners believe to exist between 'you
all ' and the people of the North. Of course, I know that you
consider yourselves made out of finer clay and look upon Adam as only
a collateral branch of your ancestry; but I don't know why. I never
could understand the differences between us."
"Well, John," said Blandford, laughing, "what you don't understand
about it is just the difference, of course. I suppose it was the
feudal way in which we lived that gave us our lordly baronial airs and
feeling of superiority."
"But you are not feudal, now," went on John. "Since we licked you
and stole your cotton and mules you've had to go to work just as we
'damyankees,' as you call us, have always been doing. And you're just
as proud and exclusive and upper-classy as you were before the war.
So it wasn't your money that caused it."
"Maybe it was the climate," said Blandford, lightly, "or maybe our
negroes spoiled us. I'll call old Jake in, now. I'll be glad to see
the old villain again."
"Wait just a moment," said John. "I've got a little theory I want
to test. You and I are pretty much alike in our general appearance.
Old Jake hasn't seen you since you were fifteen. Let's have him in
and play fair and see which of us gets the watch. The old darky
surrey ought to be able to pick out his 'young marster' without any
trouble. The alleged aristocratic superiority of a 'reb' ought to be
visible to him at once. He couldn't make the mistake of handing over
the timepiece to a Yankee, of course. The loser buys the dinner this
evening and two dozen 15 1/2 collars for Jake. Is it a go?"
Blandford agreed heartily. Percival was summoned, and told to
usher the "colored gentleman" in.
Uncle Jake stepped inside the private office cautiously. He was a
little old man, as black as soot, wrinkled and bald except for a
fringe of white wool, cut decorously short, that ran over his ears and
around his head. There was nothing of the stage "uncle" about him:
his black suit nearly fitted him; his shoes shone, and his straw hat
was banded with a gaudy ribbon. In his right hand he carried
something carefully concealed by his closed fingers.
Uncle Jake stopped a few steps from the door. Two young men sat in
their revolving desk-chairs ten feet apart and looked at him in
friendly silence. His gaze slowly shifted many times from one to the
other. He felt sure that he was in the presence of one, at least, of
the revered family among whose fortunes his life had begun and was to
One had the pleasing but haughty Carteret air; the other had the
unmistakable straight, long family nose. Both had the keen black
eyes, horizontal brows, and thin, smiling lips that had distinguished
both the Carteret of the Mayflower and him of the brigantine. Old
Jake had thought that he could have picked out his young master
instantly from a thousand Northerners; but he found himself in
difficulties. The best he could do was to use strategy.
"Howdy, Marse Blandford—howdy, suh ?" he said, looking midway
between the two young men.
"Howdy, Uncle Jake?" they both answered pleasantly and in unison.
"Sit down. Have you brought the watch ?"
Uncle Jake chose a hard-bottom chair at a respectful distance, sat
on the edge of it, and laid his hat carefully on the floor. The watch
in its buckskin case he gripped tightly. He had not risked his life
on the battle-field to rescue that watch from his "old marster's" foes
to hand it over again to the enemy without a struggle.
"Yes, suh; I got it in my hand, suh. I'm gwine give it to you
right away in jus' a minute. Old Missus told me to put it in young
Marse Blandford's hand and tell him to wear it for the family pride
and honor. It was a mighty longsome trip for an old nigger man to
make— ten thousand miles, it must be, back to old Vi'ginia, suh.
You've growed mightily, young marster. I wouldn't have reconnized
you but for yo' powerful resemblance to old marster."
With admirable diplomacy the old man kept his eyes roaming in the
space between the two men. His words might have been addressed to
either. Though neither wicked nor perverse, he was seeking for a
Blandford and John exchanged winks.
"I reckon you done got you ma's letter," went on Uncle Jake. "She
said she was gwine to write to you 'bout my comin' along up this er-
"Yes, yes, Uncle Jake," said John briskly. "My cousin and I have
just been notified to expect you. We are both Carterets, you know."
"Although one of us," said Blandford, "was born and raised in the
"So if you will hand over the watch—" said John.
"My cousin and I-" said Blandford.
'Will then see to it—" said John.
"That comfortable quarters are found for you," said Blandford.
With creditable ingenuity, old Jake set up a cackling,
high-pitched, protracted laugh. He beat his knee, picked up his hat
and bent the brim in an apparent paroxysm of humorous appreciation.
The seizure afforded him a mask behind which he could roll his eyes
impartially between, above, and beyond his two tormentors.
"I sees what!" he chuckled, after a while. "You gen'lemen is
tryin' to have fun with the po' old nigger. But you can't fool old
Jake. I knowed you, Marse Blandford, the minute I sot eyes on you.
You was a po' skimpy little boy no mo' than about fo'teen when you
lef' home to come No'th; but I knowed you the minute I sot eyes on
you. You is the mawtal image of old marster. The other gen'leman
resembles you mightily, suh; but you can't fool old Jake on a member
of the old Vi'ginia family. No suh."
At exactly the same time both Carterets smiled and extended a hand
for the watch.
Uncle Jake's wrinkled, black face lost the expression of amusement
to which he had vainly twisted it. He knew that he was being teased,
and that it made little real difference, as far as its safety went,
into which of those outstretched hands he placed the family treasure.
But it seemed to him that not only his own pride and loyalty but much
of the Virginia Carterets' was at stake. He had heard down South
during the war about that other branch of the family that lived in the
North and fought on "the yuther side," and it had always grieved him.
He had followed his "old marster's" fortunes from stately luxury
through war to almost poverty. And now, with the last relic and
reminder of him, blessed by "old missus," and intrusted implicitly to
his care, he had come ten thousand miles (as it seemed) to deliver it
into the hands of the one who was to wear it and wind it and cherish
it and listen to it tick off the unsullied hours that marked the lives
of the Carterets—of Virginia.
His experience and conception of the Yankees had been an impression
of tyrants—"low-down, common trash"—in blue, laying waste with fire
and sword. He had seen the smoke of many burning homesteads almost as
grand as Carteret Hall ascending to the drowsy Southern skies. And
now he was face to face with one of them—and he could not distinguish
him from his "young marster" whom he had come to find and bestow upon
him the emblem of his kingship—even as the arm "clothed in white
samite, mystic, wonderful" laid Excalibur in the right hand of Arthur.
He saw before him two young men, easy, kind, courteous, welcoming,
either of whom might have been the one he sought. Troubled,
bewildered, sorely grieved at his weakness of judgment, old Jake
abandoned his loyal subterfuges. His right hand sweated against the
buckskin cover of the watch. He was deeply humiliated and chastened.
Seriously, now, his prominent, yellow-white eyes closely scanned the
two young men. At the end of his scrutiny he was conscious of but one
difference between them. One wore a narrow black tie with a white
pearl stickpin. The other's "four-in-hand " was a narrow blue one
pinned with a black pearl.
And then, to old Jake's relief, there came a sudden distraction.
Drama knocked at the door with imperious knuckles, and forced Comedy
to the wings, and Drama peeped with a smiling but set face over the
Percival, the hater of mill supplies, brought in a card, which he
handed, with the manner of one bearing a cartel, to Blue-Tie.
"'Olivia De Ormond,'" read Blue-Tie from the card. He looked
inquiringly at his cousin.
"Why not have her in," said Black-Tie, "and bring matters to a
"Uncle Jake," said one of the young men, "would you mind taking
that chair over there in the corner for a while? A lady is coming
in—on some business. We'll take up your case afterward."
The lady whom Percival ushered in was young and petulantly,
decidedly, freshly, consciously, and intentionally pretty. She was
dressed with such expensive plainness that she made you consider lace
and ruffles as mere tatters and rags. But one great ostrich plume
that she wore would have marked her anywhere in the army of beauty as
the wearer of the merry helmet of Navarre.
Miss De Ormond accepted the swivel chair at Blue-Tie's desk. Then
the gentlemen drew leather-upholstered seats conveniently near, and
spoke of the weather.
"Yes," said she, "I noticed it was warmer. But I mustn't take up
too much of your time during business hours. That is," she continued,
"unless we talk business."
She addressed her words to Blue-Tie, with a charming smile.
"Very well," said he. "You don't mind my cousin being present, do
you? We are generally rather confidential with each other-especially
in business matters."
"Oh no," caroled Miss De Ormond. "I'd rather he did hear. He
knows all about it, anyhow. In fact, he's quite a material witness
because he was present when you—when it happened. I thought you
might want to talk things over before—well, before any action is
taken, as I believe the lawyers say."
"Have you anything in the way of a proposition to make?" asked
Miss De Ormond looked reflectively at the neat toe of one of her
"I had a proposal made to me," she said. "If the proposal sticks
it cuts out the proposition. Let's have that settled first."
"Well, as far as—" began Blue-Tie.
"Excuse me, cousin," interrupted Black-Tie, "if you don't mind my
cutting in." And then he turned, with a good-natured air, toward the
"Now, let's recapitulate a bit," he said cheerfully. "All three of
us, besides other mutual acquaintances, have been out on a good many
"I'm afraid I'll have to call the birds by another name," said Miss
"All right," responded Black-Tie, with unimpaired cheerfulness;
"suppose we say 'squabs' when we talk about the 'proposal' and 'larks'
when we discuss the 'proposition.' You have a quick mind, Miss De
Ormond. Two months ago some half-dozen of us went in a motor-car for
day's run into the country. We stopped at a road-house for dinner.
My cousin proposed marriage to you then and there. He was influenced
to do so, of course, by the beauty and charm which no one can deny
that you possess."
"I wish I had you for a press agent, Mr. Carteret," said the
beauty, with a dazzling smile.
"You are on the stage, Miss De Ormond," went on Black-Tie. "You
have had, doubtless, many admirers, and perhaps other proposals. You
must remember, too, that we were a party of merrymakers on that
occasion. There were a good many corks pulled. That the proposal of
marriage was made to you by my cousin we cannot deny. But hasn't it
been your experience that, by common consent, such things lose their
seriousness when viewed in the next day's sunlight? Isn't there
something of a 'code' among good 'sports'—I use the word in its best
sense—that wipes out each day the follies of the evening previous?"
"Oh yes," said Miss De Ormond. "I know that very well. And I've
always played up to it. But as you seem to be conducting the case—
with the silent consent of the defendant—I'll tell you something
more. I've got letters from him repeating the proposal. And they're
"I understand," said Black-Tie gravely. "What's your price for the
"I'm not a cheap one," said Miss De Ormond. "But I had decided to
make you a rate. You both belong to a swell family. Well, if I am on
the stage nobody can say a word against me truthfully. And the money
is only a secondary consideration. It isn't the money I was after.
I—I believed him—and—and I liked him."
She cast a soft, entrancing glance at Blue-Tie from under her long
"And the price?" went on Black-Tie, inexorably.
"Ten thousand dollars," said the lady, sweetly.
"Or the fulfillment of the engagement to marry."
"I think it is time," interrupted Blue-Tie, "for me to be allowed
to say a word or two. You and I, cousin, belong to a family that has
held its head pretty high. You have been brought up in a section of
the country very different from the one where our branch of the family
lived. Yet both of us are Carterets, even if some of our ways and
theories differ. You remember, it is a tradition of the family, that
no Carteret ever failed in chivalry to a lady or failed to keep his
word when it was given."
Then Blue-Tie, with frank decision showing on his countenance,
turned to Miss De Ormond.
"Olivia," said he, "on what date will you marry me?"
Before she could answer, Black-Tie again interposed.
"It is a long journey," said he, "from Plymouth rock to Norfolk
Bay. Between the two points we find the changes that nearly three
centuries have brought. In that time the old order has changed. We
no longer burn witches or torture slaves. And to-day we neither
spread our cloaks on the mud for ladies to walk over nor treat them to
the ducking-stool. It is the age of common sense, adjustment, and
proportion. All of us—ladies, gentlemen, women, men, Northerners,
Southerners, lords, caitiffs, actors, hardware-drummers, senators,
hodcarriers, and politicians—are coming to a better understanding.
Chivalry is one of our words that changes its meaning every day.
Family pride is a thing of many constructions—it may show itself by
maintaining a moth-eaten arrogance in cobwebbed Colonial mansion or by
the prompt paying of one's debts.
"Now, I suppose you've had enough of my monologue. I've learned
something of business and a little of life; and I somehow believe,
cousin, that our great-great-grandfathers, the original Carterets,
would indorse my view of this matter."
Black-Tie wheeled around to his desk, wrote in a check-book and
tore out the check, the sharp rasp of the perforated leaf making the
only sound in the room. He laid the check within easy reach of Miss
De Ormond's hand.
"Business is business," said he. "We live in a business age.
There is my personal check for $10,000. What do you say, Miss De
Ormond— will it he orange blossoms or cash ?"
Miss De Ormond picked up the cheek carelessly, folded it
indifferently, and stuffed it into her glove.
"Oh, this '11 do," she said, calmly. "I just thought I'd call and
put it up to you. I guess you people are all right. But a girl has
feelings, you know. I've heard one of you was a Southerner—I wonder
which one of you it is?"
She arose, smiled sweetly, and walked to the door. There, with a
flash of white teeth and a dip of the heavy plume, she disappeared.
Both of the cousins had forgotten Uncle Jake for the time. But now
they heard the shuffling of his shoes as he came across the rug toward
them from his seat in the corner.
"Young marster," he said, "take yo' watch." And without hesitation
he laid the ancient timepiece in the hand of its rightful owner.
Finch keeps a hats-cleaned-by-electricity-while-you-wait
establishment, nine feet by twelve, in Third Avenue. Once a customer,
you are always his. I do not know his secret process, but every four
days your hat needs to be cleaned again.
Finch is a leathern, sallow, slowfooted man, between twenty and
forty. You would say he had been brought up a bushelman in Essex
Street. When business is slack he likes to talk, so I had my hat
cleaned even oftener than it deserved, hoping Finch might let me into
some of the secrets of the sweatshops.
One afternoon I dropped in and found Finch alone. He began to
anoint my headpiece de Panama with his mysterious fluid that attracted
dust and dirt like a magnet.
"They say the Indians weave 'em under water," said I, for a leader.
"Don't you believe it," said Finch. "No Indian or white man could
stay under water that long. Say, do you pay much attention to
politics? I see in the paper something about a law they've passed
called 'the law of supply and demand.'"
I explained to him as well as I could that the reference was to a
politico-economical law, and not to a legal statute.
"I didn't know," said Finch. "I heard a good deal about it a year
or so ago, but in a one-sided way."
"Yes," said I, "political orators use it a great deal. In fact,
they never give it a rest. I suppose you heard some of those
cart-tail fellows spouting on the subject over here on the east side."
"I heard it from a king," said Finch—"the white king of a tribe of
Indians in South America."
I was interested but not surprised. The big city is like a
mother's knee to many who have strayed far and found the roads rough
beneath their uncertain feet. At dusk they come home and sit upon the
door- step. I know a piano player in a cheap cafe who has shot lions
in Africa, a bell-boy who fought in the British army against the
Zulus, an express-driver whose left arm had been cracked like a
lobster's claw for a stew-pot of Patagonian cannibals when the boat of
his rescuers hove in sight. So a hat-cleaner who had been a friend of
a king did not oppress me.
"A new band ?" asked Finch, with his dry, barren smile.
"Yes," said I, "and half an inch wider." I had had a new band five
"I meets a man one night," said Finch, beginning his story—"a man
brown as snuff, with money in every pocket, eating schweinerknuckel in
Schlagel's. That was two years ago, when I was a hose-cart driver for
No. 98. His discourse runs to the subject of gold. He says that
certain mountains in a country down South that he calls Gaudymala is
full of it. He says the Indians wash it out of the streams in plural
"'Oh, Geronimo!' says I. 'Indians! There's no Indians in the
South,' I tell him, 'except Elks, Maccabees, and the buyers for the
fall dry- goods trade. The Indians are all on the reservations,' says
"'I'm telling you this with reservations,' says he. 'They ain't
Buffalo Bill Indians; they're squattier and more pedigreed. They call
'em Inkers and Aspics, and they was old inhabitants when Mazuma was
King of Mexico. They wash the gold out of the mountain streams,' says
the brown man, 'and fill quills with it; and then they empty 'em into
red jars till they are full; and then they pack it in buckskin sacks
of one arroba each—an arroba is twenty-five pounds—and store it in a
stone house, with an engraving of a idol with marcelled hair, playing
a flute, over the door.'
"'how do they work off this unearth increment?' I asks.
"'They don't,' says the man. 'It's a case of "Ill fares the land
with the great deal of velocity where wealth accumulates and there
ain't any reciprocity."'
"After this man and me got through our conversation, which left him
dry of information, I shook hands with him and told him I was sorry I
couldn't believe him. And a month afterward I landed on the coast of
this Gaudymala with $1,300 that I had been saving up for five years.
I thought I knew what Indians liked, and I fixed myself accordingly.
I loaded down four pack-mules with red woollen blankets, wrought-iron
pails, jewelled side-combs for the ladies, glass necklaces, and
safety-razors. I hired a black mozo, who was supposed to be a mule-
driver and an interpreter too. It turned out that he could interpret
mules all right, but he drove the English language much too hard. His
name sounded like a Yale key when you push it in wrong side up, but I
called him McClintock, which was close to the noise.
"Well, this gold village was forty miles up in the mountains, and
it took us nine days to find it. But one afternoon McClintock led the
other mules and myself over a rawhide bridge stretched across a
precipice five thousand feet deep, it seemed to me. The hoofs of the
beasts drummed on it just like before George M. Cohan makes his first
entrance on the stage.
"This village was built of mud and stone, and had no streets. Some
few yellow-and-brown persons popped their heads out-of-doors, looking
about like Welsh rabbits with Worcester sauce on em. Out of the
biggest house, that had a kind of a porch around it, steps a big white
man, red as a beet in color, dressed in fine tanned deerskin clothes,
with a gold chain around his neck, smoking a cigar. I've seen United
States Senators of his style of features and build, also head-waiters
"He walks up and takes a look at us, while McClintock disembarks
and begins to interpret to the lead mule while he smokes a cigarette.
"'Hello, Buttinsky,' says the fine man to me. 'How did you get in
the game? I didn't see you buy any chips. Who gave you the keys of
"'I'm a poor traveller,' says I. 'Especially mule-back. You'll
excuse me. Do you run a hack line or only a bluff?'
"'Segregate yourself from your pseudo-equine quadruped,' says he,
'and come inside.'
"He raises a finger, and a villager runs up.
"'This man will take care of your outfit,' says he, 'and I'll take
care of you.'
"He leads me into the biggest house, and sets out the chairs and a
kind of a drink the color of milk. It was the finest room I ever saw.
The stone walls was hung all over with silk shawls, and there was red
and yellow rugs on the floor, and jars of red pottery and Angora goat
skins, and enough bamboo furniture to misfurnish half a dozen seaside
"'In the first place,' says the man, 'you want to know who I am.
I'm sole lessee and proprietor of this tribe of Indians. They call
me the Grand Yacuma, which is to say King or Main Finger of the bunch.
I've got more power here than a charge d'affaires, a charge of
dynamite, and a charge account at Tiffany's combined. In fact, I'm
the Big Stick, with as many extra knots on it as there is on the
record run of the Lusitania. Oh, I read the papers now and then,'
says he. 'Now, let's hear your entitlements,' he goes on, 'and the
meeting will be open.'
"'Well,' says I, 'I am known as one W. D. Finch. Occupation,
capitalist. Address, 54' East Thirty-second—'
"'New York,' chips in the Noble Grand. 'I know,' says he,
grinning. 'It ain't the first time you've seen it go down on the
blotter. I can tell by the way you hand it out. Well, explain
"I tells this boss plain what I come for and how I come to came.
"'Gold-dust ?' says he, looking as puzzled as a baby that's got a
feather stuck on its molasses finger. 'That's funny. This ain't a
gold-mining country. And you invested all your capital on a
stranger's story? Well, well! These Indians of mine—they are the
last of the tribe of Peehes—are simple as children. They know
nothing of the purchasing power of gold. I'm afraid you've been
imposed on,' says he.
"'Maybe so,' says I, 'but it sounded pretty straight to me.'
"'W. D.,' says the King, all of a sudden, 'I'll give you a square
deal. It ain't often I get to talk to a white man, and I'll give you
a show for your money. It may be these constituents of mine have a
few grains of gold-dust hid away in their clothes. To-morrow you may
get out these goods you've brought up and see if you can make any
sales. Now, I'm going to introduce myself unofficially. My name is
Shane—Patrick Shane. I own this tribe of Peche Indians by right of
conquest—single handed and unafraid. I drifted up here four years
ago, and won 'em by my size and complexion and nerve. I learned their
language in six weeks-it's easy: you simply emit a string of
consonants as long as your breath holds out and then point at what
you're asking for.
"'I conquered 'em, spectacularly,' goes on King Shane, 'and then I
went at 'em with economical politics, law, sleight-of-hand, and a kind
of New England ethics and parsimony. Every Sunday, or as near as I
can guess at it, I preach to 'em in the council-house (I'm the
council) on the law of supply and demand. I praise supply and knock
demand. I use the same text every time. You wouldn't think, W. D.,'
says Shane, 'that I had poetry in me, would you?'
"'Well,' says I, 'I wouldn't know whether to call it poetry or
"'Tennyson,' says Shane, 'furnishes the poetic gospel I preach. I
always considered him the boss poet. Here's the way the text goes:
"For, not to admire, if a man could learn it, were more Than to
walk all day like a Sultan of old in a garden of spice."
"'You see, I teach 'em to cut out demand—that supply is the main
thing. I teach 'em not to desire anything beyond their simplest
needs. A little mutton, a little cocoa, and a little fruit brought up
from the coast—that's all they want to make 'cm happy. I've got 'em
well trained. They make their own clothes and hats out of a vegetable
fibre and straw, and they're a contented lot. It's a great thing,'
winds up Shane, 'to have made a people happy by the incultivation of
such simple institutions.'
"Well, the next day, with the King's permission, I has the
McClintock open up a couple of sacks of my goods in the little plaza
of the village. The Indians swarmed around by the hundred and looked
the bargain-counter over. I shook red blankets at 'em, flashed
finger- rings and ear-bobs, tried pearl necklaces and sidecombs on the
women, and a line of red hosiery on the men. 'Twas no use. They
looked on like hungry graven images, but I never made a sale. I asked
McClintock what was the trouble. Mac yawned three or four times,
rolled a cigarette, made one or two confidential side remarks to a
mule, and then condescended to inform me that the people had no money.
"Just then up strolls King Patrick, big and red 'and royal as
usual, with the gold chain over his chest and his cigar in front of
"'How's business, W. D.?' he asks.
"'Fine,' says I. 'It's a bargain-day rush. I've got one more line
of goods to offer before I shut up shop. I'll try 'em with safety-
razors. I've' got two gross that I bought at 'a fire sale.'
"Shane laughs till some kind of mameluke or private secretary he
carries with him has to hold him up.
"'0 my sainted Aunt Jerusha!' says he, 'ain't you one of the Babes
in the Goods, W. D.? Don't you know that no Indians ever shave? They
pull out their whiskers instead.'
"'Well,' says I, 'that's just what these razors would do for
'em—they wouldn't have any kick coming if they used 'em once.'
"Shane went away, and I could hear him laughing a block, if there
had been any block.
"'Tell 'em,' says I to McClintock, 'it ain't money I want—tell 'em
I'll take gold-dust. Tell 'em I'll allow 'em sixteen dollars an ounce
for it in trade. That's what I'm out for—the dust.'
"Mac interprets, and you'd have thought a squadron of cops had
charged the crowd to disperse it. Every uncle's nephew and aunt's
niece of 'em faded away inside of two minutes.
"At the royal palace that night me and the King talked it over.
"'They've got the dust hid out somewhere,' says I, 'or they
wouldn't have been so sensitive about it.'
"'They haven't,' says Shane. 'What's this gag you've got about
gold? You been reading Edward Allen Poe? They ain't got any gold.'
"'They put it in quills,' says I, 'and then they empty it in jars,
and then into sacks of twenty-five pounds each. I got it straight.'
"'W. D.,' says Shane, laughing and chewing his cigar, 'I don't
often see a white man, and I feel like putting you on. I don't think
you'll get away from here alive, anyhow, so I'm going to tell you.
Come over here.'
''He draws aside a silk fibre curtain in a corner of the room and
shows me a pile of buckskin sacks.
"'Forty of 'em,' says Shane. 'One arroba in each one. In round
numbers, $220,000 worth of gold-dust you see there. It's all mine.
It belongs to the Grand Yacuma. They bring it all to me. Two hundred
and twenty thousand dollars—think of that, you glass-bead peddler,'
says Shane—' and all mine.'
"'Little good it does you,' says I, contemptuously and hatefully.
'And so you are the government depository of this gang of money-less
money-makers? Don't you pay enough interest on it to enable one of
your depositors to buy an Augusta (Maine) Pullman carbon diamond worth
$200 for $4.85 ?'
"'Listen,' says Patrick Shane, with the sweat coming out on his
brow. ' I'm confidant with you, as you have, somehow, enlisted my
regards. Did you ever,' he says, 'feel the avoirdupois power of
gold—not the troy weight of it, but the sixteen-ounces-to-the-pound
force of it?'
"'Never,' says I. 'I never take in any bad money.'
"Shane drops down on the floor and throws his arms over the sacks
"'I love it,, says he. 'I want to feel the touch of it day and
night. It's my pleasure in life. I come in this room, and I'm a king
and a rich man. I'll be a millionaire in another year. The pile's
getting bigger every month. I've got the whole tribe washing out the
sands in the creeks. I'm the happiest man in the world, W. D. I
just want to be near this gold, and know it's mine and it's increasing
every day. Now, you know,' says he, 'why my Indians wouldn't buy your
goods. They can't. They bring all the dust to me. I'm their king.
I've taught 'em not to desire or admire. You might as well shut up
"'I'll tell you what you are,' says I. 'You're a plain,
contemptible miser. You preach supply and you forget demand. Now,
supply,' I goes on, 'is never anything but supply. On the contrary,'
says I, 'demand is a much broader syllogism and assertion. Demand
includes the rights of our women and children, and charity and
friendship, and even a little begging on the street corners. They've
both got to harmonize equally. And I've got a few things up my
commercial sleeve yet,' says I, 'that may jostle your preconceived
ideas of politics and economy.
"The next morning I had McClintock bring tip another mule-load of
goods to the plaza and open it up. The people gathered around the
same as before.
"I got out the finest line of necklaces, bracelets, hair-combs, and
earrings that I carried, and had the women put 'em on. And then I
"Out of my last pack I opened up a half gross of hand-mirrors, with
solid tinfoil backs, and passed 'em around among the ladies. That was
the first introduction of looking-glasses among the Peche Indians.
"Shane walks by with his big laugh.
"'Business looking up any?' he asks.
"'It's looking at itself right now,' says I.
"By-and-by a kind of a murmur goes through the crowd. The women
had looked into the magic crystal and seen that they were beautiful,
and was confiding the secret to the men. The men seemed to be urging
the lack of money and the hard times just before the election, but
their excuses didn't go.
"Then was my time.
"I called McClintock away from an animated conversation with his
mules and told him to do some interpreting.
"'Tell 'em,' says I, 'that gold-dust will buy for them these
befitting ornaments for kings and queens of the earth. Tell 'em the
yellow sand they wash out of the waters for the High Sanctified
Yacomay and Chop Suey of the tribe will buy the precious jewels and
charms that will make them beautiful and preserve and pickle them from
evil spirits. Tell 'em the Pittsburg banks are paying four per cent.
interest on deposits by mail, while this get-rich-frequently
custodian of the public funds ain't even paying attention. Keep
telling 'em, Mac,' says I, 'to let the gold-dust family do their work.
Talk to 'em like a born anti-Bryanite,' says I. 'Remind 'em that Tom
Watson's gone back to Georgia,' says I.
"McClintock waves his hand affectionately at one of his mules, and
then hurls a few stickfuls of minion type at the mob of shoppers.
"A gutta-percha Indian man, with a lady hanging on his arm, with
three strings of my fish-scale jewelry and imitation marble beads
around her neck, stands up on a block of stone and makes a talk that
sounds like a man shaking dice in a box to fill aces and sixes.
"'He says,' says McClintock, 'that the people not know that
gold-dust will buy their things. The women very mad. The Grand
Yacuma tell them it no good but for keep to make bad spirits keep
"'You can't keep bad spirits away from money,' says I.
"'They say,' goes on McClintock, 'the Yacuma fool them. They raise
"'Going! Going!' says I. 'Gold-dust or cash takes the entire
stock. The dust weighed before you, and taken at sixteen dollars the
ounce— the highest price on the Gaudymala coast.'
"Then the crowd disperses all of a sudden, and I don't know what's
up. Mac and me packs away the hand-mirrors and jewelry they had handed
back to us, and we had the mules back to the corral they had set apart
for our garage.
"While we was there we hear great noises of shouting, and down
across the plaza runs Patrick Shane, hotfoot, with his clothes ripped
half off, and scratches on his face like a cat had fought him hard for
every one of its lives.
"'They're looting the treasury, W. D.,' he sings out. 'They're
going to kill me and you, too. Unlimber a couple of mules at once.
We'll have to make a get-away in a couple of minutes.'
"'They've found out,' says I,' the truth about the law of supply
"'It's the women, mostly,' says the King. 'And they used to admire
"'They hadn't seen looking-glasses then,' says I.
"'They've got knives and hatchets,' says Shane; 'hurry !'
"'Take that roan mule,' says I. 'You and your law of supply! I'll
ride the dun, for he's two knots per hour the faster. The roan has a
stiff knee, but he may make it,' says I. 'If you'd included
reciprocity in your political platform I might have given you the
dun,' says I.
"Shane and McClintock and me mounted our mules and rode across the
rawhide bridge just as the Peches reached the other side and began
firing stones and long knives at us. We cut the thongs that held up
our end of the bridge and headed for the coast."
A tall, bulky policeman came into Finch's shop at that moment and
leaned an elbow on the showcase. Finch nodded at him friendly.
"I heard down at Casey's," said the cop, in rumbling, husky tones,
"that there was going to be a picnic of the Hat-Cleaners' Union over
at Bergen Beach, Sunday. Is that right?"
"Sure," said Finch. "There'll be a dandy time."
"Gimme five tickets," said the cop, throwing a five-dollar bill on
"Why,'' said Finch, "ain't you going it a little too—"
"Go to h—!" said the cop. "You got 'em to sell, ain't you?
Somebody's got to buy 'em. Wish I could go along."
I was glad to See Finch so well thought of in his neighborhood.
And then in came a wee girl of seven, with dirty face and pure blue
eyes and a smutched and insufficient dress.
"Mamma says," she recited shrilly, "that you must give me eighty
cents for the grocer and nineteen for the milkman and five cents for
me to buy hokey-pokey with—but she didn't say that," the elf
concluded, with a hopeful but honest grin.
Finch shelled out the money, counting it twice, but I noticed that
the total sum that the small girl received was one dollar and four
"That's the right kind of a law," remarked Finch, as he carefully
broke some of the stitches of my hatband so that it would assuredly
come off within a few days—"the law of supply and demand. But
they've both got to work together. I'll bet," he went on, with his
dry smile, "she'll get jelly beans with that nickel—she likes 'em.
What's supply if there's no demand for it?"
"What ever became of the King?" I asked, curiously. ''Oh, I might
have told you," said Finch. "That was Shane came in and bought the
tickets. He came back with me, and he's on the force now."