Rolling Stones by O. Henry - HTML preview

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

M R. 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?

M R. 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"?

M R. 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!

M R. 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!

M R. 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?

M R. 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!

M R. 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!

M R. 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.

M R. 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."

M R. 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!

M R. 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"?

M R. PENNE (very slowly and with desperate deliberation)—"The—sun—himself—had— rows—of—blushing—pinks—and—hollyhocks—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!

M R. 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!

M R. 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!

M R. 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.)

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 entrée 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 ingénue 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 tête-à-tête 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 bowlegged—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 selfpossessed 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.

 

"The damage is already done," they said. "The people have heard the story. You have yet time to withdraw decently before the race."

 

All left the room except Tictocq and the Democrats.

 

"Let's all go down and open a bottle of fizz on the Finance Committee," said the Chairman of the Executive Committee, Platform No. 2.

Tracked To Doom

OR

 

THE MYSTERY OF THE RUE DE PEYCHAUD

 

'Tis midnight in Paris.

A myriad of lamps that line the Champs Elysées and the Rouge et Noir, cast their reflection in the dark waters of the Seine as it flows gloomily past the Place Vendôme and the black walls of the Convent Notadam.

The great French capital is astir.

 

It is the hour when crime and vice and wickedness reign.

Hundreds of fiacres drive madly through the streets conveying women, flashing with jewels and as beautiful as dreams, from opera and concert, and the little bijou supper rooms of the Café Tout le Temps are filled with laughing groups, while bon mots, persiflage and repartee fly upon the air—the jewels of thought and conversation.

Luxury and poverty brush each other in the streets. The homeless gamin, begging a sou with which to purchase a bed, and the spendthrift roué, scattering golden louis d'or, tread the same pavement.

When other cities sleep, Paris has just begun her wild revelry.

 

The first scene of our story is a cellar beneath the Rue de Peychaud.

The room is filled with smoke of pipes, and is stifling with the reeking breath of its inmates. A single flaring gas jet dimly lights the scene, which is one Rembrandt or Moreland and Keisel would have loved to paint.

A garçon is selling absinthe to such of the motley crowd as have a few sous, dealing it out in niggardly portions in broken teacups.