Best Short Stories - [49]

‘“I do,” says he, “frequently. I can’t sleep on one side all night. I’ll tell you, Brother Peters,” says he, “I’m going to start a poker room. I don’t seem to care for the humdrum in swindling, such as peddling egg-beaters and working off breakfast food on Barnum and Bailey for sawdust to strew in their circus rings. But the gambling business,” says he, “from the profitable side of the table is a good compromise between swiping silver spoons and selling pen-wipers at a Waldorf-Astoria[76] charity bazar.”

‘“Then,” says I, “Mr. Bassett, you don’t care to talk over my little business proposition?”

‘“Why,” says he, “do you know, you can’t get a Pasteur institute[77] to start up within fifty miles of where I live. I bite so seldom.”

‘So, Bassett rents a room over a saloon and looks around for some furniture and chromos. The same night I went to Monty Silver’s house, and he let me have $200 on my prospects. Then I went to the only store in Los Perros that sold playing cards and bought every deck in the house. The next morning when the store opened I was there bringing all the cards back with me. I said that my partner that was going to back me in the game had changed his mind; and I wanted to sell the cards back again. The storekeeper took ’em at half price.

‘Yes, I was seventy-five dollars loser up to that time. But while I had the cards that night I marked every one in every deck. That was labor. And then trade and commerce had their innings, and the bread I had cast upon the waters began to come back in the form of cottage pudding with wine sauce.

‘Of course I was among the first to buy chips at Bill Bassett’s game. He had bought the only cards there was to be had in town; and I knew the back of every one of them better than I know the back of my head when the barber shows me my haircut in the two mirrors.

‘When the game closed I had the five thousand and a few odd dollars, and all Bill Bassett had was the wanderlust[78] and a black cat he had bought for a mascot. Bill shook hands with me when I left.

‘“Brother Peters,” says he, “I have no business being in business. I was preordained to labor. When a No. 1 burglar tries to make a James out of his jimmy he perpetrates an improfundity. You have a well-oiled and efficacious system of luck at cards,” says he. “Peace go with you.” And I never afterward sees Bill Bassett again.’

* * *

‘Well, Jeff,’ said I, when the Autolycan adventurer seemed to have divulged the gist of his tale, ‘I hope you took care of the money. That would be a respecta — that is a considerable working capital if you should choose some day to settle down to some sort of regular business.’

‘Me?’ said Jeff, virtuously. ‘You can bet I’ve taken care of that five thousand.’

He tapped his coat over the region of his chest exultantly.

‘Gold mining stock,’ he explained, ‘every cent of it. Shares par value one dollar. Bound to go up 500 per cent within a year. Non-assessable. The Blue Gopher mine. Just discovered a month ago. Better get in yourself if you’ve any spare dollars on hand.’

‘Sometimes,’ said I, ‘these mines are not — ’

‘Oh, this one’s solid as an old goose,’ said Jeff. ‘Fifty thousand dollars’ worth of ore in sight, and 10 per cent monthly earnings guaranteed.’

He drew out a long envelope from his pocket and cast it on the table.

‘Always carry it with me,’ said he. ‘So the burglar can’t corrupt or the capitalist break in and water it.’

I looked at the beautifully engraved certificate of stock.

‘In Colorado, I see,’ said I. ‘And, by the way, Jeff, what was the name of the little man who went to Denver — the one you and Bill met at the station?’

‘Alfred E. Ricks,’ said Jeff, ‘was the toad’s designation.’

‘I see,’ said I, ‘the president of this mining company signs himself A. L. Fredericks. I was wondering — ’

‘Let me see that stock,’ said Jeff quickly, almost snatching it from me.

To mitigate, even though slightly, the embarrassment I summoned the waiter and ordered another bottle of the Barbera. I thought it was the least I could do.

Mark Twain Punch, Brothers, Punch

Will the reader please to cast his eye over the following lines, and see if he can discover anything harmful in them?

Conductor, when you receive a fare,

Punch in the presence of the passenjare![79]

A blue trip slip for an eight-cent fare,

A buff trip slip for a six-cent fare,

A pink trip slip for a three-cent fare,

Punch in the presence of the passenjare!

Chorus.

Punch, brothers! punch with care!

Punch in the presence of the passenjare!

I came across these jingling rhymes in a newspaper, a little while ago, and read them a couple of times. They took instant and entire possession of me. All through breakfast they went waltzing through my brain; and when, at last, I rolled up my napkin, I could not tell whether I had eaten anything or not. I had carefully laid out my day’s work the day before — thrilling tragedy in the novel which I am writing. I went to my den to begin my deed of blood. I took up my pen, but all I could get it to say was, ‘Punch in the presence of the passenjare.’ I fought hard for an hour, but it was useless. My head kept humming, ‘A blue trip slip for an eight-cent fare, a buff trip slip for a six-cent fare,’ and so on and so on, without peace or respite. The day’s work was ruined — I could see that plainly enough. I gave up and drifted down-town, and presently discovered that my feet were keeping time to that relentless jingle. When I could stand it no longer I altered my step. But it did no good; those rhymes accommodated themselves to the new step and went on harassing me just as before. I returned home, and suffered all the afternoon; suffered all through an unconscious and unrefreshing dinner; suffered, and cried, and jingled all through the evening; went to bed and rolled, tossed, and jingled right along, the same as ever; got up at midnight frantic, and tried to read; but there was nothing visible upon the whirling page except ‘Punch! punch in the presence of the passenjare.’ By sunrise I was out of my mind, and everybody marveled and was distressed at the idiotic burden of my ravings — ‘Punch! oh, punch! punch in the presence of the passenjare!’