I lost; I knew that I should; and the young fellow walked off with the
good hat. Then, with the relic in my hand, a waiter and myself began a
systematic search. My hat was nowhere to be found. How the deuce was I
to get up town to the club? I couldn't wear the old plug; I wasn't rich
enough for such an eccentricity. I had nothing but a silk hat at the
apartment, and I hated it because it was always in the way when I
entered carriages and elevators.
Angrily, I strode up to the cashier's desk and explained the situation,
leaving my address and the number of my apartment; my name wasn't
necessary.
Troubles never come singly. Here I had lost my girl and my hat, to say
nothing of my temper--of the three the most certain to be found again. I
passed out of the café, bareheaded and hotheaded. I hailed a cab and
climbed in. I had finally determined to return to my rooms and study. I
simply could not afford to be seen with that stovepipe hat either on my
head or under my arm. Had I been green from college it is probable that
I should have worn it proudly and defiantly. But I had left college
behind these six years.
Hang these old duffers who are so absent-minded! For I was confident
that the benevolent old gentleman was the cause of all this confusion.
Inside the cab I tried on the thing, just to get a picture in my mind of
the old gentleman going it up Broadway with my opera-hat on his head.
The hat sagged over my ears; and I laughed. The picture I had conjured
up was too much for my anger, which vanished suddenly. And once I had
laughed I felt a trifle more agreeable toward the world. So long as a
man can see the funny side of things he has no active desire to leave
life behind; and laughter does more to lighten his sorrows than
sympathy, which only aggravates them.
After all, the old gentleman would feel the change more sharply than I.
This was, in all probability, the only hat he had. I turned it over and
scrutinized it. It was a genteel old beaver, with an air of
respectability that was quite convincing. There was nothing smug about
it, either. It suggested amiability in the man who had recently
possessed it. It suggested also a mild contempt for public opinion,
which is always a sign of superior mentality and advanced years. I began
to draw a mental portrait of the old man. He was a family lawyer,
doubtless, who lived in the past and hugged his retrospections. When we
are young there is never any vanishing point to our day-dreams. Well,
well! On the morrow he would have a new hat, of approved shape and
pattern; unless, indeed, he possessed others like this which had fallen
into my keeping. Perhaps he would soon discover his mistake, return to
the café and untangle the snarl. I sincerely hoped he would. As I
remarked, my hat had cost me eight dollars.
I soon arrived at my apartments, and got into a smoking-jacket. I rather
delight in lolling around in a dress-shirt; it looks so like the
pictures we see in the fashionable novels. I picked up Blackstone and
turned to his "promissory notes." I had two or three out myself. It was
nine o'clock when the hall-boy's bell rang, and I placed my ear to the
tube. A gentleman wished to see me in regard to a lost hat.
"Send him up, James; send him up!" I bawled down the tube. Visions of
the club returned, and I tossed Blackstone into a corner.
Presently there came a tap on the door, and I flung it wide. But my
visitor was not the benevolent old gentleman. He was the Frenchman whose
absinthe had offended me. He glanced at the slip of paper in his hand.
"I have zee honaire to address zee--ah--gentleman in numbaire six?"
"I live here."
"Delight'! We have meexed zee hats, I have zee r-r-regret. Ees thees
your hat?" He held out, for my inspection, an opera-hat. "I am _so_
absent-mind'--what you call deestrait?"--affably.
I took the hat, which at first glance I thought to be mine, and went
over to the rack, taking down the old stovepipe.
"This is yours, then?" I said, smiling.
"Thousand thanks, m'sieu! Eet ees certain mine. I have zee honaire to
beg pardon for zee confusion. My compliments! Good night!"
Without giving the hat a single glance, he clapped it on his head, bowed
and disappeared, leaving me his card. He hadn't been gone two minutes
when I discovered that the hat he had exchanged for the stovepipe was
_not_ mine. It came from the same firm, but the initials proved it
without doubt to belong to the young fellow I had met at the table. I
said some uncomplimentary things. Where the deuce _was_ my hat?
Evidently the benevolent old gentleman hadn't waked up yet.
Ting-a-ling! It was the boy's bell again.
"Well?"
"Another man after a hat. What's goin' on?"
"Send him up!" I yelled. It came over me that the Frenchman had made a
second mistake.
I was not disappointed this time in my visitor. It was the benevolent
old gentleman. Evidently he had not located _his_ hat either, and might
not for some time to come. I began to believe that I had given it to the
Frenchman. He seemed terribly excited.
"You are the gentleman who occupies number six?"
"Yes, sir. This is my apartment. You have come in regard to a hat?"
"Yes, sir. My name is Chittenden. Our hats got mixed up at Martin's this
evening; my fault, as usual. I am always doing something absurd, my
memory is so bad. When I discovered my mistake I was calling on the
family of a client with whom I had spent most of the afternoon. I missed
some valuable papers, legal documents. I believed as usual that I had
forgotten to take them with me. They were nowhere to be found at the
house. My client has a very mischievous son, and it seems that he
stuffed the papers behind the inside band of my hat. With them there was
a letter. I have had two very great scares. A great deal of trouble
would ensue if the papers were lost. I just telephoned that I had
located the hat." He laughed pleasantly.
Good heavens! here was a howdy-do.
"My dear Mr. Chittenden, there has been a great confusion," I faltered.
"I had your hat, but--but you have come too late."
"Too late?" he roared, or I should say, to be exact, shouted.
"Yes, sir."
"What have you done with it?"
"Not five minutes ago I gave it to a Frenchman, who seemed to recognize
it as his. It was the Frenchman, if you will remember, who sat near your
table in the café."
"And this hat isn't yours, then?"--helplessly.
"This" was a flat-brimmed hat of the Paris boulevards, the father of
all stovepipe hats, dear to the Frenchman's heart.
"Candidly, now," said I with a bit of excusable impatience, "do I look
like a man who would wear a hat like that?"
He surveyed me miserably through his eye-glasses.
"No, I can't say that you do. But what in the world am I to do?" He
mopped his brow in the ecstasy of anguish. "The hat must be found. The
legal papers could be replaced, but.... You see, sir, that boy put a
private letter of his sister's in the band of that hat, and it must be
recovered at all hazards."
"I am very sorry, sir."
"But what shall I do?"
"I do not see what can be done save for you to leave word at the café.
The Frenchman is doubtless a frequenter, and may easily be found. If you
had come a few moments sooner...."
With a gurgle of dismay he fled, leaving me with a half-finished
sentence hanging on my lips and the Frenchman's chapeau hanging on my
fingers. And _my_ hat; where was _my_ hat? (I may as well add here, in
parenthesis, that the disappearance of my eight-dollar hat still remains
a mystery. I have had to buy a new one.)
So the boy had put a letter of his sister's in the band of the hat, I
mused. How like _her_ kid brother! It seemed that more or less families
had Toddy-One-Boys to look after. Pshaw! what a muddle because a man
couldn't keep his thoughts from wool-gathering!
Well, here I had two hats, neither of which was mine. I could, at a
pinch, wear the opera-hat, as it was the exact size of the one I had
lost. But what was to be done with the Frenchman's?... Fool that I was!
I rushed over to the table. The Frenchman had left his card, and I
had forgotten all about it. And I hadn't asked the benevolent old
gentleman where he lived. The Frenchman's card read: "M. de Beausire,
No. -- Washington Place." I decided to go myself to the address, state
the matter to Monsieur de Beausire, and rescue the letter. I knew all
about these Toddy-One-Boys, and I might be doing some girl a signal
service.
I looked at my watch. It was closing on to ten. So I reluctantly got
into my coat again, drew on a topcoat, and put on the hat that fitted
me. Probably the girl had been writing some fortunate fellow a
love-letter. No gentleman will ever overlook a chance to do a favor for
a young girl in distress. I had scarcely drawn my stick from the
umbrella-jar when the bell rang once again.
"Hello!" I called down the tube. Why couldn't they let me be?
"Lady wants to see you, sir."
"A lady!"
"Yes, sir. A real lady; l-a-d-y. She says she's come to see the
gentleman in number six about a plug-hat. What's the graft, anyway?"
"A plug-hat!"
"Yes, sir; a plug-hat. She seems a bit anxious. Shall I send her up?
She's a peach."
"Yes, send her up," I answered feebly enough.
And now there was a woman in the case! I wiped the perspiration from my
brow and wondered what I should say to her. A woman.... By Jove! the
sister of the mischievous boy! Old Chittenden must have told her where
he had gone, and as he hasn't shown up, she's worried. It must be a
tremendously important letter to cause all this hubbub. So I laid aside
my hat and waited, tugging and gnawing at my mustache.... Had the Girl
acted reasonably I shouldn't have gone to Martin's that night.
How easy it is for a woman to hurt the man she knows is in love with
her! And the Girl had hurt me more than I was willing to confess even to
myself. She had implied that I had carelessly broken an engagement.
Soon there came a gentle tapping. Certainly the young woman had abundant
pluck. I approached the door quickly, and flung it open.
The Girl herself stood on the threshold, and we stared at each other
with bewildered eyes!