[Illustration: Decorative I]
t was the usual kind of a Christmas Eve. The snow was falling with its
customary noiselessness, and the world was gradually taking on a mantle
of white which made it look like a very attractive wedding-cake. It was
upon this occasion that Old Bills materialized in my down-town study and
got me out of a very unpleasant hole. The year had not been a very
profitable one for me. My last book had been a comparative failure,
having sold only 118,000 copies in the first six months, so that instead
of receiving $60,000 in royalties on the first of November, as I had
expected, I had fallen down to something like $47,000. There was a
fraction of seven or eight hundred dollars--just what it was I cannot
recall. Then my securities had, for one reason or another, failed to
yield the customary revenue; some thirty or forty of my houses had not
rented; taxes had increased--in short, I found myself at Christmas-time,
with my wife and eight children expecting to be remembered, with less
than $80,000 that I could spare in the bank.
To be sure, we had all agreed that this year we should avoid
extravagance, and the little madame had informed me that she would be
very unhappy if I expended more than $40,000 upon her present from
myself. My daughter, too, like the sweet girl that she is, said, with a
considerable degree of firmness, that she would rather have a check for
$10,000 than the diamond necklace I had contemplated giving her; and my
eldest son had sent word from college, in definite terms, that he didn't
think, in view of the hard times, he would ask for anything more than a
new pair of wheelers for his drag, three hunters, a T cart, a silver
chafing-dish set, and a Corot for his smoking-room.
This spirit, as I say, permeated the household--even the baby babbled of
economy, and thought he could get along with ruby jackstones and a bag
of cats'-eyes to play marbles with. But even thus, as the reader can see
for himself, $80,000 would not go far, and I was in despair. There is no
greater trial in the world than that confronting a generously disposed
father who suddenly finds himself at Christmas time without the means to
carry out his wishes and to provide his little ones with the gifts which
their training has justified them in expecting.
I was seated alone in my office, not having the courage to go home and
tell my family of the horrid state of affairs, or, rather, putting off
the evil hour, for ultimately the truth would have to be told. It was
growing dark. Outside I could hear the joyous hum of the busy streets;
the clanging of the crowded cable-cars, going to and fro, bearing their
holiday burden of bundle-laden shoppers, seemed to sound musically and
to tell of peace and good-will. Even the cold, godless world of commerce
seemed to warm up with the spirit of the hour. I alone was in misery, at
a moment when peace and happiness and good-will were the watchwords of
humanity. My distress increased every moment as I conjured up before my
mind's eye the picture of the coming morn, when my children and their
mother, in serene confidence that I would do the right thing by them,
should find the tree bare of presents, and discover, instead of the
usual array of bonds and jewels, and silver services, and horses and
carriages, and rich furs, and priceless books (the baby had cut his
teeth the year before on the cover of the Grolier edition of Omar
Khayyam, which, at a cost of $600, I had given him, bound in ivory and
gold, with carbuncles adorning the back and the title set in
brilliants)--discover, instead of these, I say, mere commonplace
presents possessing no intrinsic worth--why, it was appalling to think
of their disappointment! To be sure, I had purchased a suit of Russian
sables for madam, and had concealed a certified check for $25,000 in the
pocket of the dolman, but what was that in such times, hard as they
were!
And you may imagine it was all exquisitely painful to me. Then, on a
sudden, I seemed not to be alone. Something appeared to materialize off
in the darker corner of the study. At first I thought it was merely the
filming over of my eyes with the moisture of an incipient and unshed
tear, but I was soon undeceived, for the thing speedily took shape, and
a rather unpleasant shape at that, although there was a radiant
kindliness in its green eyes.
"Who are you?" I demanded, jumping up and staring intently at the
apparition, my hair meanwhile rising slightly.
"I'm Dr. Bills," was the response, in a deep, malarial voice, as the
phantom, for that is all it was, approached me. "I've come to help you
out of your troubles," it added, rather genially.
"Ah? Indeed!" said I. "And may I ask how you know I am in trouble?"
"Certainly you may," said the old fellow. "We ghosts know everything."
"Then you are a ghost, eh?" I queried, although I knew mighty well at
the moment I first saw him that he was nothing more, he was so
transparent and misty.
"At your service," was the reply, as my unexpected visitor handed me a
gelatinous-looking card, upon which was engraved the following legend:
U. P. BILLS, M.D.,
"The Spook Philanthropist."
Troubles Cured While You Wait.
"Ah!" said I, as I read it. "You'll find me a troublesome patient, I am
afraid. Do you know what my trouble is?"
"Certainly I do," said Bills. "You're a little short and your wife and
children have expectations."
"Precisely," said I. "And here is Christmas on top of us and nothing for
the tree except a few trifling gems and other things."
"Well, my dear fellow," said the kindly visitant, "if you'll intrust
yourself to my care I'll cure you in a jiffy. There never was a case of
immediate woe that I couldn't cure, but you've got to have confidence in
me.
"Sort of faith cure, eh?" I smiled.
"Exactly," he replied. "If you don't believe in Old Bills, Old Bills
cannot relieve your distress."
"But what do you propose to do, Doctor?" I asked. "What is your course
of treatment?"
"That's my business," he retorted. "You don't ask your family physician
to outline his general plan to you when you summon him to treat you for
gout, do you?"
"Well, I generally like to know more of him than I know of you," said I,
apologetically, for I had no wish to offend him. "For instance, are you
allopath, or a homoeopath, or some hitherto untrodden path?"
"Something of a homoeopath," he admitted.
"Then you cure trouble with trouble?" I asked, rather more pertinently,
as the event showed, than I imagined.
"I cure trouble with ease," he replied glibly. "You may accept or reject
my services. It's immaterial to me."
"I don't wish to seem ungrateful, Doctor," said I, seeing that the old
spook was growing a trifle irritated. "I certainly most gratefully
accept. What do you want me to do?"
"Go home," he said, laconically.
"But the empty tree?" I demanded.
"Will not be empty to-morrow morning," said he, and he vanished.
I locked my study door and started to walk home, first stopping at the
cafe down-stairs and cashing a check for $60,000. I had confidence in
Old Bills, but I thought I would provide against possible failure; and I
had an idea that on the way uptown I might perhaps find certain little
things to please, if not satisfy, the children, which could be purchased
for that sum. My surmise was correct, for, while Old Bills did his work,
as will soon be shown, most admirably, I had no difficulty in expending
the $60,000 on simple little things really worth having, between Pine
Street and Forty-second. For instance, as I passed along Union Square I
discovered a superb pair of pearl hat-pins which I knew would please my
second daughter, Jenny, because they were just suited to the immediate
needs of the talking doll she had received from her aunt on her
birthday. They were cheap little pins, but as I paid down the $1,800
they cost in crisp hundred dollar bills they looked so stunningly
beautiful that I wondered if, after all, they mightn't prove sufficient
for little Jenny's whole Christmas, if Bills should fail. Then I met
poor old Hobson, who has recently met reverses. He had an opera-box for
sale for $2,500, and I bought it for Martha, my third daughter, who,
though only seven years old, frequently entertains her little school
friends with all the manner of a woman of fashion. I felt that the
opera-box would please the child, although it was not on the grand tier.
I also killed two birds with one stone by taking a mortgage for $10,000
on Hobson's house, by which I not only relieved poor old Hobson's
immediate necessities, but, by putting the mortgage in my son Jimmy's
stocking, enriched the boy as well. So it went. By the time I reached
home the $60,000 was spent, but I felt that, brought up as they had
been, the children would accept the simple little things I had brought
home to them in the proper spirit. They were, of course, cheap, but my
little ones do not look at the material value of their presents. It is
the spirit which prompts the gift that appeals to them--Heaven bless
'em! I may add here, too, that my little ones did not even by their
manner seem to grudge that portion of the $60,000 spent which their
daddy squandered on his immediate impulses, consisting of a nickel extra
to a lad who blacked his boots, thirty cents for a cocktail at the club,
and a dime to a beggar who insisted on walking up Fifth Avenue with him
until he was bought off with the coin mentioned--a species of blackmail
which is as intolerable as it is inevitable on all fashionable
thoroughfares.
But their delight as well as my own on the following morning, when the
doctor's fine work made itself manifest, was glorious to look upon. I
frankly never in my life saw so magnificent a display of gifts, and I
have been to a number of recent millionaire weddings, too. To begin
with, the most conspicuous thing in the room was the model of a steam
yacht which Old Bills had provided as the family gift to myself. It was
manifest that the yacht could not be got into the house, so Bills had
had the model sent, and with it the information that the yacht itself
was ready at Cramp's yard to go into commission whenever I might wish to
have it. It fairly took my breath away. Then for my wife was a rope of
pearls as thick as a cable, and long enough to accommodate the entire
week's wash should the laundress venture to borrow it for any such
purpose. All the children were fitted out in furs; there were four gold
watches for the boys, diamond tiaras and necklaces of pearls and
brilliant rings for the girls. My eldest son received not only the
horses and carriages and the Corot he wanted, but a superb gold mounted
toilet set, and a complete set of golf clubs, the irons being made of
solid silver, the shafts of ebony, with a great glittering diamond set
in the handle of each, these all in a caddy bag of seal-skin, the fur
shaved off. There was a charming little naphtha launch and a horseless
carriage for Jimmy, and, as for the baby, it was very evident that Old
Bills had a peculiarly tender spot in his ghostly make-up for children.
I doubt if the finest toy-shops of Paris ever held toys in greater
variety or more ingenious in design. There were two armies of soldiers
made of aluminum which marched and fought like real little men, a band
of music at the head of each that discoursed the most stirring music,
cannons that fired real shot--indeed, all the glorious panoply of war
was there in miniature, lacking only blood, and I have since discovered
that even this was possible, since every one of the little soldiers was
so made that his head could be pulled off and his body filled with red
ink. Then there was a miniature office building of superb architectural
design, with little steam elevators running up and down, and throngs of
busy little creatures, manipulated by some ingenious automatic
arrangement, rushing hither and thither like mad, one and all seemingly
engaged upon some errand of prodigious commercial import. Another
delightful gift for the baby was a small opera-house, and a complete
troupe of little wax prime donne, and zinc tenors, and brass barytones,
with patent removable chests, within which small phonographs worked so
that the little things sang like so many music--boxes, while in the
chairs and boxes and galleries were matinee girls and their escorts and
their bonnets and their enthusiastic applause--truly I never dreamed of
such magnificent things as Old Bills provided for the occasion. He had
indeed got me out of my immediate difficulty, and when I went to bed
that night, after the happiest Christmas I had ever known, I called down
the richest blessings upon his head; and why, indeed, should I not? We
had between $400,000 and $500,000 worth of presents in the house, and
they had not cost me a penny, outside of the $60,000 I had spent on the
way uptown, and what could be more conducive to one's happiness than
such a Yuletide Klondike as that?
This was many years ago, dear reader, before the extravagant methods of
the present day crept into and somewhat poisoned the Christmas spirit,
but from that day to this Old Bills has never ceased to haunt me. He has
been my constant companion from that glorious morning until to-day, when
I find myself telling you of him, and, save at the beginning of every
recurring month, when I am always very busy and somewhat anxious about
making ends meet, his society is never irksome. Once you get used to
Bills he becomes a passion, and were it not for his singular name I
think I should find him a constant source of joy.
It rather dampened my ardor, I must confess, when I found that the
initials of the good old doctor, U. P., stood for Un Paid, but if you
can escape the chill and irksomeness of that there is no reason why the
poorest of us all may not derive much real joy in life from the good
things we can get through Bills.
In justice to the readers of this little tale, I should perhaps say, in
conclusion, that I read it to my wife before sending it out, and she
asserts that it was all a dream, because she says she never received
that rope of pearls. To which I retorted that she deserved to,
anyhow--but, dream or otherwise, the visitation has truly been with me
for many years, and I fear the criticism of my spouse is somewhat
prompted by jealousy, for she has stated in plain terms that she would
rather go without Christmas than see me constantly haunted by Bills:
but, after all, it is a common condition, and it does help one at
Christmas time in an era when the simple observance of the season, so
characteristic of the olden time, has been superceded by a lavish
expenditure which would bring ruin to the richest of us were it not for
the benign influence of Bills, M.D.