Do you know Abingdon Square? It is a small, irregularly shaped triangle
of asphalt situated on the lower West Side, and at the
intersecting-point of Eighth Avenue and Hudson Street. The houses that
front upon it have seen better days. Many of them are now the quarters
of cheap political clubs or centres of foreign revolutionary
propaganda. It is a neighborhood that has finally lost all semblance to
gentility and has become frankly and unreservedly shabby. A square,
mind you, and not a park, for there is neither blade of grass nor tree
in all of its dreary expanse. Half a block to the north lies a minute
gore of land surrounded by an iron fence, and here are flowers and
greenery upon which the eye may rest and be satisfied. But in Abingdon
Square proper there is only the music-stand, that occupies the middle
of the miniature plaza, a hideous wooden structure in which one of the
city bands plays on alternate Sunday afternoons during the summer.
However, open space counts in the city, and the air circulates a trifle
more freely through the square than it does in the side streets--at
least, that is the opinion of the neighborhood people, and they flock
there on a hot night like seals at a blow-hole. Even the submerged
tenth must come up to breathe now and then. During the dreadful passage
of a hot wave from the West one may count them by the dozens, coatless
and even shirtless wretches, lying prone on the flag-stones like fish
made ready for the grid. Occasionally, a street-cleaning "White Wings"
will be compassionate enough to open a fire-hydrant, under pretence of
flushing the gutters, and then, for a few minutes, there is joy in
Abingdon Square. Women line the curb, cooling their feet in the rushing
flood; the men light their pipes and contentedly watch the children as
they paddle about. There is the echo of mountain brooks in the gush of
the water as it roars from the hydrant. With eyes tight closed one may
conjure up the phantasma of green leaves waving and of meadows
knee-deep with lush grasses and starred with ox-eyes. Such is Abingdon
Square on a night in early August when first the dog-star begins to
rage.
Now my friend Esper Indiman is a social philosopher; life in all its
phases interests him tremendously. Consequently, he likes to take long
rides on trolley-cars. He calls them his vaudeville in miniature, and
sometimes the performance is amusing--I acknowledge it freely. But
to-night the actors were few and the play dull. I began to yawn. The
car, one of the Eighth Avenue line bound down-town, swung round a curve
into Abingdon Square, and Indiman touched my arm.
"What's going on over there?" he said.
Although it was not a concert night, there was a crowd around the
band-stand. It looked as though some one was haranguing the assemblage
from the vantage-point of the music pavilion--a local political orator
or perhaps a street preacher. "Salvation Army," I suggested.
"Shall we take a look?" I nodded, and we alighted and pushed our way to
the front.
It was a young man who stood there, rather a nice-looking chap, with a
broad forehead from which the thin, fair hair fell away in a tumbled
wave. He was attired in evening clothes, assuredly an unusual sight in
Abingdon Square, where they do not dress for dinner, and the expression
upon his countenance was that of recklessness tempered with a certain
half-humorous melancholy. "One dollar," he repeated, as we came within
sight and hearing. "Do I hear no other bid? One dollar, one dollar.
Will any gentleman make it a half?"
"I'll give fifty for your skull alone," spoke up a youngish,
sallow-faced man who stood directly opposite the stand. "On condition,"
he added, in a lower tone, "that the goods are delivered at Bellevue
before the end of the week. Foot of Twenty-sixth Street, you know."
The young man smiled with a pathetic quizzicality. "Now, doctor," he
said, reproachfully, "there's no use in going over that ground again. I
made the terms of the sale perfectly plain, and there can be no
deviation from them."
"Well, if that's your last word," retorted the unsuccessful bidder,
"I'll say good-evening."
He turned to Indiman, who stood at his elbow. "A fakir," he growled,
disgustedly. "Now, I'll leave it to you, sir."
"If you will acquaint me with the essential particulars," said Indiman,
"I shall be most happy to pronounce upon them."
"In two words. This cheap josher has been offering to sell himself, out
and out, to the highest bidder. I make him a cash offer and he takes
water."
"Pardon me," interrupted the young man in evening dress, "but your bid
is plainly for what the students in medical colleges call a 'subject.'
Now, I expressly disclaimed any intention of terminating my material
existence at any fixed period in the future. On the contrary, it is for
the purpose of prolonging my life that I am driven to this
extraordinary procedure. It is myself, my talents, and my services of
which I desire to dispose. My skull, in which you seem to take such an
interest, goes, of course, with the bargain. But I do not guarantee
immediate delivery."
"Your services," sneered the student of medicine. "May I inquire into
their nature and nominal cash valuation?"
"I am an experienced leader of the cotillon," answered the young man in
evening clothes, with a sweet and serious dignity.
"Umph!"
"I play a fair hand at Bridge, and have an unexceptionable eye for
matching worsteds."
"G-r-r!"
"That about sums up my list of accomplishments, but I dare say that I
could learn to dig, for I have my full complement of limbs. Finally, a
rare and pretty talent for losing money and a penchant for the unlucky
side of everything."
"Well, gentlemen," declared the student of medicine, with a snort,
"it's quite evident that we're all playing the fool together. I wish
you a very good-evening, and the devil take all crawfishers." And with
that he marched off, evidently in high dudgeon. A little ripple of
laughter swept over the upturned faces of the crowd. "One dollar,"
repeated the young man, his voice full of a polite weariness. "Do I
hear no other bid? I offer myself, a human chattel, at absolute sale;
no reservations; warranted sound and kind; no objection to the country;
not afraid of the Elevated railway."
"Five dollars," said a voice at the rear, and a short, stout man, with
little, black, beadlike eyes, held up his hand to identify his bid.
"Joe Bardi," said a man to his neighbor. Both turned interestedly.
"And who is Joe Bardi?" inquired Indiman, blandly.
"Business of shipping sailors. There's big money in it, they say."
"Ah, yes, a crimp--isn't that what they call them?"
"Right you are, mister. A hard one, too. It'll be a sharp man that does
for old Joe Bardi."
"Five dollars," came again from the squat figure with its ratlike eyes,
and the young man in evening dress paled a little. He had over-heard
the colloquy between Indiman and the native Abingdonian, and it is
difficult to regard with equanimity the prospect of a trip before the
mast--to China, let us say. In an American ship, too, more shame to us
that it must be said.
But the young man was thoroughbred. He had sat down to play a desperate
game with Fortune, and he could not withdraw with the cards on the
table.
"Five dollars," he repeated, mechanically. "Five dollars. What am I
offered? Five dollars."
"Want me to buy you dat, Mame?" said a half-grown boy of the
unmistakable tough type. "Whatjer soy? Five cases for dat mug! And
Tuesday ain't bargain-day, nuther."
"Well, it looks like thirty cents," said Mame, critically. "In Chinese
money, too--thirty yen-yen. What you say, John?" The crowd laughed
again.
"Five dollars."
"Five dollars," repeated the young man, and there were little drops of
sweat on the broad, fair forehead. "Five dollars, five dollars. Do I
hear no other bid? Five dollars--going--going--"
"Six."
It was Indiman who spoke, and this time the crowd gaped in good
earnest. An indescribable emotion possessed for an instant the face of
the young man in evening clothes. Then he fell back upon his first
manner, half-petulant, half-mocking. "Six dollars I am bid," he
announced, briskly, and looked straight at the shipping agent.
Joe Bardi hesitated. "And a half," he said, tentatively, as an angler
who feels the mouth of the fish that he fears may be insecurely hooked.
Indiman capped the bid promptly. "Seven dollars," he said.
The crimp scowled. "Make it eight," he retorted.
"Ten."
The Italian hesitated again. This had the appearance of a contest, and
he was not of the sort who love a fight for its own sake. But his
cupidity had been powerfully aroused. There was a pretty profit in
advance money to be made if he could get this young fool's signature on
the ship's papers of the Southern Cross, outward bound for Shanghai, on
the morrow. He must make at least another try. It might be that the
intrusive stranger from the silk-stocking district was only amusing
himself and would presently withdraw.
"Twelve," he said, and "fifteen," answered Indiman.
The crowd laughed, and Joe Bardi's vanity was sorely touched. It was
not pleasant to be badgered in this unseemly manner while engaged in
beating one's own preserves. Discretion forsook him forthwith.
"Twenty-five," he bellowed.
"Fifty."
"A hundred, and be damned to you!"
"Two hundred."
There was a pause; the crowd held its breath in silent and joyous
expectancy. Joe Bardi passed a hand over his wet forehead and pulled
irresolutely upon his cigar. A severe-looking old man expressed his
entire disapproval of the proceedings. "It's against the Constitution,"
he said, loudly. "How about the Fourteenth Amendment? Well, the number
doesn't matter anyway. Officer, I call upon you to stop this unlawful
and outrageous farce. A human being selling himself on the auction
block! The slave-market set up again in this Christian city of New
York! It's a crime against the Constitution."
But the policeman was a prudent person, and as yet he had seen no cause
to interfere. The proceedings were unusual, no doubt, and they might be
against the Constitution; he wouldn't like to say. It was none of his
business anyway; HE went by the code.
"Bah!" snorted the old gentleman, and rushed away to find a city
magistrate.
"Two hundred dollars," repeated the young man in evening clothes. "Two
hundred dollars. What am I bid? Going, going--"
The shipping agent made a hasty mental calculation--there was no profit
in the transaction at anything over his last bid of an even hundred.
But he was tempted to go a little further and run up the price on his
adversary, thus punishing him for interfering in a man's private
business. Very good, but suppose the stranger suddenly refused to
follow the lead; then it would be Joe Bardi himself who would be
mulcted. Revenge would be sweet, but it was too dangerous; he would
stop where he was.
"Two hundred, two hundred--going, going--" The crowd began to banter
the crimp.
"Lift her again, Joe," called out one voice. "Open up that barrel of
plunks you've got stored away in your cellar," exhorted another
counsellor. "A nice, white slave--that's what you're needing in your
business," advised a third. But Joe Bardi kept his eyes on the ground
and said nothing.
"Gone," said the young man in evening clothes.
Indiman took four fifty-dollar bills from his wallet and handed them to
the young man. The latter glanced at the notes and stuffed them
carelessly into his waistcoat-pocket. Then, turning to Indiman:
"Sir," he said, with a profound seriousness, "I am now your property.
Ah! Pardon me--"
Like a cat he had sprung between Indiman and the crimp. With a
dexterous upward fling of his arm the knife in the Italian's hand went
spinning into the air. This was something that came within the
policeman's accustomed sphere, and he took immediate charge of Mr. Joe
Bardi. It was all done in a most methodical manner, and ten minutes
later we were free to depart. A "cruiser" cab rattled by and the three
of us squeezed in.
"To the Utinam Club," ordered Indiman.
Seated at a table in the big dining-room of the club, we drank a formal
cocktail to our better acquaintance.
"But I am afraid that you have made a bad bargain," said the young man
to Indiman.
"Frankly, now, I doubt if I can be made to pay even three per cent on
the investment. That's no better than a government bond and not half so
safe."
I have already collected one satisfactory dividend," said Indiman,
courteously. "That was cleverly done--to force the knife out of his
hand and into the air."
"It's a part of the Japanese science of defence without weapons," said
the youth, blushing ingenuously. "Jiu-jitsu, you know. I took some
lessons of a chap in Tokio."
"Moreover, there is your story," continued Indiman. "Will you favor me
with some particulars regarding yourself and the circumstances leading
up to our late meeting? The situation was an unusual one, and the
explanation should be interesting."
"On the contrary," answered the young man, with a faint smile, "my
narrative is of the most commonplace character imaginable, save only
for the final chapter. But judge for yourself.
"My name is Luke Harding, and, so far as I know, I have not a single
blood relation living--at least, none nearer than a third cousin. Two
years ago I inherited my paternal estate. It was too small to support
me in the manner of life to which I had been accustomed, and at the
same time it was large enough to effectually deaden any inclination
towards real work. As an inevitable consequent, I became a speculator.
Little by little my fortune has disappeared in the abyss of stock
gambling; now it is gone entirely. To add to my misfortunes, my
apartments were entered last night by burglars and literally cleaned
out. I must have been drugged, for when I awoke this morning, with a
bad headache, I could remember nothing of what had happened; there were
only results to speak for themselves. The loot had been complete; the
scoundrels had even carried off my ordinary garments, leaving me--what
exquisite irony!--only this suit of evening clothes wherewith to cover
my nakedness. Being somewhat sensitive to the proprieties, I was
obliged to remain within doors until darkness fell, and I spent the
time meditating upon my future course of action. As I have said, I have
no relatives to whom I could apply, and my friends had already taxed
themselves beyond reason in my behalf. It was clear, then, that I was
born unlucky, and I concluded that I had no longer any right to a
separate and independent existence. To one of my temperament suicide is
a difficult proposition. Finally, I lit upon the idea which you have
just witnessed in execution. A healthy, intelligent young man--surely
there must be some market for his exclusive services? Fortunes used to
be made in the African slave-trade.
"It only remains to add that I immediately started to realize upon
these reasonable expectations. I went to the plaza at Fifty-ninth
Street and Fifth Avenue and asked for bids. Unfortunately, no one
seemed to take me seriously, and a policeman obliged me to move on. I
had the same disheartening experience in front of Delmonico's and again
in the Turkish room of the Waldorf-Astoria. It is August, you know, and
the town is empty, but I was a bargain; I can say that without
affectation. Merely to have bought me on speculation, with the idea of
unloading on one of the Adirondack or White mountain hotel resorts--it
would have been impossible to lose. But I could not get a bid, and so I
shifted along down-town--Madison Square, Union Square, then westward by
Jefferson Market and West Tenth Street. Ever edging a little closer to
the river, you observe, and yet, upon my honor, I was not conscious of
any definite volition in the matter; it was as though some one were
gently pushing me along. Then Abingdon Square and your entrance upon
the boards of my little drama--you and Mr. Bardi. Gentlemen, I thank
you for your attention."
"I should say, Thorp," said Indiman, "that Mr. Harding is well
qualified for membership in the Utinam Club. Will you put him up and
I'll second him? The club," he added, by way of explanation to our
guest, "is an association of the unsuccessful in life--the
non-strenuous, the incapable--above all, the unlucky."
"Rest assured that my eligibility is beyond question," answered Mr.
Harding, with a smile. "In a society where misfortune confers a certain
cachet I may confidently expect to attain distinction."
"Do you really consider yourself an abnormally unlucky person?" said
Indiman, seriously. "I have a reason for asking."
"Upon my soul," returned the young man, warmly. "I verily believe that
I have a genius for getting on the wrong side of things. If I should
wager you that I am alive at this moment there would be a bolt out of
the blue before the money could be paid over."
A heavily built man of elderly appearance entered the dining-hall. He
was accompanied by a friend who might be a banker or broker. The pair
picked out a table on the opposite side of the room and immediately
plunged into earnest conversation, their heads close together and
speaking in guarded undertones.
"The gentleman with the gray hair," said young Mr. Harding, eagerly,
"that is Senator Morrison, chairman of the committee on foreign
relations. He must be just in from Washington. Congress, you know, is
in extra session."
"Ah, yes; an able man," said Indiman, politely.
"He would know--he would know," muttered Harding, disjointedly. His
burning gaze fixed itself upon the two men at the distant table, as
though by sheer will-power he would surprise the secret of their
whispering lips. "He must--he does know."
"What?" asked Indiman.
"Man, man, it's a matter of millions! Panama Trading Company common
stock is quoted at 70, and everything depends upon the passage by the
Senate of the canal treaty. The committee must have come to a decision,
and Morrison knows. I tell you he knows--he knows. One word--it would
be enough--Wall Street--Panama common--"
Indiman did not answer; he seemed preoccupied, indifferent even, his
chair pushed back from the table and his eyes half closed. Let me
explain that the small side-tables in the Utinam Club dining-room are
not set flush against the wall, as is usually the case, but at some
little distance from it. Consequently, when there is a party of three
at a table, one man sits on the inside with his back to the wall, a
sensible arrangement in that it allows the waiter free access by the
unoccupied outer side of the table. It so happened that Indiman had
this inside seat.
Harding's lips moved mechanically. "The treaty, the treaty!" he
repeated again and again. "The committee reports to-morrow; the Senate
is certain to act upon its recommendation. If I only knew!"
The conference at the other table was a brief one; its continuance had
been measured by the consumption, on the part of the Senator, of a
couple of biscuits and a glass of spirits-and-water. The two men rose
and left the dining-room.
"Of course you are going back to-night, Senator," said the younger man
as they passed our table.
"At midnight. A hard trip."
"But a profitable one; don't forget that." They laughed and walked on.
For a little while we sat in silence over our cheese and salad. Then
Indiman spoke up, suddenly:
"Mr. Harding."
The young man looked at him dully.
"The story of your persistent ill-fortune has interested me. But I find
it difficult to believe in the consistency of bad luck; it must change
sooner or later."
"Not for me," answered the young man, with quick conviction.
"I have a fancy to put that to the test. Take this card to my
brokers--you know them, Sandford & Sands, of New Street. I have
instructed them to place at your disposal a credit of one hundred
thousand dollars. You will be at their office to-morrow morning, and at
precisely ten o'clock you will receive from me a sealed communication
containing certain information upon which you can rely absolutely. Use
your credit according to your best judgment, and report the results to
me at eight o'clock to-morrow evening. The address is on the card, and
you will dine with me."
"I thank you," said the young man, simply. "If such a thing were
possible--" He stopped and shook his head.
"Nonsense!" said Indiman, bluffly. "You must believe in yourself, man;
it is the first requisite for success. To-morrow evening at eight,
then."
Sitting over a final cigar in Indiman's library, he made me a sharer in
the mystery. "It is simply that the canal treaty will be reported
unfavorably to-morrow by the committee, and consequently it will fail
to pass the Senate. How do I know? I heard it from Senator Morrison's
own lips."
"Well?"
"As you know, the dining-hall of the Utinam Club is of a circular
shape, and it happens to possess certain peculiar acoustic properties.
In other words, it is a whispering-gallery, and it so chanced that
Senator Morrison sat at one of the definite points--they call them
vocal foci, I think--and I at the other. That is the whole story."
"You are quite sure--there can be no mistake?"
"Not the slightest doubt. The man with Morrison is a broker, and he has
the Senator's order to sell ten thousand Panama common at the market
to-morrow. When the news of the treaty's failure to pass reaches Wall
Street, by the regular channels, the stock will break sharply and the
profits on the deal should be enormous. No wonder that Senator
Morrison's flying trip to New York should be worth the taking."
"And Harding?"
"It remains to be proven whether the fault lies in the man himself or
in his alleged bad luck. I am sending him the bare fact as to the canal
bill's fate, and it is for him to seize the skirts of chance. I'll
write the note now and deliver it at the office myself in the morning.
Then we will see."
"We will see," I echoed, and we parted for the night.
At one o'clock the following afternoon Indiman and I stood watching the
ticker in an up-town broker's office.
"The Senate rejects the canal treaty," read out Indiman. "Now for the
next quotation of Panama common; the last sale was at 70 1/2. Will you
take the tape, Mr. Barnes?"
There was an instant's pause in the click-click of the instrument, the
heart-gripping lull before the breaking of the tempest. Then the wheels
began to revolve again, and the white tape, our modern thread of the
Norns, sped through the twitching fingers of the young chap to whom
Indiman had yielded place.
"Five hundred Pan. com., 68," he read out. "One thousand, 67 1/2; four
hundred, 67; two thousand, 65. I guess I've seen enough, gentlemen;
it's my--my finish." He gulped down something in his throat and walked
over to the water-cooler,
"And enough for us," whispered Indiman. "Let us go."
"It's the way of the world," I philosophized as we gained the street.
"One man up and another down. He is young; he will have his chance
again."
"It is Harding's day," said Indiman.
Panama common had closed at 50, a drop of twenty points; there was a
fortune to be made in selling even a few thousand shares short of the
market. It was Harding's day, indeed.
Eight o'clock and Indiman and I sat awaiting his coming. The electric
bell rang sharply, and Bolder ushered in our protege. He came forward,
shook hands, accepted a cigar, and sat down.
"You received my note?" said Indiman.
"Yes."
"What did you do?"
"I bought five thousand Pan. com. at 70."
"Oh, the deuce!" and Indiman stared blankly at his guest.
"You see, it's no use--" began the young man, apologetically, but
Indiman cut him short.
"No use! And with my message in your hand before the market opened--the
exclusive, the absolute information--"
"Here it is," said Mr. Harding, and handed Indiman his own note. The
latter glanced at the contents, and suddenly his face changed.
"Read that, Thorp," he said, and tossed me the message. The letter
contained these words:
"The canal treaty will pass the Senate. Use your own judgment."
"In some inexplicable absence of mind I left out the all-important
'not,'" said Indiman, ruefully, "and it has cost me one hundred
thousand dollars. Mr. Harding, I beg your pardon. You are the
unluckiest man alive," and he went on to tell him of the
whispering-gallery and of the secret obtained in manner so
extraordinary. "And then, through my stupidity, worse than wasted," he
concluded. "I can't understand it; I read that note through twice
before I sealed it up. It is incredible."
"No, it is my luck," said young Mr. Harding, and took a fresh cigar.
"Or, rather, your luck," he corrected himself, smilingly. "Have you
forgotten that I am now your property?"
"God forbid!" said Indiman, hastily. "I give you back
yourself--consideration of one dollar. You're a witness, Thorp. And now
shall we go in to dinner?"
A position in a wholesale business house was secured for young Mr.
Harding, and for a month or two he seemed to be doing very well. Then
one day he resigned; a letter to Indiman gave the explanation.
"He's going to marry a wealthy widow," read out Indiman. "They sail on
the Lucania next Saturday."
"Then luck has turned for him," I said, heartily. "I'm glad of it."
"Hym!" said Indiman. "Perhaps so."
From the street came the sound of a hand-organ. It was playing Verdi's
"Celeste Aida," and so lovely is the aria that I could have listened to
it with pleasure, even when thus ground out mechanically. But,
unfortunately, an atrocious mistake had been made in the preparation of
the music cylinder. In the original the final note of the first two
bars is F natural, while in the third bar the tonality is raised and
the F becomes F sharp. The transcriber had failed to make this change,
and so had lost the uplifting effect of the sharped F. All the life and
color of the phrase had been destroyed, and the result was intolerable.
I fished out a quarter and rang for Bolder. "Send him away," I said,
somewhat impatiently.
The servant returned looking puzzled. "The organ-grinder said I was to
give this to the gentleman," he said, and handed me a small object. It
was a brass baggage-check issued by the New York Central Railway, from
Cleveland to New York, and bore the number 18329. I passed it to
Indiman, ran to the window, and looked out. But the organ-grinder was
gone.