among the least promising. He was tall and sturdy, but his instructors
soon discovered that he lacked spirit. He would hide in the woods when
the jousting class was called, although his companions and members of
the faculty sought to appeal to his better nature by shouting to him to
come out and break his neck like a man. Even when they told him that the
lances were padded, the horses no more than ponies and the field
unusually soft for late autumn, Gawaine refused to grow enthusiastic.
The Headmaster and the Assistant Professor of Pleasaunce were discussing
the case one spring afternoon and the Assistant Professor could see no
remedy but expulsion.
"No," said the Headmaster, as he looked out at the purple hills which
ringed the school, "I think I'll train him to slay dragons."
"He might be killed," objected the Assistant Professor.
"So he might," replied the Headmaster brightly, but he added, more
soberly, "we must consider the greater good. We are responsible for the
formation of this lad's character."
"Are the dragons particularly bad this year?" interrupted the Assistant
Professor. This was characteristic. He always seemed restive when the
head of the school began to talk ethics and the ideals of the
institution.
"I've never known them worse," replied the Headmaster. "Up in the hills
to the south last week they killed a number of peasants, two cows and a
prize pig. And if this dry spell holds there's no telling when they may
start a forest fire simply by breathing around indiscriminately."
"Would any refund on the tuition fee be necessary in case of an accident
to young Cœur-Hardy?"
"No," the principal answered, judicially, "that's all covered in the
contract. But as a matter of fact he won't be killed. Before I send him
up in the hills I'm going to give him a magic word."
"That's a good idea," said the Professor. "Sometimes they work wonders."
From that day on Gawaine specialized in dragons. His course included
both theory and practice. In the morning there were long lectures on the
history, anatomy, manners and customs of dragons. Gawaine did not
distinguish himself in these studies. He had a marvelously versatile
gift for forgetting things. In the afternoon he showed to better
advantage, for then he would go down to the South Meadow and practise
with a battle-ax. In this exercise he was truly impressive, for he had
enormous strength as well as speed and grace. He even developed a
deceptive display of ferocity. Old alumni say that it was a thrilling
sight to see Gawaine charging across the field toward the dummy paper
dragon which had been set up for his practice. As he ran he would
brandish his ax and shout "A murrain on thee!" or some other vivid bit
of campus slang. It never took him more than one stroke to behead the
dummy dragon.
Gradually his task was made more difficult. Paper gave way to
papier-mâché and finally to wood, but even the toughest of these dummy
dragons had no terrors for Gawaine. One sweep of the ax always did the
business. There were those who said that when the practice was
protracted until dusk and the dragons threw long, fantastic shadows
across the meadow Gawaine did not charge so impetuously nor shout so
loudly. It is possible there was malice in this charge. At any rate, the
Headmaster decided by the end of June that it was time for the test.
Only the night before a dragon had come close to the school grounds and
had eaten some of the lettuce from the garden. The faculty decided that
Gawaine was ready. They gave him a diploma and a new battle-ax and the
Headmaster summoned him to a private conference.
"Sit down," said the Headmaster. "Have a cigarette."
Gawaine hesitated.
"Oh, I know it's against the rules," said the Headmaster. "But after
all, you have received your preliminary degree. You are no longer a boy.
You are a man. To-morrow you will go out into the world, the great world
of achievement."
Gawaine took a cigarette. The Headmaster offered him a match, but he
produced one of his own and began to puff away with a dexterity which
quite amazed the principal.
"Here you have learned the theories of life," continued the Headmaster,
resuming the thread of his discourse, "but after all, life is not a
matter of theories. Life is a matter of facts. It calls on the young and
the old alike to face these facts, even though they are hard and
sometimes unpleasant. Your problem, for example, is to slay dragons."
"They say that those dragons down in the south wood are five hundred
feet long," ventured Gawaine, timorously.
"Stuff and nonsense!" said the Headmaster. "The curate saw one last week
from the top of Arthur's Hill. The dragon was sunning himself down in
the valley. The curate didn't have an opportunity to look at him very
long because he felt it was his duty to hurry back to make a report to
me. He said the monster, or shall I say, the big lizard?--wasn't an inch
over two hundred feet. But the size has nothing at all to do with it.
You'll find the big ones even easier than the little ones. They're far
slower on their feet and less aggressive, I'm told. Besides, before you
go I'm going to equip you in such fashion that you need have no fear of
all the dragons in the world."
"I'd like an enchanted cap," said Gawaine.
"What's that?" answered the Headmaster, testily.
"A cap to make me disappear," explained Gawaine.
The Headmaster laughed indulgently. "You mustn't believe all those old
wives' stories," he said. "There isn't any such thing. A cap to make you
disappear, indeed! What would you do with it? You haven't even appeared
yet. Why, my boy, you could walk from here to London, and nobody would
so much as look at you. You're nobody. You couldn't be more invisible
than that."
Gawaine seemed dangerously close to a relapse into his old habit of
whimpering. The Headmaster reassured him: "Don't worry; I'll give you
something much better than an enchanted cap. I'm going to give you a
magic word. All you have to do is to repeat this magic charm once and no
dragon can possibly harm a hair of your head. You can cut off his head
at your leisure."
He took a heavy book from the shelf behind his desk and began to run
through it. "Sometimes," he said, "the charm is a whole phrase or even a
sentence. I might, for instance, give you 'To make the'--No, that might
not do. I think a single word would be best for dragons."
"A short word," suggested Gawaine.
"It can't be too short or it wouldn't be potent. There isn't so much
hurry as all that. Here's a splendid magic word: 'Rumplesnitz.' Do you
think you can learn that?"
Gawaine tried and in an hour or so he seemed to have the word well in
hand. Again and again he interrupted the lesson to inquire, "And if I
say 'Rumplesnitz' the dragon can't possibly hurt me?" And always the
Headmaster replied, "If you only say 'Rumplesnitz,' you are perfectly
safe."
Toward morning Gawaine seemed resigned to his career. At daybreak the
Headmaster saw him to the edge of the forest and pointed him to the
direction in which he should proceed. About a mile away to the southwest
a cloud of steam hovered over an open meadow in the woods and the
Headmaster assured Gawaine that under the steam he would find a dragon.
Gawaine went forward slowly. He wondered whether it would be best to
approach the dragon on the run as he did in his practice in the South
Meadow or to walk slowly toward him, shouting "Rumplesnitz" all the way.
The problem was decided for him. No sooner had he come to the fringe of
the meadow than the dragon spied him and began to charge. It was a large
dragon and yet it seemed decidedly aggressive in spite of the
Headmaster's statement to the contrary. As the dragon charged it
released huge clouds of hissing steam through its nostrils. It was
almost as if a gigantic teapot had gone mad. The dragon came forward so
fast and Gawaine was so frightened that he had time to say "Rumplesnitz"
only once. As he said it, he swung his battle-ax and off popped the head
of the dragon. Gawaine had to admit that it was even easier to kill a
real dragon than a wooden one if only you said "Rumplesnitz."
Gawaine brought the ears home and a small section of the tail. His
school mates and the faculty made much of him, but the Headmaster wisely
kept him from being spoiled by insisting that he go on with his work.
Every clear day Gawaine rose at dawn and went out to kill dragons. The
Headmaster kept him at home when it rained, because he said the woods
were damp and unhealthy at such times and that he didn't want the boy to
run needless risks. Few good days passed in which Gawaine failed to get
a dragon. On one particularly fortunate day he killed three, a husband
and wife and a visiting relative. Gradually he developed a technique.
Pupils who sometimes watched him from the hill-tops a long way off said
that he often allowed the dragon to come within a few feet before he
said "Rumplesnitz." He came to say it with a mocking sneer. Occasionally
he did stunts. Once when an excursion party from London was watching him
he went into action with his right hand tied behind his back. The
dragon's head came off just as easily.
As Gawaine's record of killings mounted higher the Headmaster found it
impossible to keep him completely in hand. He fell into the habit of
stealing out at night and engaging in long drinking bouts at the village
tavern. It was after such a debauch that he rose a little before dawn
one fine August morning and started out after his fiftieth dragon. His
head was heavy and his mind sluggish. He was heavy in other respects as
well, for he had adopted the somewhat vulgar practice of wearing his
medals, ribbons and all, when he went out dragon hunting. The
decorations began on his chest and ran all the way down to his abdomen.
They must have weighed at least eight pounds.
Gawaine found a dragon in the same meadow where he had killed the first
one. It was a fair-sized dragon, but evidently an old one. Its face was
wrinkled and Gawaine thought he had never seen so hideous a countenance.
Much to the lad's disgust, the monster refused to charge and Gawaine was
obliged to walk toward him. He whistled as he went. The dragon regarded
him hopelessly, but craftily. Of course it had heard of Gawaine. Even
when the lad raised his battle-ax the dragon made no move. It knew that
there was no salvation in the quickest thrust of the head, for it had
been informed that this hunter was protected by an enchantment. It
merely waited, hoping something would turn up. Gawaine raised the
battle-ax and suddenly lowered it again. He had grown very pale and he
trembled violently. The dragon suspected a trick. "What's the matter?"
it asked, with false solicitude.
"I've forgotten the magic word," stammered Gawaine.
"What a pity," said the dragon. "So that was the secret. It doesn't
seem quite sporting to me, all this magic stuff, you know. Not cricket,
as we used to say when I was a little dragon; but after all, that's a
matter of opinion."
Gawaine was so helpless with terror that the dragon's confidence rose
immeasurably and it could not resist the temptation to show off a bit.
"Could I possibly be of any assistance?" it asked. "What's the first
letter of the magic word?"
"It begins with an 'r,'" said Gawaine weakly.
"Let's see," mused the dragon, "that doesn't tell us much, does it? What
sort of a word is this? Is it an epithet, do you think?"
Gawaine could do no more than nod.
"Why, of course," exclaimed the dragon, "reactionary Republican."
Gawaine shook his head.
"Well, then," said the dragon, "we'd better get down to business. Will
you surrender?"
With the suggestion of a compromise Gawaine mustered up enough courage
to speak.
"What will you do if I surrender?" he asked.
"Why, I'll eat you," said the dragon.
"And if I don't surrender?"
"I'll eat you just the same."
"Then it doesn't mean any difference, does it?" moaned Gawaine.
"It does to me," said the dragon with a smile. "I'd rather you didn't
surrender. You'd taste much better if you didn't."
The dragon waited for a long time for Gawaine to ask "Why?" but the boy
was too frightened to speak. At last the dragon had to give the
explanation without his cue line. "You see," he said, "if you don't
surrender you'll taste better because you'll die game."
This was an old and ancient trick of the dragon's. By means of some such
quip he was accustomed to paralyze his victims with laughter and then to
destroy them. Gawaine was sufficiently paralyzed as it was, but laughter
had no part in his helplessness. With the last word of the joke the
dragon drew back his head and struck. In that second there flashed into
the mind of Gawaine the magic word "Rumplesnitz," but there was no time
to say it. There was time only to strike and, without a word, Gawaine
met the onrush of the dragon with a full swing. He put all his back and
shoulders into it. The impact was terrific and the head of the dragon
flew away almost a hundred yards and landed in a thicket.
Gawaine did not remain frightened very long after the death of the
dragon. His mood was one of wonder. He was enormously puzzled. He cut
off the ears of the monster almost in a trance. Again and again he
thought to himself, "I didn't say 'Rumplesnitz'!" He was sure of that
and yet there was no question that he had killed the dragon. In fact, he
had never killed one so utterly. Never before had he driven a head for
anything like the same distance. Twenty-five yards was perhaps his best
previous record. All the way back to the knight school he kept rumbling
about in his mind seeking an explanation for what had occurred. He went
to the Headmaster immediately and after closing the door told him what
had happened. "I didn't say 'Rumplesnitz,'" he explained with great
earnestness.
The Headmaster laughed. "I'm glad you've found out," he said. "It makes
you ever so much more of a hero. Don't you see that? Now you know that
it was you who killed all these dragons and not that foolish little word
'Rumplesnitz.'"
Gawaine frowned. "Then it wasn't a magic word after all?" he asked.
"Of course not," said the Headmaster, "you ought to be too old for such
foolishness. There isn't any such thing as a magic word."
"But you told me it was magic," protested Gawaine. "You said it was
magic and now you say it isn't."
"It wasn't magic in a literal sense," answered the Headmaster, "but it
was much more wonderful than that. The word gave you confidence. It took
away your fears. If I hadn't told you that you might have been killed
the very first time. It was your battle-ax did the trick."
Gawaine surprised the Headmaster by his attitude. He was obviously
distressed by the explanation. He interrupted a long philosophic and
ethical discourse by the Headmaster with, "If I hadn't of hit 'em all
mighty hard and fast any one of 'em might have crushed me like a, like
a--" He fumbled for a word.
"Egg shell," suggested the Headmaster.
"Like a egg shell," assented Gawaine, and he said it many times. All
through the evening meal people who sat near him heard him muttering,
"Like a egg shell, like a egg shell."
The next day was clear, but Gawaine did not get up at dawn. Indeed, it
was almost noon when the Headmaster found him cowering in bed, with the
clothes pulled over his head. The principal called the Assistant
Professor of Pleasaunce, and together they dragged the boy toward the
forest.
"He'll be all right as soon as he gets a couple more dragons under his
belt," explained the Headmaster.
The Assistant Professor of Pleasaunce agreed. "It would be a shame to
stop such a fine run," he said. "Why, counting that one yesterday, he's
killed fifty dragons."
They pushed the boy into a thicket above which hung a meager cloud of
steam. It was obviously quite a small dragon. But Gawaine did not come
back that night or the next. In fact, he never came back. Some weeks
afterward brave spirits from the school explored the thicket, but they
could find nothing to remind them of Gawaine except the metal parts of
his medals. Even the ribbons had been devoured.
The Headmaster and the Assistant Professor of Pleasaunce agreed that it
would be just as well not to tell the school how Gawaine had achieved
his record and still less how he came to die. They held that it might
have a bad effect on school spirit. Accordingly, Gawaine has lived in
the memory of the school as its greatest hero. No visitor succeeds in
leaving the building to-day without seeing a great shield which hangs on
the wall of the dining hall. Fifty pairs of dragons' ears are mounted
upon the shield and underneath in gilt letters is "Gawaine le
Cœur-Hardy," followed by the simple inscription, "He killed fifty
dragons." The record has never been equaled.
* * * * *
The following typographical errors were corrected by the etext
transcriber:
wtihout malice=>without malice
smooth and omnious=>smooth and ominous
kinds words uttered=>kind words uttered
It is cardinal rule=>It is (a) cardinal rule
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES:
[A] _A Personal Record._
[B] William Sidney Porter, 1862-1910, son of Algernon Sidney Porter,
physician, was born, bred, and meagerly educated in Greensboro, North
Carolina. In Greensboro he was drug clerk; in Texas he was amateur
ranchman, land-office clerk, editor, and bank teller. Convicted of
misuse of bank funds on insufficient evidence (which he supplemented by
the insanity of flight), he passed three years and three months in the
Ohio State Penitentiary at Columbus. Release was the prelude to life in
New York, to story-writing, to rapid and wide-spread fame. Latterly, his
stories, published in New York journals and in book form, were consumed
by the public with an avidity which his premature death, in 1910,
scarcely checked. The pen-name, O. Henry, is almost certainly borrowed
from a French chemist Etienne-Ossian Henry, whose abridged name he fell
upon in his pharmacal researches. See the interesting "O. Henry
Biography" by C. Alphonso Smith.
[C] O Henry's stories have been known to coincide with earlier work in a
fashion which dims the novelty of the tale without clouding the
originality of the author. I thought the brilliant "Harlem Tragedy" (in
the "Trimmed Lamp") unique through sheer audacity, but the other day I
found its motive repeated with singular exactness in Montesquieu's
"Lettres Persanes" (Letter LI).
[D] "These views, as usual, pleased some more, others less; some chid
and calumniated me, and laid it to me as a crime that I had dared to
depart from the precepts and opinions of all Anatomists."--De Motu
Cordis, chap. i.
[E] This visit (in the early eighties) had another relish. The inn
coffee-room had a copy of Mr. Freeman's book on the adjoining Cathedral,
and this was copiously annotated in a beautiful and scholarly hand, but
in a most virulent spirit. "Why can't you call things by their plain
names?" (in reference to the historian's Macaulayesque periphrases) etc.
I have often wondered who the annotator was.
[F] When I went up this March to help man the last ditch for Greek, I
happened to mention "Archdeacon": and my interlocutor told me that he
believed no college now brewed within its walls. After the defeat, I
thought of the stages of the Decline and Fall of Things: and how a sad
but noble ode might be written (by the right man) on the Fates of Greek
and Beer at Oxford. He would probably refer in the first strophe to the
close of the Eumenides; in its antistrophe to Mr. Swinburne's great
adaptation thereof in regard to Carlyle and Newman; while the epode and
any reduplication of the parts would be occupied by showing how the
departing entities were of no equivocal magnificence like the Eumenides
themselves; of no flawed perfection (at least as it seemed to their
poet) like the two great English writers, but wholly admirable and
beneficent--too good for the generation who would banish them, and whom
they banished.
[G] This was one of the best illustrations of the old phrase, "a good
pennyworth," that I ever knew for certain. I add the two last words
because of a mysterious incident of my youth. I and one of my sisters
were sitting at a window in a certain seaside place when we heard, both
of us distinctly and repeatedly, this mystic street cry: "A bible and a
pillow-case for a penny!" I rushed downstairs to secure this bargain,
but the crier was now far off, and it was too late.
[H] By the way, are they still as good for flip at New College, Oxford,
as they were in the days when it numbered hardly any undergraduates
except scholars, and one scholar of my acquaintance had to himself a set
of three rooms and a garden? And is "The Island" at Kennington still
famous for the same excellent compound?
[I] It came from Alford, the chef-lieu, if it cannot be called the
capital, of the Tennyson country. I have pleasant associations with the
place, quite independent of the beery ones. And it made me, partially at
least, alter one of the ideas of my early criticism--that time spent on
a poet's local habitations was rather wasted. I have always thought "The
Dying Swan" one of its author's greatest things, and one of the champion
examples of pure poetry in English literature. But I never fully heard
the "eddying song" that "flooded"
the creeping mosses and clambering weeds,
And the willow branches hoar and dank,
And the wavy swell of the soughing reeds.
And the wave-worn horns of the echoing bank,
And the silvery marish-flowers that throng
The desolate creeks and pools among--
till I saw them.
[J] Herefordshire and Worcestershire cider can be very strong and the
perry, they say, still stronger.