There was to be noticed in this band of rescuers a young man in evening
clothes and top-hat. Now, in America a young man in evening clothes and
a top-hat may be a terrible object. He is not likely to do violence,
but he is likely to do impassivity and indifference to the point where
they become worse than violence. There are certain of the more idle
phases of civilization to which America has not yet awakened--and it is
a matter of no moment if she remains unaware. This matter of hats is
one of them. I recall a legend recited to me by an esteemed friend,
ex-Sheriff of Tin Can, Nevada. Jim Cortright, one of the best
gun-fighters in town, went on a journey to Chicago, and while there he
procured a top-hat. He was quite sure how Tin Can would accept this
innovation, but he relied on the celerity with which he could get a
six-shooter in action. One Sunday Jim examined his guns with his usual
care, placed the top-hat on the back of his head, and sauntered coolly
out into the streets of Tin Can.
Now, while Jim was in Chicago some progressive citizen had decided that
Tin Can needed a bowling alley. The carpenters went to work the next
morning, and an order for the balls and pins was telegraphed to Denver.
In three days the whole population was concentrated at the new alley
betting their outfits and their lives.
It has since been accounted very unfortunate that Jim Cortright had not
learned of bowling alleys at his mother's knee or even later in the
mines. This portion of his mind was singularly belated. He might have
been an Apache for all he knew of bowling alleys.
In his careless stroll through the town, his hands not far from his
belt and his eyes going sideways in order to see who would shoot first
at the hat, he came upon this long, low shanty where Tin Can was
betting itself hoarse over a game between a team from the ranks of
Excelsior Hose Company No. 1 and a team composed from the _habitues_ of
the "Red Light" saloon.
Jim, in blank ignorance of bowling phenomena, wandered casually through
a little door into what must always be termed the wrong end of a
bowling alley. Of course, he saw that the supreme moment had come. They
were not only shooting at the hat and at him, but the low-down cusses
were using the most extraordinary and hellish ammunition. Still,
perfectly undaunted, however, Jim retorted with his two Colts, and
killed three of the best bowlers in Tin Can.
The ex-Sheriff vouched for this story. He himself had gone headlong
through the door at the firing of the first shot with that simple
courtesy which leads Western men to donate the fighters plenty of room.
He said that afterwards the hat was the cause of a number of other
fights, and that finally a delegation of prominent citizens was obliged
to wait upon Cortright and ask him if he wouldn't take that thing away
somewhere and bury it. Jim pointed out to them that it was his hat, and
that he would regard it as a cowardly concession if he submitted to
their dictation in the matter of his headgear. He added that he
purposed to continue to wear his top-hat on every occasion when he
happened to feel that the wearing of a top-hat was a joy and a solace
to him.
The delegation sadly retired, and announced to the town that Jim
Cortright had openly defied them, and had declared his purpose of
forcing his top-hat on the pained attention of Tin Can whenever he
chose. Jim Cortright's plug hat became a phrase with considerable
meaning to it.
However, the whole affair ended in a great passionate outburst of
popular revolution. Spike Foster was a friend of Cortright, and one
day, when the latter was indisposed, Spike came to him and borrowed the
hat. He had been drinking heavily at the "Red Light," and was in a
supremely reckless mood. With the terrible gear hanging jauntily over
his eye and his two guns drawn, he walked straight out into the middle
of the square in front of the Palace Hotel, and drew the attention of
all Tin Can by a blood-curdling imitation of the yowl of a mountain
lion.
This was when the long suffering populace arose as one man. The top-hat
had been flaunted once too often. When Spike Foster's friends came to
carry him away they found nearly a hundred and fifty men shooting
busily at a mark--and the mark was the hat.
My informant told me that he believed he owed his popularity in Tin
Can, and subsequently his election to the distinguished office of
Sheriff, to the active and prominent part he had taken in the
proceedings.
The enmity to the top-hat expressed by the convincing anecdote exists
in the American West at present, I think, in the perfection of its
strength; but disapproval is not now displayed by volleys from the
citizens, save in the most aggravating cases. It is at present usually
a matter of mere jibe and general contempt. The East, however, despite
a great deal of kicking and gouging, is having the top-hat stuffed
slowly and carefully down its throat, and there now exist many young
men who consider that they could not successfully conduct their lives
without this furniture.
To speak generally, I should say that the headgear then supplies them
with a kind of ferocity of indifference. There is fire, sword, and
pestilence in the way they heed only themselves. Philosophy should
always know that indifference is a militant thing. It batters down the
walls of cities, and murders the women and children amid flames and the
purloining of altar vessels. When it goes away it leaves smoking ruins,
where lie citizens bayoneted through the throat. It is not a children's
pastime like mere highway robbery.
Consequently in America we may be much afraid of these young men. We
dive down alleys so that we may not kowtow. It is a fearsome thing.
Taught thus a deep fear of the top-hat in its effect upon youth, I was
not prepared for the move of this particular young man when the
cab-horse fell. In fact, I grovelled in my corner that I might not see
the cruel stateliness of his passing. But in the meantime he had
crossed the street, and contributed the strength of his back and some
advice, as well as the formal address, to the cabman on the importance
of looking out immediately.
I felt that I was making a notable collection. I had a new kind of
porter, a cylinder of vision, horses that could skate, and now I added
a young man in a top-hat who would tacitly admit that the beings around
him were alive. He was not walking a churchyard filled with inferior
headstones. He was walking the world, where there were people, many
people.
But later I took him out of the collection. I thought he had rebelled
against the manner of a class, but I soon discovered that the top-hat
was not the property of a class. It was the property of rogues, clerks,
theatrical agents, damned seducers, poor men, nobles, and others. In
fact, it was the universal rigging. It was the only hat; all other
forms might as well be named ham, or chops, or oysters. I retracted my
admiration of the young man because he may have been merely a rogue.