'Twas June, and Mary and I were in New York together, on _our_
honeymoon. We’d been married, quietly, by the same parson that tied the
knot for Jim and Georgianna, and Georgianna and Jim had been on hand at
the ceremony. We was cal’latin’ to stop in New York a few days, then go
to Washington, and from there to Chicago, and from there to California
or the Yellerstone, or anywhere that seemed good to us at the time. I’d
waited fifty years for my weddin’ tour and I didn’t intend to let
dollars and cents cut much figger, so far as regulatin’ the limits of
the cruise was concerned. Jim Henry and the clerk, who’d been swore in
as substitute assistant, believed they could run the store and
post-office while we were gone.
Mary and I were walkin’ down Broadway together. I’d told her I had an
errand to do and asked her if she wanted to come along. She said she did
and we were walkin’ down Broadway, as I said, when all at once I pulled
up short.
"What is it?" asked Mary, lookin’ to see what had run across my bows to
bring me up into the wind so sudden.
"Nothin’ serious," says I; "but, unless my eyesight is goin’ back on me,
this shop we’re in front of is what I’ve been huntin’ for."
She looked at the shop I was p’intin’ at. The window was full of hats,
straw ones mainly.
"Why!" says she, "it’s a hat store, isn’t it? You don’t need a new hat,
Zebulon, do you?"
"You bet I do!" says I, chucklin’. "I need just as much hat as there is.
Come in and watch me buy it."
I could see she was puzzled, but she was more so after I got into the
store. A slick-lookin’, but pretty condescendin’ young clerk marched up
to us and says he:
"Somethin’ in a hat, sir?"
"Yes, sir," says I; "_everything_ in a hat."
He didn’t know what to make of that, so he tried again.
"One of our new straws, perhaps?" he asks. "The fifteenth is almost
here, you know."
"Maybe so," I told him, "but I don’t want any straw, the fifteenth or
the sixteenth either. I want a plug hat, a beaver hat—that’s what I
want."
The clerk was a little set back, I guess, but poor Mary was all at sea.
"Why, Zebulon!" she whispers, grabbin’ me by the arm, "what are you
doin’? You’re not goin’ to buy a silk hat!"
"Yes, I am," says I.
"But you aren’t goin’ to _wear_ it."
To save me, when I looked at her face I couldn’t help laughin’.
"Ain’t I?" says I. "Why, I think I’d look too cute for anything in a
tall hat. What’s your opinion?" turnin’ to the clerk.
He coughed behind his hand and then made proclamation that a silk hat
would become me very well, he was sure.
"Then you’re a whole lot surer than I am," says I. "However, trot one
out, the best article you’ve got in stock."
That clerk’s back was gettin’ limberer every second. "Yes, sir," says
he, bowin’. "Our imported hat at ten dollars is the finest in New York.
If you and the lady will step this way, please."
We stepped; that is, I did. I pretty nigh had to _drag_ Mary.
"What size, sir?" asked the clerk.
"Oh, I don’t know," says I. "Any nice genteel size will do, I guess."
I had consider’ble fun with that clerk, fust and last, and when we came
out of that store I was luggin’ a fine leather box with the imported
tall hat inside it. I’d made arrangements that, if the size shouldn’t be
right, it could be exchanged.
"And now, Mary," says I, "I cal’late you’re wonderin’ where we’ll go
next, ain’t you?"
She looked at me and shook her head.
"Zeb," she says, half laughin’, "I—I’m almost afraid we ought to go to
the insane asylum."
I laughed out loud then. "Not just yet," I told her. "We’re goin’ on a
cruise down South Street fust."
So I hired a hack—street cars ain’t good enough for a man on his weddin’
trip—and the feller drove us to the number I give him on South Street.
The old place looked mighty familiar.
"Is Mr. Pike in?" I asked the bookkeeper, who had hollered my name out
as if he was glad to see me.
"Why, yes, Cap’n Snow, he’s in. I’ll tell him you’re here."
"Wait a minute," says I. "Is he alone? Good! Then I’ll tell him myself.
Come, Mary."
Pike was in his private office, not lookin’ a day older than when I left
him four years and a half ago. He looked up, jumped, and then grabbed me
by both hands. "Why, Cap’n Zeb!" he sung out. "If this isn’t good for
sore eyes. How are you? What are you doin’ here in New York? By George,
I’m glad to see you! What—"
"Wait!" I interrupted. "Business fust, and pleasure afterwards. I’m here
to pay my debts."
"Debts?" says he, wonderin’.
"Yes," I says. "Did you get a hat from me four year or so ago?"
He laughed. "Yes, I did," he says. "I wrote you that I did. I knew I
should win that bet. You couldn’t stay idle to save your soul."
"There was another bet, too, if you recollect. A bet with a five-year
limit on it. The limit won’t be up till next fall, so here I am—and
here’s the other hat."
I set the leather box on the table. He stared at it and then at me.
"What do you mean?" he says, slow. "I don’t remember.... Why, yes—I do!
You don’t mean to tell me that you’re—"
"That’s the hat, ain’t it?" I cut in. "You’re a man of judgment, Mr.
Pike, and any time you want to set up professionally as a prophet I’d
like to take stock in the company."
He was beginnin’ to smile.
"Then—" says he—"Why, then this must be—"
I cut in and stopped him.
"Hold on," says I. "Hold on! I’m prouder to be able to say it than I
ever was of anything else in this world, and I sha’n’t let you say it
fust. Mr. Pike, let me introduce you to my wife—Mrs. Zebulon Snow."
About half an hour afterwards he found time to look at the hat.
"Whew!" says he. "Cap’n, this is much too good a hat for you to buy for
me. I’m mighty glad, for your sake, that I won the bet, but—"
"Ssh-h! shh!" says I. "Don’t say another word. Think of what _I_ won!
Hey, Mary?"
THE END