my complications. I wrote down some names of characters that occurred
to me, and put them into a hat. Then I took them out of the hat and
wrote after them the type of person that belonged to the name. Then I
put them into the hat again, shook the hat, and drew them out. This is
entirely my own invention in writing a mystery-story. The first name
that came out was that of “Rudolph Habakkuk, soap manufacturer.”
It was an excellent beginning. I was immediately interested in the
story. I began it at once.
“'Ha!' exclaimed Rudolph Habakkuk, soap manufacturer, starting
violently at what he saw before him upon the broad pavements of Fifth
Avenue. The round, yellow object glistened in the oblique rays of the
afternoon sun. It was a Chinaman's head!”
I thought it excellent, pithy, precise. Scene, the whole character of
one of the principal figures in the story, the crux of the mystery--all
at a glance, as it were. And what more revealing than that simple, yet
complete, designation, soap manufacturer! I couldn't resist going into
the next room and reading it to my wife. I said:
“Doesn't it arouse your curiosity?”
“Yes,” said my wife, biting off a thread. “But how did it get there?”
“What? The Chinaman's head? Oh, that is the mystery.”
“I should say it was,” said my wife to herself.
I left the begrudging woman and returned to my study. I sat down to
think about how it got there. I thought almost an hour about how it
got there. Do you know, it quite eluded me? I took my hat and overcoat
and went down the street to talk to Theodore Rowe, who is an author of
sorts.
“Let's hear your plot,” said Theodore, giving me a cigarette and a
cocktail.
“Well,” I started off immediately, with decision, “you see, this
Rudolph Habakkuk is a wealthy soap manufacturer. On Christmas day, when
he is walking down Fifth Avenue, he is arrested--”
“Ah,” said Theodore. “Arson, or just for being a soap manufacturer?”
“I did not think _you_ would interrupt,” I said solemnly. “He is
arrested by a Chinaman's head.”
“Really,” said Theodore, “don't you think that's drawing the long bow a
bit? Is it 'Alice in Wonderland' or a ghost-story?”
“He sees it on the pavement,” I pursued as well as I could. “It is
entirely cut off. I mean it is decapitated, you know. The head is
decapitated.”
“Yes,” answered Theodore, slowly, “I see. It would be, Heads get that
way.”
“Well,” I said, “what do you think of it?”
“I haven't heard the story yet,” remarked Theodore.
“Oh,” I replied a trifle impatiently, I am afraid. “But that is the
idea. The details are to be worked out later. Don't you think it's a
striking idea?”
“I should say so,” said Theodore, rising; “almost too striking. Have
another cocktail. They're good for what ails you.”
“Thanks,” I said. “But, you see, the fact is I _have_ got a
bit--er--perplexed about how to explain the appearance of the head.
Possibly you could suggest?”
“We-ll,” said Theodore, pursing his lips in deep thought, “let me
see. Have you thought of the Chinaman being in a manhole? Only his
head showing, you know.” He turned his back on me and drew out his
handkerchief. He seemed to have a very bad cold.
“No,” I said emphatically, “this is a severed head.”
“It might have been dropped from a ballooo--_achoo!_” gargled Theodore,
his back still turned.
“Really, Theodore,” I said, rising, “thank you for the drinks, but I
must say your mind doesn't seem to fire to a true mystery-story. I
must have something better than that. I shall have to find it.”
As I was going down the front steps, Theodore opened the door.
“Oh, Tuffin,” he called after me, “how did he know it was a Chinaman?”
“By the queue wound round the neck,” I called back. It was rather good
for an impromptu, I think. “The man had been murdered.”
I then found myself colliding with a policeman. He looked after me
suspiciously.
* * * * *
My wife reminded me that we were to dine at the Royles's that night.
As I dressed I was still turning over in my mind the unlimited
possibilities of my first mystery-story. I could see the colored
jackets of the book, the publisher's announcements, other volumes in
the same series, “The Musical Fingerbowls,” “The Pink Emerald,” “The
Green Samovar,” “The Purple Umbrella.” Imagination flamed. My wife said
she had called me three times, but I know it was only once.
I had expected it to be rather a dull dinner party, but really Mrs.
Revis quite brightened it for me. She was immediately interested in my
becoming an author, and she began to talk about Dostoyevsky.
“Well, you know--just at first,” I rejoined in modest deprecation of my
own talents.
“And tell me your first story. What is it to be?” She leaned toward me
with large and shining eyes. I had a moment of wishing the title were
not quite so sensational.
“It is to be called 'The Chinaman's Head,'” I said, hastening to add,
“You see, it is a very deep mystery-story.”
“A-ah, mystery!” said Mrs. Revis, clasping her beautiful hands and
gazing upward. “I _adore_ mystery!”
“The plot is,” I said--“well, you see, there is a soap manufacturer--”
“A-ah, soup!” softly moaned Mrs. Revis, gazing at hers.
“No; soap,” I said. “The soap manufacturer is walking along Fifth
Avenue--”
“They really shouldn't allow them,” exclaimed my confidante.
“Yes, but he is--and--and he sees a Chinaman's head.”
“Where?”
“A-ah,” I said, “that is the touch--a severed head at his feet!”
Her dismay was pleasing. I had aroused her. She choked over her soup.
“Tell me more!” she gasped.
“Certainly,” I said. “The--the way it got there--”
What an infernal thing a mystery-story is! How should I know how it got
there! Isn't the effect enough? Some day I shall write a story entirely
composed of effects.
As I drew our Ford up at our door, my wife suddenly turned to me.
“It isn't late, George, and Sam Lee is just down at the corner. He
should have brought the laundry this afternoon. I entirely forgot about
it, and to-morrow's Sunday.”
“But surely they close up.”
“Oh, no; he'll be open. Maida went for it two Saturdays ago at about
this time. They work all night, you know. Please, George!”
“Oh, all right,” I said resignedly. I jogged and pulled things and
ambled down the block. Sure enough, the laundry was still lighted and
doing business. It always smells of lychee-nuts and bird's nest soup
inside. The black-haired yellow boy grinned at me. “How do!”
I explained my errand and secured the large parcel. Suddenly a thought
occurred to me. The very thing! These Orientals were full of subtlety.
I would put it to him.
“John,” I said impressively, “listen!” His name was Sam, but I always
call them John.
He listened attentively, watching me with beady black eyes.
“John,” I said, “what would you do if your head--no; I mean--what would
you do if a soap manufacturer--no; perhaps we had better get at it
this way. If a Chinaman's head was cut off--see what I mean?” I leaned
forward and indicated by an appropriate and time-honored gesture the
process of decapitation. John--I mean Sam--took two steps hastily
backward, and his eyes became pin-points. He jabbered something at his
friend in the rear room.
“Now, John--I mean Sam,” I said mollifyingly, “don't be foolish. Just
come back nearer--”
“That'll be all of that shenanigan,” said a very Irish voice behind me.
I turned, and saw the policeman with whom I had so nearly collided that
afternoon.
“That'll be all, I say,” remarked Roundsman Reardon, as I afterward
found his name to be. “Sur-r, ain't yees ashamed of yerself, scarin'
the likes o' these Chinks into the fright o' their shadow?” He leveled
a large, pudgy finger at me. “An' I hear-rd ye this afternoon. I seen
ye an' I hear-rd ye. An' ye may be thankful I know ye by repitation to
be har-rmless. But ye'll come with me quiet, an' I'll escar-rt ye back
to yer own house, an' leave the wife to put ye to bed. Ain't ye ashamed
to be drinkin' this way an' makin' a sneak with the la'ndry without
payin', by hopes of frightenin'--”
“That is not true,” I answered hotly, for my blood was up. “I intend to
pay. I had forgotten.”
“Ye had forgotten,” said Reardon, a whit contemptuously. “An' ye was
askin' the China boy how he w'u'd like to be murthered!”
“I will explain to you, Officer,” I said in the street. “I am writing a
story. I was merely seeking a native impression.”
“That'll be as it may be,” said Reardon. “Ye give me the impression--”
“Suppose you had _your_ head cut off--” I began affably enough. But I
got no further.
“It is as I thought,” said Reardon, gloomily. He got in beside me,
and he helped me out at my own house, though I needed absolutely no
assistance. He seemed to want to give me a bit of advice.
“Lay off the stuff, sur-r,” he said ponderously. “An' ye wid the fine
wife you have!” He shook his head a number of times, glanced with sad
[Illustration: =“'A-ah, mystery!'” said Mrs. Revis, clasping her
beautiful hands and gazing upward. “'I adore mystery!'”=] (_page 234_)
resignation at my wife as she led me in, and departed, still shaking
his head. I can't tell you how all that head-shaking annoyed me.
* * * * *
I started awake in the middle of the night. It was unbelievably
excellent.
“Jane!” I said to my wife, “Jane, it's wonderful. It's come to me!”
But Jane did not answer.
“Jane,” I said happily, “you see, the Chinaman's head--”
“If you say Chinaman to me again,” returned my wife, sleepily, “I'll
leave you. There are six pieces missing from that laundry.”
And she never knew.
SUGGESTIVE QUESTIONS
1. What is the character of the speaker? How does the speaker's
personality contribute to the humor of the story?
2. What sort of story did he contemplate writing?
3. What is the character of the speaker's wife? How does her
personality contribute to the humor of the story?
4. What gives humor to Theodore's remarks?
5. Why is the incident of meeting the policeman mentioned early in
the story?
6. What gives humor to Mrs. Revis's remarks?
7. What misunderstandings give humor to the story?
SUBJECTS FOR WRITTEN IMITATION
1. Adventures of an Amateur 11. Conducting a Meeting
Detective
2. Going on My Travels 12. Making an Excuse
3. Reading Aloud at Home 13. Cooking Experiences
4. A Mysterious Package 14. Housecleaning
5. The Lost Dog 15. Buying a Dress
6. My Pet Snakes 16. Speaking a Foreign Language
7. Writing a Composition 17. My First Speech
8. Graduation 18. Little Brother
9. Being an Editor 19. Being Careful
10. Doing an Errand 20. My Letter Writing
DIRECTIONS FOR WRITING
Found your story on some actual interest that you have. Write
in the first person, as realistically as possible. Do not over-use
exaggeration, but make your story unusual. You will gain the
best effects if you base your humor on natural misunderstanding,
and on remarks or events that are incongruous. Confine your story
to two or three principal incidents, and bring the narrative to a
natural conclusion that will give the effect of climax.
GETTING UP TO DATE
By ROBERTA WAYNE
_An American short story writer and contributor to magazines._
=A realistic story differs from a romantic story in that it concerns
the events of ordinary life. Its characters are the people whom
we know,--those who move about us in daily life. Its plot centers
around everyday events. Naturally a realistic story depends largely
upon character interest.=
=_Getting Up To Date_ concerns such a simple thing as storekeeping,
and the methods of attracting customers. Job Lansing, in the story,
represents the type of person who clings to old ways. His niece,
Ellie, represents the spirit of youth and progress,--the spirit of
adaptability.=
=The simplicity and familiarity of such a story is just as
interesting as is wild adventure in the most vivid romance.=
Old Job Lansing stood, hatchet in hand, and stared down into the big
packing-case that he had just opened.
“El-lee,” he called, “come here quick.” And as footsteps were heard and
the shutting of a door, he continued: “They've sent the wrong stuff.
This isn't what we ordered!”
The girl buried her head in the box from which she brought forth bolt
after bolt of dress goods, voiles with gay colors, dainty organdies,
and ginghams in pretty checks and plaids. As she rose, her eyes glowed
and instinctively she straightened her shoulders. “Yes, Uncle, it is
what we ordered. I sent for this!”
“You _did_!” The old man trembled with rage.
“But, Uncle, they're so pretty and I think--”
“You can think and think as much as you please, but those goods will
never sell. They'll just lie on the shelves. _You_ may think they're
pretty, but an Injin won't buy a yard of 'em, and it's Injins we're
trading with.”
“But there's no reason why the squaws shouldn't buy pretty dresses
instead of ugly calico. There's more money in this, and it's a pleasure
to sell such dainty stuff. Besides, we can sell to the white people.
There's Mrs. Matthews--”
“I've heard all your arguments before, and I tell you, you'll never
sell it.”
Old Job had never married. For many years he had lived alone in the
rooms behind his store, and he had become self-centered and a bit fussy
and intolerant. If he had realized how much his life was to be upset,
he could never have brought himself to offer his widowed sister and her
family a home; for he valued his quiet life, and, above all, he wanted
to do things in his own way.
He was never at ease with the two nephews, who soon left to make their
own way in the world.
But with Ellie it was different. Her affectionate ways won Job's heart.
They were chums, often going together on long horseback rides to
distant peaks that looked inviting. And as the girl developed, he loved
to have her with him as he worked and he was delighted at her interest
in everything in the little store. She even learned the prices of the
goods and helped him.
Old Job had kept this store at the “summit” for thirty years, and he
was sure he knew every side of the business. As long as he kept a
good supply of beans and flour, that was all that was necessary. A
good-sized Indian village lay down the creek about a mile, and it was
from this settlement that Job Lansing got most of his trade.
The old man had come to the age when he lived mostly in the past. He
liked to talk of the “glorious” days. “Things were lively around here
then,” he used to say. “Why, for every dollar's worth I sell now, then
I used to sell fifty dollars. They were the good old times!”
“But why?” questioned Ellie, bringing him sharply back to the present.
“There are a lot more people here now and we should do better.” Then,
with a gesture of impatience, “Uncle, there's no sense in it. We've got
to get up to date. I don't blame Joe and Glenn for leaving. There's no
future here.”
“Shucks!” said Job Lansing. “You don't know what you're talking about.”
But Ellie always managed to have the last word. “I'm going to do
_something_! See if I don't!”
And she had done it!
For weeks, now, Job Lansing had been quite pleased with her. She had
never been so reasonable. She had taken a great notion to cleaning up
the store. Not that he approved of her moving the goods around; but
still, it was a woman's way to be everlastingly fussing about with a
dust-cloth. You couldn't change them.
He had decided that this new interest on Ellie's part came from the
feeling of responsibility he had put upon her two months before when he
had been called to Monmouth. His old mining partner was ill and wanted
to see him. Before he went he gave his niece a few directions and told
her how to make up the order for goods, that had to go out the next
day. He rode away feeling that the business would be all right in her
hands.
Now, as he stormed around the store, he realized why she had taken such
an interest in the arrangement of the shelf space; why a gap had been
left in a prominent place. It was for this silly stuff that wouldn't
sell! He wanted to send it back, but, as it had been ordered, he would
have to pay express on it both ways.
Ellie stood her ground, a determined expression in her face. She
unpacked the heavy box and put the gay organdies and voiles in the
places she had arranged for them. One piece, of a delicate gray with
small, bright, magenta flowers in it, she left on the counter; and to
the astonishment of the old man, she let a length of the dainty goods
fall in graceful folds over a box placed beneath it.
This was one of the notions she had brought back from Phœnix, where
she had gone on a spring shopping trip with Mrs. Matthews, wife of the
superintendent at the Golden Glow mine. How she had enjoyed that day!
Her eager eyes noted every up-to-date detail in the big stores where
they shopped; but to her surprise, Mrs. Matthews had bought only such
things as they might easily have carried in her uncle's store--plain,
but pretty, ginghams for the Matthews' children, a light-blue organdie
for herself, a box of writing-paper, and a string of beads for Julie's
birthday.
Ellie's pretty little head was at once filled with ideas that coaxed
for a chance to become solid facts. Her uncle's trip to Monmouth gave
her an opportunity, and, after weeks of waiting, the boxes had been
delivered and the storm had broken.
When they closed the store for the night, Ellie was tired. She was not
so sure of success as she had been. But, at least, she had made an
effort to improve things. How she longed for her mother, absent on a
two months' visit to one of her sons!
With the morning came new courage, even exhilaration, for unconsciously
she was finding joy in the struggle; not as a diversion in the monotony
and loneliness of her life, for Ellie did not know what monotony meant,
and she felt herself rich in friends. She had two.
One was Louise Prescott at Skyboro, only ten miles away, daughter of
a wealthy ranchman. They often visited each other, for each had her
own pony and was free to come and go as she wished. And the other was
Juanita Mercy, down the cañon in the opposite direction. Now, for the
last two years, Louise had been away at school. But she was always
thrilled at getting back to the mountains. She had returned the day
before, and Ellie knew that early the next morning she would be loping
her pony over the steep road that led to the little mountain store.
And it was when Ellie was standing guard over her new goods, fearing
that her uncle might, in a moment of anger, order them to be sent back,
that Louise rode up, and, throwing her reins forward over her pony's
neck, leaped from the saddle and rushed into the store.
“Oh, Ellie! it's good to get back, and I have four months of vacation.
Won't we have a grand time!--Why, you've been fixing up the store, Mr.
Lansing; and how lovely it looks! I must have Mama come up and see
these pretty summer things.” Turning again to Ellie, she threw her
arms around her and whispered: “Come on out and sit on our dear old
bluff. I just can't get enough of the hills to-day, and I want to talk
and talk and talk.”
But it was not Louise who did the talking this time. While her eyes
were feasting on the gorgeous scenery before her, the dim trails that
led up and up the steep mountain on the other side of the creek, Ellie
unburdened herself of her troubles. She told how she had ordered the
goods on her own responsibility.
“Why, Ellie, how could you do it? I'd never have had the courage!”
“But I just _had_ to, Lou. I don't want to leave the mountains, and I
don't want to be poor all our lives. Uncle's getting old and set in his
ways, and he can't seem to see that things are going behind all the
time. Dear old uncle! He's been so good to us! And now I'd like to help
him. I'm just trying to save him from himself.”
“And you will. I think it's fine!”
“Yes, it's fine, if--if--if!” exploded Ellie, who was not quite so
optimistic as she had been in the morning. Several Indian women had
come into the store, and while they stared in astonishment at the
pretty goods displayed on the counter, they had gone out without buying
anything.
Job Lansing had shrugged his shoulders, and while not a word had
escaped him, his manner had said emphatically, “I told you so!”
“But where is there any _if_, I'd like to know. You just have to sell
all that stuff as fast as you can, and that will show him.”
“But if the squaws won't buy? They didn't seem wild about it this
morning.”
“Well, you're not dependent on the squaws, I should hope. I'm going to
tell Mother, and she'll come up, if I say so, and buy a lot of dresses.”
“Now, Lou Prescott, don't you dare! That will spoil everything. Uncle
would say it was charity. You see _we_ are trading with squaws. Don't
laugh, Louise! I must make good! I just _must_! But how am I going to
make those squaws buy what I want them to buy? If Uncle would only plan
and work with me, I know we could make a success of it. But he won't!”
“You should have invested in beads, reds and blues and greens, all
colors, bright as you could get them.”
“That's a good idea, Lou. I'll do it. But they can't buy a string of
beads without buying a dress to match it! I'll do it, Lou Prescott!”
An hour later, when they returned to the store, Job Lansing looked
up from the counter, his face wrathful. He had just measured off six
yards of pink organdie and was doing it up in a package for Joe Hoan's
daughter. Job Lansing hated to give in. He had tried to get Lillie
Hoan to wait until Ellie returned, but she had insisted, and so the
old man was the first to sell a piece of the pretty goods. He did it
ungraciously.
Ellie and Louise stood still and stared at each other. Then Ellie
whispered: “It's a good omen. I'm going to succeed.”
And that night a second order was dispatched. Job Lansing made no
objection, but he did not ask her what she had sent for.
The next two days were busy ones for Ellie. Her uncle fretted to
himself, for not once did she come inside the store to help him. Louise
came each day, and the two girls spent their time in Ellie's room,
where the rattling sound of the old sewing-machine could be heard.
But on the third day Ellie was up early and was already dusting out the
store when her uncle entered. It was Saturday, always a busy day. This
pleased Job Lansing. “That girl has a pile of good sense along with
this other nonsense,” he said to himself as he watched her.
About nine o'clock Louise arrived and entered quickly, throwing down a
square package. “Here they are, Ell. He brought them last night. I came
right over with them, but I have to hurry back. They are beauties, all
right.”
The girls disappeared once more into the bedroom, where they could be
heard laughing and exclaiming.
When Ellie emerged no one would have known her, for the little cowboy
girl was dressed in a dainty voile with pink blossoms in it, and around
her neck was a long string of pink beads that matched perfectly the
flowers in her gown.
Job Lansing started as if he were going to speak, then suppressed the
words and went on with his work. Ellie tried to act as if everything
was the same as usual. Selecting some blues and pinks and greens among
her ginghams and voiles, she draped them over boxes and tubs. Then
across each piece she laid a string of beads that matched or contrasted
well with the colors in the material, and waited for results.
And the result was that when Joe Phinney's wife, the squaw who helped
them in the kitchen, came in with the intention of buying beans and
flour, she took a long look, first at Ellie, then at the exhibit, and
without a word turned and left. She did not hurry, but she walked
straight back to the Indian village.
“Guess she was frightened,” commented Job.
Ellie was disappointed. She had depended on old Mary, and it was
through her that she hoped to induce the other squaws to come. Some of
them had never been in the store. They were shy, and left their men to
do the buying.
Their sole visitor for the next hour was Phil Jennings, the
stage-driver, who stopped in for the mail. “Well, well, what's all this
about! Are you trying to outshine the stores in town, Miss Ellie? And
how pretty you look this morning.”
“Yes, Mr. Jennings. We're going to have a fine store here by this
time next year. Uncle's thinking of enlarging it and putting in an
up-to-date stock. On your way down, you might pass the word along that
our summer goods are in and that I have some beautiful pieces here for
dresses, just as good as can be bought in Tucson or Phœnix. It's easier
than sending away to Chicago.”
“Well, I sure will, Miss Ellie. Mother was growling the other day
because she would have to go to Monmouth to buy ginghams for the kids.”
“Please tell her that next week I'm expecting some ready-made clothes
for children, and it will pay her to come up and see them.”