THE MAN OF THE WORLD.
When the man who hangs there with such a weight upon his left arm feels
that he cannot endure the strain five seconds longer, a voice shouts
out just at his feet:
“Drop her down to me!”
Brawny arms are outstretched, and the woman, falling from his nerveless
clasp, is caught and held. Now that he can change his position
Wycherley is not so hard set, and manages without assistance to lower
himself.
It has been an exceedingly narrow escape, for hardly has he reached
the lower roof when, looking up, he beholds the greedy tongues of fire
crawling over the edge at the very point where he held on with such
grim resolution.
A scuttle has been torn open, and through this the woman has been
taken. Wycherley would linger, but the firemen tell him nothing can
save this house from sharing the fate of its neighbor, and that he had
better lose no time in making good his escape.
So he, too, crawls through the scuttle. Even in such dire distress and
under such peculiarly unromantic conditions his sense of humor does not
desert him, and he chuckles more than once while making his way to the
street. When tenements burn there are sad enough sights, Heaven knows,
but at the same time many comical ones crop up, for people in the mad
excitement may be seen hugging feather beds, while tossing pictures,
mirrors, and every fragile object out of the window.
Hardly has he reached the street than someone near by says:
“There he is.”
Immediately hands are laid upon his arm, and turning he beholds a woman.
“God bless you, sir. You saved my life. I cannot find words to thank
you,” she says, between her hysterical sobs.
“Then don’t worry about trying. What I did wasn’t much,” is his
characteristic answer.
“Oh, sir! my life is not of much value to me, but to another it may be.
Tell me your name--where I can find you after I have seen him.”
He notes curious glances cast upon them, and desires to break away.
“A letter to Claude Wycherley at the Sherman House would reach me. But
I beg of you to forget all about it,” he adds.
Reporters are as thick as peas, and he would avoid them if possible,
not wanting to figure in a sensation. Wycherley is so retiring in his
disposition, so modest withal, that any such notoriety might embarrass
him exceedingly.
“Where have I seen that woman before? Don’t ever recollect meeting
her in the Hotel des Vagabonde, now, alas! no more; and yet her face
seems so familiar to me. Give it up. Where now, my dear boy? The clock
strikes four. Daylight will be along--even now I see it creeping up
over the lake. To pass the time until then--ah! here’s a bootblack’s
chair. Quite an idea. I’ll keep it warm until it’s time for breakfast,”
saying which he sits down and dozes.
The great city is waking up. As day comes wagons rumble by and working
people with buckets in hand swing past to their labors. Soon the shrill
cry of the newsboy is heard in the land.
“Tribune--Times--Inter-Ocean!”
Wycherley sinks a hand in his pocket, and after a thorough and
systematic search in order that he may corner all fugitive pieces, he
draws out sundry nickels and coppers, which, upon being marshaled upon
the palm of his hand, he counts.
“Twenty cents, sum total; not a fortune, it’s true, but better than
I’ve known many a time. Let’s see how I’ll divide it: five for a paper,
ten for breakfast, and the last nickel brings a cigar. There’s luxury
for you; a prince could have no more. Hi! boy, come here.”
In another minute the paper has changed hands.
“Now to feed the inner man, who clamors for attention. Over a cup of
coffee and some rolls in a beanery near by, I’ll read my fortune. What
a delicious state of uncertainty--it’s heads or tails whether I win or
lose a million. Then I enjoy all the sensations of the greatest plunger
and never risk a dollar. I must copyright my scheme. Hello! what’s
this?”
He has come upon a little girl crying--a child who belongs in the
poorer walks of life, for her clothes are scanty, and her face thin.
She sobs as though her heart would break.
“Come, come, what is the matter, my child?” he asks, touched by her
despair.
“I can’t find it, and it was all granny had.”
“What have you lost, then?”
“She sent me out last night to buy something to eat, and I fell down
and lost the money. I came early this morning to look, but I can’t find
it. She won’t have any breakfast, poor old granny. I’ve cried nearly
all night, but she told me never to mind, that God would find it for me
in the morning, but I guess he forgot.”
Indeed, her swollen eyes give evidence that what she says is true.
Wycherley makes a grimace, but sturdily puts his hand in his pocket.
“How much was it, my dear?”
“Only fifteen cents, sir, but it was all granny had, and she won’t get
any more till to-morrow.”
“A mere trifle, my child. There you are. Don’t mind saying thanks, but
be very, very careful not to drop any.”
Her looks are eloquent enough as she goes skipping along toward the
grocery. Wycherley watches her and then chuckles.
“There goes my breakfast, and the cigar, too. Well, what of it? ’Tisn’t
the first time you’ve fasted, my boy, and may not be the last. Good for
the digestion, don’t you know. Besides, you’re invited to dinner at the
Sherman House with Aleck, and a sharp appetite will give you more of
a chance to enjoy the good things of life. It’s brought relief to one
small heart, anyway. Now, I might as well return to my chair and settle
this question of a million. If I’ve won I can lay back and imagine a
royal banquet fit for the gods.”
Presently he is scanning the reports.
“What’s this? Unexpected advance in Golconda mining stock--I was deep
in that. Decline of Reading. I skipped that, glad to say. How about the
Consolidated on which I spread? I can hardly see for excitement. What’s
that, advanced two cents? Hurrah! and I only hoped for one. Sell out,
sell out, don’t hold anything a minute later. I’ve gone and done it.
Yes, sir, as sure as fate, I’m a _millionaire_. No thirteen dollars
this time; all previous losses wiped out and something like a million
to my credit. Think of it, a _cool_ million, too. Champagne--no, that
wouldn’t do on an empty stomach. I’ll hie away to Kinsey’s, and scan
his bill of fare. This settles it. I’m cut out for a broker. The whole
secret is to stand by your colors long enough, and success is certain.”
Someone grasps his foot, and looking down he sees the bootblack
commencing operations.
“Hold on there, boy! just gave the last fifteen cents I had to a little
girl who lost her money. You’ll have to trust me or take this paper in
pay.”
The boy grins and says the paper will do him, so Wycherley makes some
notes from it.
“Haven’t time to figure, now. May be a difference of a hundred thousand
or so either way, but _that_ doesn’t matter. There’s that woman’s face
before my mind again. Where have I seen her? Stupid in me to forget
asking her name when I gave mine. Well, let it pass--a memory like many
others in a checkered career. Ah! done, boy? Thanks. I’ll leave you the
paper and call again.”
It is just twelve when Wycherley turns up at the hotel, and finds Aleck
awaiting him. No one would think the jolly actor had not eaten a bite
since the previous night. He has great command over his system, and
although the aroma of the soup almost overcomes him he restrains his
fierce ardor. Above all it is his aim to act the gentleman.
“I see you’ve been up to your old tricks again, Claude,” says the
Canadian kindly, as he looks into the face of the adventurer.
“What d’ye mean, my dear boy. Surely four o’clock was too late for a
morning paper.”
“I had the whole thing from the lips of a party who was an
eye-witness--who heard you give your name to the poor woman you
rescued.”
“The deuce you say. I hoped it wouldn’t get out.”
“And I’m proud to know you, to be your friend, Claude Wycherley. More
than that, you builded better than you knew, comrade.”
“How now, Aleck?”
“This gentleman took the woman you saved to a boarding-house near by. I
confess something of curiosity, and a desire to hear her story direct,
led my steps there after breakfast. Then again I had an idea she might
be poor and needy, and, if so, I might second your deed. At any rate,
I walked down and found her. She glowed with enthusiasm over your
kindness, and described the whole scene so eloquently that I could, in
imagination, see you hanging from that roof with one arm and supporting
her--you who professed to be all in a tremble at the prospect of
climbing the Ferris wheel. I can understand that now, my dear fellow,
and know full well it was not timidity that kept you back, but the
sturdy desire to baffle Aroun Scutari in the climax of his work.
“Enough of that. Now comes the surprising part of the business. When I
talked with the woman I saw she was much more refined than her position
would indicate. She asked questions, too, and eager ones they were;
questions about Samson Cereal, questions that aroused my suspicions.
“Then I turned the tables and she confided her story to me, at least
the outlines of it. You could have knocked me down with a feather,
I was so astonished. Of course, you have never even guessed her
identity--how could you?”
“I don’t know. You mention Samson Cereal--a wife of his turned up last
night; perhaps she is another,” carelessly.
“Claude, you wizard, go up head.”
“What! is it a fact?” demands the amazed Wycherley.
“As true as gospel. His first wife. He was divorced from her before
he went abroad, and I have reason to believe she is the mother of this
bold John Phœnix!”