The four months during which I was separated from my dear old pal soon
passed. My time at home that fall was taken up in literary and athletic
circles.
Christmas came and the day was drawing near for my departure to the
Pacific Coast where I was pledged to meet my friend.
I left on the day following Christmas and arrived in San Francisco
January 4th, the day before the cherished reunion. En route I spent
pleasant short stops in St. Louis, Kansas City, the Grand Canyon of
Arizona, and the petrified forest.
The morning of January 4th, I crawled out of my bed in a Frisco hotel
feeling that within a few hours there was to be a happy reunion. On
inquiry I learned that Palo Alto was only an hour's ride from 'Frisco,
a distance of forty-four miles. The train was scheduled to depart at
eleven o'clock so a short while before eleven I boarded the car in
front of my hotel for the Townsend Street Station. As ill luck would
have it, I arrived at the Station just five minutes after the train for
Palo Alto had departed. I learned that the next train would not leave
till three o'clock, so I promptly despatched a message, which read:
MR. WILLIAM ANDERSON,
Palo Alto, California:
Missed train; meet you same place four o'clock.
JACK.
I waited around the station till three o'clock that afternoon. We
arrived in Palo Alto on time, four o'clock. When the train had come to
a standstill, I hastily left the car and proceeded by direction to the
Post Office. Palo Alto is but a small University town of some three
thousand inhabitants, and as a consequence, I had little trouble in
locating the said office.
As I entered the door my heart sank within me, for Anderson was not
there. This disappointment quite upset me and I hardly knew just what
to do. I walked over to the General Delivery window and inquired for my
mail. Not a line!
I then hurried to the telegraph office and asked if a message had been
received there about four hours previous from San Francisco addressed
to one William Anderson, and whether or not the message had been called
for by the person to whom it had been addressed. The operator replied
in the negative, so then I inquired whether or not there was a message
there for Jack Rand. No, was the reply again. I truly had never felt so
badly in my life, for after looking forward to this meeting for so long
a time, I had to be disappointed. I really did not know what to do, for
I had ridden all the way across the continent to meet my old friend,
and he had apparently gone back on me. I thought at least he would have
kept his pledge and written me of his delay, but, alas! not even that.
Anderson and I had planned to take a course in law at Leland Stanford
University which is located half a mile from Palo Alto, but after this
bitter disappointment, I did not care to stay, and especially after I
learned from the registrar of the University that I could only take up
two courses in law at that particular time of the semester.
I remained in Palo Alto some days, thinking perhaps that by some
miracle he might turn up later. But no such good fortune.
Later I returned to 'Frisco where I spent a month in trying to obtain
suitable employment. I did not have an over supply of cash capital, and
consequently, after a few fastidious parties, I found my cash on hand
sheet getting very short.
One morning I sat down on the side of my bed to count my little over,
and found that I was the possessor of five one dollar bills and a five
dollar note. Gee! but this looked pretty bad for me, and I began to
wonder what I was going to do when the money ran out. After finishing
my breakfast that morning I glanced over the "Help Wanted" columns and
my eye stopped on "Sailors wanted. Ships sailing for Australia, India,
China and the Orient. Apply Humboldt House." I felt that I would not
experience any trouble in securing a place on any one of the steamers
as I had with me an able-bodied seaman's certificate, which I had
earned plying up and down the South African coast.
In the afternoon I strolled down to the Humboldt House, situated in the
heart of the sailor quarter, and on making application to the booking
clerk of the office, I was not long in signing up for a voyage to
Sidney, Australia, and back by way of Hong Kong, China. The thought of
a trip through the East pleased me highly, so I walked down to where
the "Britisher" was docked and went aboard. I spent half an hour on
her and when leaving told the "bowswain" that I would be back the next
morning with my outfit.
The "Britisher" sailed the following afternoon, but it sailed without
one Jack Rand, for I actually would not have made the trip on that old
shell had they made me captain of her. Every hand on the boat was a
Chinaman with the exception of the Captain, First Officer, Engineer and
the "Bowswain." Those ugly looking Chinamen with their long pigtails
hanging down their bony backs, and keen edged knives stuck securely in
their belts did not look any too good to me.
The night I remember as well as if it was only yesterday. I left my
hotel shortly after supper and headed toward Golden Gate Avenue. It was
a damp night and I wanted to mingle with the people, hear the music
of the dance halls, and maybe trip the fantastic myself, for I was
homesick and lonely. My little pocket account was still decreasing,
and I really did not feel the toughness of the position I was playing
till that evening when I found my earthly belongings in the coin line
amounted to four dollars and fifty-five cents.
Three thousand miles away from home with a bad cold, four dollars and
fifty-five cents, hotel bill due, not a single friend or acquaintance
to turn for assistance. I strolled down Golden Gate Avenue with hands
dug deep in my pockets, coat collar turned up and hat pulled down over
my eyes, for it had just begun to drizzle rain and the breeze from the
sea was biting and penetrating. As I strolled along I saw on almost
every side big life-size placards, and pictures of Jimmie Boyles, the
Amateur Champion of the Pacific Coast, who was booked to fight that
night at the Dreamland Skating Rink.
Well, as I had gone through with almost all my money in the past week,
I thought I might as well spend the balance, so I planked down a dollar
and gained a general admission to the Dreamland where the fights were
to be pulled off that night. There were six round contests on the
programme and the big fight between Jimmie Boyles and whoever wished to
try him out would be the last one fought.
In 'Frisco at that time they only allowed them to go six rounds, and
that night there were some hot six rounders in the Dreamland. It was
the first time I had ever witnessed any of the fights in the West, and
I enjoyed seeing them pound each other, emphasis on the "pound each
other." When the first six fights had been completed the ring manager
stood on the platform and announced through a big megaphone that any
one who would come up and fight Jimmie Boyles, the amateur champion of
the Pacific coast, and stay in the ring with him the six rounds, that
a purse of one hundred dollars would be awarded. Jimmie stood proudly
leaning against the ropes, at the same time bowing to his admirers, as
the yeller made the announcement from all sides of the platform.
Several volunteered, but were ruled out on account of being classed
as professionals. For a while it looked as though they were not going
to be able to get Jimmie a fighting companion. As I stood there, I
thought, "Well, I am a darn long way from home and this chance looks
good to me, although I'm not much of a bruiser." Suddenly I raised my
hand above my head and yelled to the man on the platform that I would
fight his Jimmie Boyles. Those standing close to me turned and looked,
while the eyes of the whole audience fell my way. I pushed through
the excited mob of spectators and ascended to the platform, where I
introduced myself, "Jack Condon from Richmond, Va." I was not long in
establishing my amateurship, and after being introduced to the huge
assemblage, I repaired to the dressing room.
I was then weighing one hundred and seventy pounds stripped, and when
I walked out on that platform in regular fighting costume I felt like
a turkey nearing the axe. I appeared wrapped in a brown blanket and
took my seat in one corner, while Jimmie sat opposite me. A trainer sat
on either side, one rubbing my arms with alcohol, while the other was
saying, "Now, kid, don't git skeered, but hit the devil hard. You're
goin' to win, for I feel it in the dust. Ah, git out, what are all
these pretty muscles for if you can't lick that Jimmie over there with
only one hundred and thirty-five to hit yer with?"
The gong rang. I threw aside my robe and walked to the center of the
ring. I was so scared I could hardly breathe; there was a great big
lump in my throat and my knees were a bit shaky. Those knees of mine
did not get very weak till I got right up to that Jimmie and saw his
face. He had freckles, and I have always been afraid of a freckled face
man. They say they are mean and will fight like the devil; now I know
they are mean and also know that they will fight like hell.
We shook hands, and as I prepared to take my position and make a
grand stand show, he piled me one right square in the right eye. This
stunned me for a moment and I could see only stars. When I regained
self-control I was the maddest I have ever been in all my life. I
gritted my teeth and went at that one hundred and thirty-five pounder
as a buzz saw goes after a knotty log. He was apparently knotty and I
intended to cut some of them out. The gong sounded--end of the first
round. By this time my eye had swollen so badly I couldn't see from it
at all. Five more rounds!
During the second bout I hit that fellow a few good ones and I knocked
him down more than once with those big long railers, as they term them
back in North Carolina. Along about the fourth round I saw that he
was going to get the better of me and put me out of commission if I
didn't protect myself. Then I decided to keep away from him as much as
possible, and in the sixth round he was chasing me around the ring like
one rooster does another in the pit. Whenever he cornered me I would
clinch with him, and as a consequence the official would necessarily
consume some time in breaking us. I cared not how long it took to
separate us, for my game was a time killing one. I only wanted to last
the six rounds so I would be able to get my purse, for such was my only
salvation.
The very last of the sixth round he forced me to the ropes, and just
as the gong rang he drove me a straight from the right shoulder which
landed squarely on my eye. This blow sent me over the ropes of the
platform and I fell to the floor, twelve feet below. I remember
distinctly that terrific punch, but I do not remember having hit the
floor. The next morning I was barely able to see, for both eyes were
swollen dreadfully and my poor head was paining terribly. Two swollen
eyes and a big knot on the head was enough. On awakening my first
question was, "Did I win?"
"You sure did," replied one of the fellows in the training quarters,
for it was there I had spent the night. I secured my hundred, and two
days later I was on a Southern Pacific sleeper bound for my home back
in dear old North Carolina.
For several weeks after my return I waited and wondered what had
become of Anderson. He had failed to turn up at the appointed place,
at the appointed time, and he had even neglected to write me. I had
just about given him up for dead when one day I received a letter from
him informing me why he had not shown up on January 5th in Palo Alto,
and also explaining why he had not written or wired me as agreed. It
thoroughly vindicated him. There seemed to be some "hoodoo" about his
existence for having unusual things happen to him, and as a consequence
he was always doing the unexpected.
His letter read:
Pueblo, Colo.
MY DEAR JACK:
As I commence this letter, old man, I feel very much like a
prisoner with an excellent case of circumstantial evidence against
him, striving to vindicate himself, and at the same time knowing
the task to be an extremely difficult one.
Now, you have doubtless wondered why I didn't live up to the
mutual agreement, didn't let you know immediately of anything
which turned up to prevent me from doing so, and, strangest of
all, why I haven't written you long before this.
Now, Jack, I am going to try to explain, although it is a mighty
hard thing to do on paper, but before I begin, I want to remind
you that while you and I have peddled a goodly portion of the warm
oxygen together, that I have always been "on the square" with you,
as I trust you have with me: so don't think that I've taken this
from one of last century's novels, for every word of it is gospel
truth, so help me God!
I will begin with the minor things leading up to the climax and
grand finale, so that you can more fully comprehend it. You see,
old man, I went back to Dakota with the purpose of earning money
and saving it. I surely earned it with the sweat of my brow, as
the "Good Book" says, but it was the old, old story. It slipped
through my fingers. Well, I went from Arlington to Huron. Work
then was beginning to get rather scarce, but I went to a boarding
place, and by a straightforward story secured board in advance.
Then, for a time, I managed to get just about enough work to
liquidate my weekly board bills. Finally the thing petered out
about altogether, but I was given credit for a week. During that
week of hanging around I waxed loquacious, and revealed a little
of my past history. That made it good for another week. Then I
told them that I expected money from home, which I did. I then
wrote for twenty-five dollars, which I received in company with a
lengthy sermon, and paid fifteen dollars out for board, leaving me
with a miserable little ten dollar bill.
Now, in the good old halcyon days at the Academy we used to
convert our language phonographs into roulette wheels, and in
recreation hours--and not infrequently in study hours--gamble
for requisitions. We agreed that all the fellows who should be
"ousted" from the Academy should be paid cash, if winner, as the
"reqs" would be useless to them.
Our room was raided by upper class men one day, and the thing
found out, but as the midshipman in charge was certain of
"bilging" himself, he didn't report us, but simply gave us
unofficial hell instead. Well, when the game was broken up, a
certain Rogers of Cincinnati, Ohio, was in debt to yours truly to
the extent of twenty-five dollars. I made a hurried departure from
Annapolis, and furthermore I didn't care to mention such a then
trifling thing to Rogers, as I had between five and six hundred
dollars.
Well, you know how we arranged it--went to Pittsburg, then to
Chicago, and due principally to your good management, we never
got to the stage where I had to ask for it. Every letter Hardin
wrote me how he really believed Rogers meant to pay, and all that
sort of thing. To make a long story brief, Rogers never was man
enough to offer to close the little "debt of honor," and I was
too proud to ask him. When leaving Huron, though, I wrote him
a letter asking him to send it, in part or in full, to Omaha,
Nebraska; I depended on his honor and started out. Went to Sioux
City, Iowa, on a cattle pass and left most of my capital there.
When I took an account of my coin, found that I possessed less
than three dollars, and the fare to Omaha was three dollars and
fifteen cents. I went to the Bureau of Information, and found that
I could go to Blair, Neb., for amount on hand. Accordingly, I paid
passage to Blair, trusting to luck to catch a freight train out of
Blair, and I figured that even if this failed I could walk it, the
distance being only twenty-four miles.
Arriving at Blair, broke, I slept in the depot
over-night--Christmas Eve--think of it! Woke up Christmas Day
without a cent, and feeling like the wrath of God. Oh, yes, it
was a merry, merry Christmas. Finding that no freight trains were
running on account of holiday. I soliloquized, "Well, William B.
Anderson, ex-midshipman, United States Navy, it's up to you to
make the best of your way via 'the hoof' to Omaha, so get thee
busy at once."
I knew, or thought I knew, I would find a money order for
twenty-five dollars there. Arrived in Omaha about dusk, footsore
and weary, and went at once to the P. O., only to find to my
intense anger and chagrin that it was "Closed on Account of
Holiday."
I marched on the double quick to a Western Union Telegraph office,
and scribbled a lengthy telegram for funds. I was told that it
would have to be "O. K.'d" by the manager before it could be
sent Collect--so I waited three hours or thereabouts before that
personage finally materialized. The long wait didn't tend to calm
my general feelings of irascibility. I handed the form to him, and
after half scrutinizing it, he told me that he couldn't pass on it
and have the risk of its not making good at the other end, but if
I would cut out about three-fourths of it, he would. Now, I knew
that every single little word was absolutely necessary, and tried
to reason with him, but to no end. Then all the bad, irascible,
ruffled feelings that had accumulated within me for the last
couple of days surged forth, and I read the riot act to him as it
had never been read before. I never thought I was capable of such
a supply of invective. It did no good, of course, and ended in my
being shown the door by the uniformed attendant.
I went to the Postal Telegraph with almost the identical result,
so broke, but not in spirit, I walked the streets till morning,
and then sat in a saloon till business opened up and I could get
my bearings. I went to the Post Office as soon as it opened,
asked for my mail, but received a brief "Nothing." I went to an
employment agency and asked for a job in a restaurant, having
had nothing to appease my hunger for more than a day. Told him
I'd make good when I got paid. He wouldn't do business on those
grounds, but said he had received a 'phone call for a man to beat
carpets just for the day, and that if I wanted that, he wouldn't
charge me anything. I wanted it all right. I reasoned, "Well,
within two weeks I'll be attending college, but Jack and I did it
once when we were up against it, so it's good enough for me now
and nobody need ever know."
I went to the address handed me, a private family of the middle
class, and applied. A good looking young woman brought me a line
and a couple of carpet beaters, and I smiled as I thought of the
time you and I used to utilize them. At noon she showed me where
to wash, invited me to lunch, and really treated me elegantly.
She asked me my name, and a whole lot more, and then told me that
she and her mother rather liked my looks, and wished I'd stay
and sleep in the vacant house to which they intended moving, and
help the men transfer the different articles from one house to
another. I had intended staying the one day only, thus getting
sufficient to send home for outfit and fare to Palo Alto, but she
didn't understand my case, of course. She thought she was doing
me a favor, and as she "looked awfully good to me," I stayed, and
that's really the beginning of the story proper, the former part
being merely prelude.
At night the young woman's husband came home. He's head broker for
one of the largest packing houses, and she told him about it. He
was a little insignificant runt with a glass eye, and the tip of
his olfactory organ betokened more than a speaking acquaintance
with beverages of an alcoholic nature. He was pleasant at first,
but he by no means approved of his wife's interest in me. She
probably regarded me as a mere child, but I liked to think
otherwise. He stayed at home the next day "to help move" of
course. He made several significant remarks, such as, "Your hands
don't look like those of a laboring man," "You say you're from
Richmond, Va., but you haven't much Southern accent." "It's funny
one with your control of languages, and apparent education should
be beating carpets." I knew he wasn't saying this to peddle my
good qualities to his pretty little spouse, the shrimp, so I at
once suspected that he possessed a streak for amateur detective
work.
Well, I helped him move, and he watched me as a cat does a mouse,
but I didn't blame him, as he had several articles of value among
his stuff. We had most of the articles moved by night, but as
things were strewn around in topsy-turvy fashion in the new house,
he concluded to remain in the old apartments that night.
He sent me after two keys, for the front and back doors of the new
house, and said he would pay me and dismiss me when I returned.
I went to the locksmith's and got the two keys, but--well, you
know how careless and absent minded I am, and when I returned
I'll be damned if I could find but one of them--I had lost the
other. Then he as much as told me that I had hidden the key or
given it to an accomplice, so that I could go over and unlock the
door of the new house and help myself, and that it strengthened
his convictions all along that I didn't work for a living. That
sure made me hot under the collar, and I got eloquent and told
him that his theories were preposterous in the extreme, and that
I was well aware of the fact that I was no Hercules, but if it
were not for the kind treatment of his wife, I'd thrash him right
there. I got warm and excited and reached in my pocket for my
handkerchief to wipe away the perspiration. That little fool must
have misunderstood my purpose, for then, old man, honest Injun,
cross my heart, he ran over to the dresser, took a loaded revolver
from the drawer, and fired. The bullet went through the glass back
of me with a racket capable of waking the dead. His wife fainted,
I rushed him, and hit him a left hook that would have broken any
punching machine manufactured.
This sounds rather boastful, considering my slight build, but I
was in a heat, and it meant a whole lot to me how hard I hit him.
That cowardly whelp then let out a blood curdling yell, and went
down, and I realized what a fix I was in. The shot and yell must
have attracted the attention of passing pedestrians, for they all
gathered in front of the house. Not wishing my name to be given
so much publicity in an affair of that calibre, I took the bunch
of letters in my inside pocket, went over to the range and threw
them in, just as a cop appeared on the scene. Seeing the state
of things, the cop hit me over the head with his nightstick, and
after viewing at close range planets, heavenly satellites and
other decorations of the firmament, I must have collapsed; when I
revived, I had on a pair of handcuffs, and the little measly runt
was concluding his one-sided story.
Well, then, for the first time in my life, but not the last, as
you will see later, I was arrested. Went up before the judge next
A.M., and, to condense my story, the kernel of the judge's remarks
to me was that I looked young and unlike a criminal, but as I had
burned my letters, thereby admitting carrying a fictitious name,
and was also in a strange town with no visible means of support,
he would have to convict me of vagrancy, and concluded his remarks
by saying that he hoped it would teach me a lesson. Thirty days!
My God! don't attempt to imagine my feelings.
Well, there's a whole lot more I could tell you, but that's the
principal part, and improbable as it all sounds, that's the
true story of the successive links of evidence which resolved
themselves into the complete chain of circumstantial evidence
which kept me away from Palo Alto. I had a crumpled postal in
my pocket, and penciled on it "Don't condemn me, Jack, until
you hear my story." and begged a negro to mail to you for me. I
addressed it to you at Palo Alto, California, but I doubt if you
ever received it, as when I got out a couple of weeks later, your
letter awaited me at the Post Office, forwarded from Huron, and
you didn't say anything about having received the postal card.
Well, the judge visited me during my confinement, and drew out of
me my real name and address, but none of my past history or future
plans, and he at once surmised that I was some kid who had rambled
from home and mother, so he wrote my father a lengthy letter, the
tenor of which was that a boy claiming to be his son was confined
in that city on a charge of vagrancy, and that while the boy was
bright and intelligent, he was most assuredly on the wrong path of
life. He believed that a kindly interest by my parents, manifested
at this time, would work wonders in transforming me into a future
good and useful citizen. He further added that his advice would be
to send either my railroad ticket home, or sufficient capital to
start me out on some new project, as he really believed the young
man meant well. Pending an answer to his letter he would keep me
apart from the toughs and general habitués of the bull pen.
Now he read this note to me, and while it appealed to my sense of
humor, I couldn't imagine what would happen if he sent it, so I
fairly begged him not to do so, telling him that my folks thought
I was doing well, and I promised more things than I can think of,
so he didn't mail the letter, but instead let me out a couple of
weeks after my arrest.
When I received your letter I was much disheartened to see the
Asheville post mark, as it told me that you had taken the trip
across the continent for nothing at all--and also, old man, while
your letter was more polite and courteous than could be expected
under such circumstances, I could see between the lines all that
you left unsaid and what you thought of me, and that the letter
was lacking in the old time enthusiasm, but God, old man, I
couldn't help it, and can never express in words the sorrow I feel
in having disappointed you.
When I left the Academy, and left Reordan behind, I thought that
I could never again find a friend who understood me so well, or
who was understood so well by me, but a few weeks later I was
pleasantly surprised, and I know up to last January you possessed
a kindred feeling and had faith in me. Probably you may have some
idea of the way I feel at having deadened the feeling of one whom
I considered my warmest friend, yourself, when you recollect that
the chief thing I have done or tried to do thus far in life is
making friends, and keeping their good regards. Had I enjoyed
less, I'd be at Annapolis to-day.
Every acquaintance of mine from Chicago to Pueblo, by way of
Huron, has heard of you through me, but I can't say enough by
letter to make me feel right, so I'll knock off, but if you'll
answer at once telling me that it is all right, and mean it,
you'll make me feel a whole lot better. I am fully aware of the
trouble, expense and annoyance I caused you. God knows any one
would have had their faith shaken, and most people would have
sent me a letter that would have fairly scorched the paper. To
think that after looking forward to the time for months, with the
greatest of pleasure, that something unforeseen should turn up
that couldn't have disappointed you more had I plotted the whole
thing out in advance! And, take it from me, that I was never more
disappointed. But this talk doesn't relieve my feelings.
Well, I sent home for fifty dollars, which came in due time, as I
didn't wire, but wrote explaining full particulars, but, needless
to say, I didn't tell them of the arrest, as I'd never had the
nerve to face them again if I had. With this money I purchased a
ticket to Denver, Colorado, and from Denver here. I am working as
assistant timekeeper in the Open Hearth Division of the Colorado
Fuel and Iron Works, but I got my foot slightly burned, and intend
to quit and go to El Paso, and from there to Mexico. Almost had
my ticket bought when I made the acquaintance of a man named
Straight, who has a son at the Academy, and he is one of the grand
high Moguls in this town, with boundless influence, both political
and otherwise. He has promised me something good, so I've changed
my mind, but I may change it again before long and travel.
Well, old man, I have been dreading and deferring it, but now the
explanation is over with, thank God, and I await with anxiety the
verdict.
Goodby, old man, tell me all about yourself and your plans when
you write, and let that be soon, then I'll answer at once.
With best regards, I remain,
Your old pard,
WILLIAM B. ANDERSON.
Needless to say, I forthwith informed Anderson it was "all right," and
our careers since then have proved that our mutual disappointment was
for the best.
* * * * *
Transcriber's note:
Minor punctuation errors have been corrected silently.
Page 7: "Barbersville" may be typographical error for present day
"Barberville."
Page 9: Removed duplicate "they."
(Orig: Boys are always hungry, and justly so when they they haven't)
Pages 16, 17: Standardized "Kissimme" to "Kissimmee."
Page 52: Possible typographical error "rois" for "reis."
(Orig: three hundred rois, thirty cents in Uncle Sam's coin)
Page 54: Possible typographical error "metal" for "mettle."
(Orig: test to the utmost the metal of your companion)
Page 54: Changed "vilage" to "village."
(Orig: safely settled in the little vilage of Blanto)
Page 56: Changed "whch" to "which."
(Orig: Three days later we received a letter, whch read,)
Page 60: Changed "attenton" to "attention."
(Orig: turned their attenton toward me.)
Page 61: Removed duplicate "in."
(Orig: without a blooming sou in in our pockets)
Page 69: Changed "that" to "than."
(Orig: while I made a better showing that he,)
Page 73: Changed "leared" to "learned."
(Orig: We leared that Brown had been wanting a couple of men)
Page 82: Changed "approachng" to "approaching."
(Orig: if ever any of them saw a book agent approachng)
Page 92: Changed "halycon" to "halcyon."
(Orig: Now, in the good old halycon days at the Academy)
Page 93: Changed "acount" to "account."
(Orig: When I took an acount of my coin)
Page 96: Changed "firmanent" to "firmament."
(Orig: heavenly satellites and other decorations of the firmanent)
Page 96: Changed "condem" to "condemn."
(Orig: "Don't condem me, Jack, until you hear my story.")
Page 98: Changed "unforseen" to "unforeseen."
(Orig: that something unforseen should turn up)