HANS TAKES A TRIP
One day in May Hans came into Hal’s room with a letter from his sister
who had come to New York to be present at the wedding of a former
schoolmate to take place in Brooklyn, the next week. She asked Hans to
come down to New York the following Thursday and accompany her to the
wedding. She was visiting some friends who lived in one of the New York
suburbs and wrote that she would meet him at the Grand Central Station
at two o’clock in the afternoon, and he could then take her over to
Brooklyn to be present at the wedding, which was to be at four o’clock.
Hans had never been in New York before, and hesitated quite a little
about making the trip alone, and wanted Hal to go along. Hal couldn’t
afford to spend the time or money just then, and reminded Hans that his
sister had been in New York before and probably knew how to get around
the best way, and he needn’t be nervous. He thought all Hans’ sister
wanted him for anyhow, was as escort.
So Hans wrote he would be there on time and made his preparations
for the trip to the big city. While he was getting ready he got more
and more excited. Like most boys he didn’t care anything about the
wedding, in fact, he’d rather be going for most any other reason, but
he thought he might stay over Sunday if he got along all right, and see
some of the shows.
“Perhaps I’ll have time to see the _Out Door Weekly_ and get a job for
both of us canvassing for subscriptions in our spare time,” he said.
On Thursday morning, bright and early, he took the train for New York,
which left at five o’clock, but he was not so early but that Hal was up
also to bid him good-by.
“Look out for the confidence men,” said Hal, as Hans was leaving the
house. “If any fellow walks up to you at the station down there and
says, ‘Well! Well! if it isn’t my old friend Hagner’s son Hans! How are
you, Hans?’ you’d better just walk by and not notice him.”
“Oh! I know those fellows,” said Hans. “I’ll see you Monday, and if I
don’t have any other trouble but confidence men, it will be easy.”
But when Hal was going out to chapel the next morning whom should he
meet on the doorstep but Hans with his grip in his hand, and looking
glum and discouraged.
“What! did they get you so soon as all this?” asked Hal.
“Oh! don’t talk to me any more about the delights of New York,”
answered Hans, and that was all Hal could get out of him about his trip
for nearly three days.
By Sunday evening, though, things began to thaw out with Hans. The boys
were both in Hagner’s room, writing their weekly letters home, telling
the folks all about the troubles of the past few days, and also some of
the good things that had happened during the week.
Hans had finished his letter with a sigh, as he evidently wasn’t quite
over his New York experience, and had leaned his head back against the
cushions in the Morris chair and was thinking. All at once he said, “I
have a letter here from my sister which I got yesterday, but haven’t
opened yet, because it probably has a lot in it about my trip to New
York, and I don’t care to hear any more about that.”
“Better read it,” said Hal. “It isn’t fair to people who write you
letters not to at least read them.”
“I suppose I’ll have to read it some time,” said Hans, and he opened
the letter and started to read it. Hal went on with his writing for a
while undisturbed, and then he heard Hans begin to chuckle to himself.
From chuckling he turned to laughing to himself and finally to laugh
out loud. Then he said, “Well, I guess it depends altogether on how you
put it. This letter from my sister tells something about my trip to New
York. It puts it in an altogether different light than I had thought of
it before, and come to think of it, it’s really funny, after it is all
over.”
“I’ve been dying to ask you what happened,” said Hal, “but your face
during the past three days has been dark enough to keep anyone from
asking questions. I suppose father’s friends from way back home got
you anyhow.”
“No, I didn’t see any confidence men,” answered Hans. “What got me was
that I went all the way to New York to attend a wedding and to see some
of the sights of the town over Sunday and here I am back at Lowell
again within twenty-four hours, without seeing either the wedding or
any of the sights and just about $25 to the bad.”
“How could that happen?” asked Hal, showing much interest.
“Well, it was this way,” said Hans. “I got to the Grand Central
Station all right about one o’clock. The sun was shining and I was
feeling pretty good. There were lots of people coming and going, and
the streets outside were so crowded I thought sure there was going
to be a parade. About half past one it started to rain and it rained
harder than it ever rains in Texas. Of course I didn’t have any rubbers
or umbrella along, and when my sister got there she didn’t have any
either. It wasn’t raining and didn’t look like rain when she left the
house where she was visiting.
“She was all dressed up in her finest dress, with big hat, and looked
very pretty, but I couldn’t take her on a street car in that kind of
weather, and so I said, ‘I guess we’ll have to take a cab.’ She said
under the circumstances she would go in a cab, but that she would pay
for it, because she knew I couldn’t have very much money, I guess, and
she gave me her pocketbook with some money in it. I told her she had
better come with me and we would find the best way to get there. She
said we had better take the Twenty-third Street Ferry to Broadway,
Brooklyn, and thought it would be cheaper to take one cab to the ferry,
then ride across on the boat, and get another cab on the other side. So
I asked a cabby to take us to the Twenty-third Street Ferry and after
we had been riding for about ten minutes we got there, and when I asked
him how much I owed him he said ‘Three Aces,’ and I said ‘What?’ and he
said ‘Three Dollars.’ So I paid the three dollars out of sister’s money
(she had fifteen dollars), though I felt like fighting, and we rode
across the East River on the ferryboat.
[Illustration: “I asked a cabby to take us to the 23rd St. Ferry.”]
“When we got over on the Brooklyn side it was raining harder than
ever, and I went out to look for a cab. There was none in sight, so I
telephoned to six livery stables, but there wasn’t any to be had. And
there we were, stuck in Brooklyn in the ferryhouse and the rain coming
down like anything, and no cabs.
“I said ‘we better walk,’ but sis said ‘no, she had an idea’; and she
started for the entrance to the ferryhouse, where I saw a string of
carriages approaching. When I caught up to her I saw it was a lot of
carriages bringing people back from a funeral, and sister was busy
talking to the driver of one of them. Finally we explained things to
the people inside, and they consented to let us have their carriage,
and they thought they could get a carriage on the New York side,
although it was queer to change a funeral carriage into one to go to a
wedding. When we got in I told the driver where we wanted to go, and
he sort of smiled, but, of course, I didn’t know what about. I soon
found out though, as after he had gone about four blocks and turned one
corner the carriage stopped, and the driver got down and opened the
door, saying we were there. I hadn’t asked him how much it would be,
but told him to wait for us, as it was time for the wedding and we only
expected to be there for a little while.
“The building was one of those apartment houses, my sister told me--a
brand new building with elevators and boys with brass buttons, and
all that. This was my first sight of an apartment house--this was the
kind which had little apartments--four rooms and bath, and the young
couple who were getting married had furnished it up very nicely, and
were going to start housekeeping right after the wedding. Because they
had only a little room, they had rented or obtained the use of the
apartment next door, for people to leave their wraps. The boy showed us
in there.
“A maid showed sister into one room and me into another, and said,
‘There is a brush and comb and clothesbrush in the bath-room if you
need one.’ I needed it because I was pretty wet, and my hair was
rumpled. I went into the bath-room, and, of course, turned the bolt in
the door. I brushed my clothes and combed my hair, and then started
to get out. When I tried to turn the bolt it wouldn’t budge. You see
this apartment had never been occupied and this bolt in the door had
never been tried, so when I had turned it to lock it, it had worked all
right, but when I tried to unlock it, it had stuck tight in the door
and I couldn’t budge it. I tried and tried until my fingers were worn
sore and still I was in there.
[Illustration: “I tried and tried until my fingers were worn out.”]
“The weather was warm and I was perspiring like a horse after a race.
I pounded on the door but nobody could hear me, because everybody but
sister and the maid had gone in to the wedding. Sister and the maid
were waiting in the other end of the apartment for me and didn’t hear
me. After about fifteen minutes I began to kick the door and holler. By
that time sister had begun looking for me, and came to the door. She
asked me why I didn’t come out, and I said I was locked in, and I told
her to find somebody. I saw at once that I might be in there an hour or
two, so I said she had better go down and pay off the cabby.
“She said I had all the money, so I slipped a ten-dollar bill (hers)
under the door and she went downstairs to pay him off. He took the ten
dollars and drove off, and that’s the last we saw of him or any part
of the ten dollars, as he took advantage of the rain and my sister
to drive away. Sister came up excited and told me about that and I
commenced to get madder than ever. Also I kept getting warmer. Finally
sister came and said that she had sent for the janitor to come up with
a monkey-wrench.
“While we were waiting for the janitor the wedding had taken place and
the news got around that one of the guests was locked in the bath-room.
That broke up the reception more or less and the whole crowd came over
to the other apartment, and stood in front of the bath-room door, to
advise me how to get out. After half an hour, the janitor came, but
there was no way for him to get the monkey-wrench to me. Finally, he
said he would go round to the other apartment across the airshaft and
if I would hang out of the window on one side, he would do the same on
the other and I could reach the monkey-wrench. We did this, and both of
us got soaked good and hard by the rain, but I managed to get hold of
the wrench by hanging onto the window-sill by my toes. I was pretty mad
by that time, but I knew I’d get out quick now, so I walked up to the
door, put the wrench on the knob which was flat on both sides, and gave
her a mighty twist, and crack! the knob broke off, and I was worse off
than ever.
[Illustration: “If I would hang out of the window on one side, he would
do the same on the other.”]
“Then the people outside suggested taking the hinges off the door,
which was a good idea, but it would take more than a wrench to get the
pins out, so the janitor started for a screw-driver. After another half
hour he appeared at the window across the airshaft again, and I got the
screw-driver and another ducking from the rain, and started to work on
the pins.
“They had been put in to stay, but I managed to get them out in three
quarters of an hour, and told the folks outside to push. They pushed,
but the door wouldn’t budge. You see the bolt in the other side of the
door was just long enough to hold the door tight and it couldn’t be
opened even then.
“By that time it was seven o’clock and the janitor got an axe and broke
out the lower panels with that, and I finally crawled out. Just as I
did so three policemen came into the apartment and outside I could hear
the fire gongs. Somebody looked out of the window and there was a hook
and ladder company, which had come in answer to the telephone call of
one of the guests, and were going to get me out by way of the bath-room
window. The wedding, however, was over, the bride was in hysterics, and
there was nothing left to do, since it was still raining hard, but to
get another cab back to New York in the hope of getting to the station
in time to enable sister to catch the 8.03 train for Westchester, the
town she was visiting in, and where they were giving a card party in
her honor that night. I was to go, too.
“We arrived at the station at exactly 8.04 P. M. The cab fare was five
dollars. The next train she could get would be 9.30, and we hadn’t had
a bite to eat since noon. There was nothing to do but have some dinner,
which I was in no mood for. We went to one of the hotels near by and
ate a little something. When the waiter brought the bill, it was nine
dollars and eighty cents, and I never paid over fifty cents for a good
dinner in my life. I had paid out eighteen dollars in cash for three
different cab rides--one of ten minutes, three dollars; one of five
minutes, ten dollars; and one of an hour, five dollars. Fifteen dollars
of this was sister’s money. The dinner cost me nine dollars and eighty
cents, which made twelve dollars and eighty cents of my own money I had
spent on a wedding which I didn’t see, and on a trip to New York on
which I saw nothing but a lot of thieving cabbies.
“By that time I was so angry I was red in the face, and the madder I
got the more sister laughed, until I got out of patience with her and
put her on the train, while I took the sleeper for Lowell, and I have
been mad at things in general ever since, until now I begin to think
it was laughable myself, after it is all over, though it cost a lot of
money, and I didn’t see much of the big city.”
While Hans was telling this Hal sat in his chair and roared and laughed
until he couldn’t laugh any more. It must have been awfully funny with
Hans telling it in his own peculiar way. Hal said finally he thought
Hans had had a pretty good time riding around in cabs all day just like
a real New Yorker, but Hans said he had enough of riding in cabs, and
he didn’t like weddings anyhow.
After a little while, Hal finished his letter and went into his own
room. Then he sat down to write the story of Hans’ experience in New
York to his folks. He started in with a new sheet of paper and just
for fun he wrote it out like a story, heading and all. The heading was
like this:
GOING TO A WEDDING IN BROOKLYN FROM NEW YORK, U. S. A.
By Harold Case
Then he wrote out the story very much as Hans had told it to him,
adding a touch here and there as the funny side of it occurred to him
again, and when he had finished it he started to put it in the letter
which he had written to his folks at home. What he really did, however,
was to make a mistake through pure carelessness which, had he only
known it, was to cause him not only a lot of joy but a great deal of
happiness.
He had addressed a letter to the editor of the _Out Door Weekly_ in New
York for terms to agents soliciting subscriptions to the magazine, as
Hans and he had talked about before Hans’ trip to New York. The scheme
was for Hans and himself to try to get orders for the magazine by the
year from the people who lived in near-by towns, and the letter had to
be written, now that Hans had come back from New York without seeing
the people. Now when he came to put the story about Hans, intended only
for his folks, in the letter he had written them, he picked up the
wrong envelope and stuck the story in the envelope addressed to the
editor of the _Out Door Weekly_, and the letter he intended for the
editor he put in the envelope addressed to his folks along with his
regular letter. Then he mailed them and went to bed.
About a week later, among the letters received by Hal was one from the
_Out Door Weekly_, and Hal opened it to see what they had to say about
the job of getting subscriptions which they had asked for. When he
opened the letter something dropped out of it to the floor, and upon
picking it up found it was a check for $250, made out to Harold Case.
Of course, he didn’t understand this so he opened the letter, and this
is what he read:
“MR. HAROLD CASE,
“DEAR SIR: We beg to advise you that your story has been
accepted by the editor and will appear in the next issue. We
have taken the liberty of putting our own title on it.
“Inclosed please find check for $250 in payment of same.
Any time you have any stories as good as this to submit for
publication, we trust you will favor this magazine.
“Yours very truly,
“WALTON KEMP, _Editor_
“_Out Door Weekly_.”
Hal couldn’t understand it and so he took the letter, check and all,
into Hans’ room, and asked him what he made out of it.
“Guess somebody made a $250 mistake,” said Hans.
“They certainly have got me mixed up with some author,” answered Hal.
“I didn’t send them any story. The only thing I have sent to this
magazine is the letter which you asked me to write about the job as
agents for their magazine.”
“Well, have you written any stories to anybody?” asked Hans.
“Not that I know of,” answered Hal. “The only story I have written
lately was this. When you told me the tale of your New York visit the
other night I sat down in my room afterwards and wrote it all out, and
sent it to the folks, thinking they would enjoy it. They feel as though
they know you as well as I do by this time.”
“I have it,” said Hans. “I’ll bet I know what you have done. You went
and put the letter for the magazine in the letter to your folks and you
put the story about me in the envelope addressed to the magazine, and
they’re going to publish that story about me all over the country.”
“I don’t suppose I could make a mistake like that,” said Hal.
“Well, I don’t suppose you could either. But say, wouldn’t it be a
lucky mistake if you had done it. Think of making a mistake like that
and getting $250 for it. Think of being an author and not knowing it.
That would be rich. If you did make that mistake I think I ought to
lick the stuffing out of you for advertising me all over the country.”
“All right; but say, maybe I did make that mistake. Guess I am not
entitled to this check unless I did do something for it, but what on
earth anybody would want to pay $250 for that kind of a story for, I
don’t quite see. Now if I did make that mistake and they think enough
of the story to pay $250, it would look foolish, wouldn’t it, for me to
write them now and tell them they made a mistake. Wouldn’t the best way
be to wait until Saturday when the next number of the _Weekly_ appears,
and we can then see what story they refer to. And say, if that should
be so, and I made the mistake the way you guess, I’ll give you half of
the profits provided you agree not to lick me. Anyway, there’s no other
name mentioned but just Hans.”
So they decided to hold the check and wait for the next number of the
magazine which was five days off. They were very much excited about it.
They could hardly wait until Saturday came. On Friday Hal got a letter
from his folks in answer to the one he had mailed ten days before, and
in it his father returned him the letter addressed to the magazine in
which they had asked for a job as agents.
Hal then knew he had made a mistake in inclosing the letters and had
sent the story about Hans to the magazine. It began to look like the
$250 check was really his, by the greatest possible luck. The next
morning they could hardly wait for the news store to open. They were
both on hand before the doors were unlocked. When the place was opened
they found the magazine wouldn’t arrive until ten o’clock. That was
four hours to wait. They went home to breakfast but were on hand
promptly when the package arrived from the depot, and eagerly bought a
copy. Hal turned the pages one after the other until he came to a story
headed:
“TO A BROOKLYN WEDDING AND BACK AGAIN”
A STORY FROM REAL LIFE ABOUT HANS
By Harold Case
“There she is,” said Hal. “Now what do you think of that?” They read
it through together. Eight whole pages. It was almost exactly as Hal
had written it. The editor had changed a word here and there and it was
illustrated with imaginative pictures of Hans at the Grand Central,
Hans dealing with the driver of the funeral coach, Hans hanging out of
the bath-room window, and every kind of way.
“By George,” said Hans. “You are an author and it would be rude to lick
an author, but you won’t have to canvass for the magazine subscribers
for a month or two anyhow.”
“Well, you won’t either,” said Hal. “We’ll divide it up and when the
money’s spent, I’ll send you on another trip to New York, and if you
can get something else to happen to you, I may be able to get another
story.”
Then they went down to the bank and had the check cashed and Hal
counted out one hundred and twenty-five dollars which he gave to Hans
who immediately put his in the bank again, to his own credit, while
Hal rolled his up, put a rubber band around it and stuffed it in his
trousers’ pocket.