The Four Million
by O. Henry
Contents
TOBIN’S PALM
THE GIFT OF THE MAGI
A COSMOPOLITE IN A CAFÉ
BETWEEN ROUNDS
THE SKYLIGHT ROOM
A SERVICE OF LOVE
THE COMING-OUT OF MAGGIE
MAN ABOUT TOWN
THE COP AND THE ANTHEM
AN ADJUSTMENT OF NATURE
MEMOIRS OF A YELLOW DOG
THE LOVE-PHILTRE OF IKEY SCHOENSTEIN
MAMMON AND THE ARCHER
SPRINGTIME À LA CARTE
THE GREEN DOOR
FROM THE CABBY’S SEAT
AN UNFINISHED STORY
THE CALIPH, CUPID AND THE CLOCK
SISTERS OF THE GOLDEN CIRCLE
THE ROMANCE OF A BUSY BROKER
AFTER TWENTY YEARS
LOST ON DRESS PARADE
BY COURIER
THE FURNISHED ROOM
THE BRIEF DÉBUT OF TILDY
TOBIN’S PALM
Tobin and me, the two of us, went down to Coney one day, for there was
four dollars between us, and Tobin had need of distractions. For there
was Katie Mahorner, his sweetheart, of County Sligo, lost since she
started for America three months before with two hundred dollars, her
own savings, and one hundred dollars from the sale of Tobin’s inherited
estate, a fine cottage and pig on the Bog Shannaugh. And since the
letter that Tobin got saying that she had started to come to him not a
bit of news had he heard or seen of Katie Mahorner. Tobin advertised in
the papers, but nothing could be found of the colleen.
So, to Coney me and Tobin went, thinking that a turn at the chutes and
the smell of the popcorn might raise the heart in his bosom. But Tobin
was a hardheaded man, and the sadness stuck in his skin. He ground his
teeth at the crying balloons; he cursed the moving pictures; and,
though he would drink whenever asked, he scorned Punch and Judy, and
was for licking the tintype men as they came.
So I gets him down a side way on a board walk where the attractions
were some less violent. At a little six by eight stall Tobin halts,
with a more human look in his eye.
“’Tis here,” says he, “I will be diverted. I’ll have the palm of me
hand investigated by the wonderful palmist of the Nile, and see if what
is to be will be.”
Tobin was a believer in signs and the unnatural in nature. He possessed
illegal convictions in his mind along the subjects of black cats, lucky
numbers, and the weather predictions in the papers.
We went into the enchanted chicken coop, which was fixed mysterious
with red cloth and pictures of hands with lines crossing ’em like a
railroad centre. The sign over the door says it is Madame Zozo the
Egyptian Palmist. There was a fat woman inside in a red jumper with
pothooks and beasties embroidered upon it. Tobin gives her ten cents
and extends one of his hands. She lifts Tobin’s hand, which is own
brother to the hoof of a drayhorse, and examines it to see whether ’tis
a stone in the frog or a cast shoe he has come for.
“Man,” says this Madame Zozo, “the line of your fate shows—”
“’Tis not me foot at all,” says Tobin, interrupting. “Sure, ’tis no
beauty, but ye hold the palm of me hand.”
“The line shows,” says the Madame, “that ye’ve not arrived at your time
of life without bad luck. And there’s more to come. The mount of
Venus—or is that a stone bruise?—shows that ye’ve been in love. There’s
been trouble in your life on account of your sweetheart.”
“’Tis Katie Mahorner she has references with,” whispers Tobin to me in
a loud voice to one side.
“I see,” says the palmist, “a great deal of sorrow and tribulation with
one whom ye cannot forget. I see the lines of designation point to the
letter K and the letter M in her name.”
“Whist!” says Tobin to me, “do ye hear that?”
“Look out,” goes on the palmist, “for a dark man and a light woman; for
they’ll both bring ye trouble. Ye’ll make a voyage upon the water very
soon, and have a financial loss. I see one line that brings good luck.
There’s a man coming into your life who will fetch ye good fortune.
Ye’ll know him when ye see him by his crooked nose.”
“Is his name set down?” asks Tobin. “’Twill be convenient in the way of
greeting when he backs up to dump off the good luck.”
“His name,” says the palmist, thoughtful looking, “is not spelled out
by the lines, but they indicate ’tis a long one, and the letter ‘o’
should be in it. There’s no more to tell. Good-evening. Don’t block up
the door.”
“’Tis wonderful how she knows,” says Tobin as we walk to the pier.
As we squeezed through the gates a nigger man sticks his lighted segar
against Tobin’s ear, and there is trouble. Tobin hammers his neck, and
the women squeal, and by presence of mind I drag the little man out of
the way before the police comes. Tobin is always in an ugly mood when
enjoying himself.
On the boat going back, when the man calls “Who wants the good-looking
waiter?” Tobin tried to plead guilty, feeling the desire to blow the
foam off a crock of suds, but when he felt in his pocket he found
himself discharged for lack of evidence. Somebody had disturbed his
change during the commotion. So we sat, dry, upon the stools, listening
to the Dagoes fiddling on deck. If anything, Tobin was lower in spirits
and less congenial with his misfortunes than when we started.
On a seat against the railing was a young woman dressed suitable for
red automobiles, with hair the colour of an unsmoked meerschaum. In
passing by, Tobin kicks her foot without intentions, and, being polite
to ladies when in drink, he tries to give his hat a twist while
apologising. But he knocks it off, and the wind carries it overboard.
Tobin came back and sat down, and I began to look out for him, for the
man’s adversities were becoming frequent. He was apt, when pushed so
close by hard luck, to kick the best dressed man he could see, and try
to take command of the boat.
Presently Tobin grabs my arm and says, excited: “Jawn,” says he, “do ye
know what we’re doing? We’re taking a voyage upon the water.”
“There now,” says I; “subdue yeself. The boat’ll land in ten minutes
more.”
“Look,” says he, “at the light lady upon the bench. And have ye
forgotten the nigger man that burned me ear? And isn’t the money I had
gone—a dollar sixty-five it was?”
I thought he was no more than summing up his catastrophes so as to get
violent with good excuse, as men will do, and I tried to make him
understand such things was trifles.
“Listen,” says Tobin. “Ye’ve no ear for the gift of prophecy or the
miracles of the inspired. What did the palmist lady tell ye out of me
hand? ’Tis coming true before your eyes. ‘Look out,’ says she, ‘for a
dark man and a light woman; they’ll bring ye trouble.’ Have ye forgot
the nigger man, though he got some of it back from me fist? Can ye show
me a lighter woman than the blonde lady that was the cause of me hat
falling in the water? And where’s the dollar sixty-five I had in me
vest when we left the shooting gallery?”
The way Tobin put it, it did seem to corroborate the art of prediction,
though it looked to me that these accidents could happen to any one at
Coney without the implication of palmistry.
Tobin got up and walked around on deck, looking close at the passengers
out of his little red eyes. I asked him the interpretation of his
movements. Ye never know what Tobin has in his mind until he begins to
carry it out.
“Ye should know,” says he, “I’m working out the salvation promised by
the lines in me palm. I’m looking for the crooked-nose man that’s to
bring the good luck. ’Tis all that will save us. Jawn, did ye ever see
a straighter-nosed gang of hellions in the days of your life?”
’Twas the nine-thirty boat, and we landed and walked up-town through
Twenty-second Street, Tobin being without his hat.
On a street corner, standing under a gas-light and looking over the
elevated road at the moon, was a man. A long man he was, dressed
decent, with a segar between his teeth, and I saw that his nose made
two twists from bridge to end, like the wriggle of a snake. Tobin saw
it at the same time, and I heard him breathe hard like a horse when you
take the saddle off. He went straight up to the man, and I went with
him.
“Good-night to ye,” Tobin says to the man. The man takes out his segar
and passes the compliments, sociable.
“Would ye hand us your name,” asks Tobin, “and let us look at the size
of it? It may be our duty to become acquainted with ye.”
“My name” says the man, polite, “is Friedenhausman—Maximus G.
Friedenhausman.”
“’Tis the right length,” says Tobin. “Do you spell it with an ‘o’
anywhere down the stretch of it?”
“I do not,” says the man.
“_Can_ ye spell it with an ‘o’?” inquires Tobin, turning anxious.
“If your conscience,” says the man with the nose, “is indisposed toward
foreign idioms ye might, to please yourself, smuggle the letter into
the penultimate syllable.”
“’Tis well,” says Tobin. “Ye’re in the presence of Jawn Malone and
Daniel Tobin.”
“Tis highly appreciated,” says the man, with a bow. “And now since I
cannot conceive that ye would hold a spelling bee upon the street
corner, will ye name some reasonable excuse for being at large?”
“By the two signs,” answers Tobin, trying to explain, “which ye display
according to the reading of the Egyptian palmist from the sole of me
hand, ye’ve been nominated to offset with good luck the lines of
trouble leading to the nigger man and the blonde lady with her feet
crossed in the boat, besides the financial loss of a dollar sixty-five,
all so far fulfilled according to Hoyle.”
The man stopped smoking and looked at me.
“Have ye any amendments,” he asks, “to offer to that statement, or are
ye one too? I thought by the looks of ye ye might have him in charge.”
“None,” says I to him, “except that as one horseshoe resembles another
so are ye the picture of good luck as predicted by the hand of me
friend. If not, then the lines of Danny’s hand may have been crossed, I
don’t know.”
“There’s two of ye,” says the man with the nose, looking up and down
for the sight of a policeman. “I’ve enjoyed your company immense.
Good-night.”
With that he shoves his segar in his mouth and moves across the street,
stepping fast. But Tobin sticks close to one side of him and me at the
other.
“What!” says he, stopping on the opposite sidewalk and pushing back his
hat; “do ye follow me? I tell ye,” he says, very loud, “I’m proud to
have met ye. But it is my desire to be rid of ye. I am off to me home.”
“Do,” says Tobin, leaning against his sleeve. “Do be off to your home.
And I will sit at the door of it till ye come out in the morning. For
the dependence is upon ye to obviate the curse of the nigger man and
the blonde lady and the financial loss of the one-sixty-five.”
“’Tis a strange hallucination,” says the man, turning to me as a more
reasonable lunatic. “Hadn’t ye better get him home?”
“Listen, man,” says I to him. “Daniel Tobin is as sensible as he ever
was. Maybe he is a bit deranged on account of having drink enough to
disturb but not enough to settle his wits, but he is no more than
following out the legitimate path of his superstitions and
predicaments, which I will explain to you.” With that I relates the
facts about the palmist lady and how the finger of suspicion points to
him as an instrument of good fortune. “Now, understand,” I concludes,
“my position in this riot. I am the friend of me friend Tobin,
according to me interpretations. ’Tis easy to be a friend to the
prosperous, for it pays; ’tis not hard to be a friend to the poor, for
ye get puffed up by gratitude and have your picture printed standing in
front of a tenement with a scuttle of coal and an orphan in each hand.
But it strains the art of friendship to be true friend to a born fool.
And that’s what I’m doing,” says I, “for, in my opinion, there’s no
fortune to be read from the palm of me hand that wasn’t printed there
with the handle of a pick. And, though ye’ve got the crookedest nose in