The Man That Corrupted Hadleyburg, and Other Stories
some distinguished strangers were given seats on the platform; at the
horseshoe of tables which fenced the front and sides of the platform sat
a strong force of special correspondents who had come from everywhere.
It was the best-dressed house the town had ever produced. There were
some tolerably expensive toilets there, and in several cases the
ladies who wore them had the look of being unfamiliar with that kind of
clothes. At least the town thought they had that look, but the notion
could have arisen from the town's knowledge of the fact that these
ladies had never inhabited such clothes before.
The gold-sack stood on a little table at the front of the platform where
all the house could see it. The bulk of the house gazed at it with a
burning interest, a mouth-watering interest, a wistful and pathetic
interest; a minority of nineteen couples gazed at it tenderly, lovingly,
proprietarily, and the male half of this minority kept saying over to
themselves the moving little impromptu speeches of thankfulness for the
audience's applause and congratulations which they were presently going
to get up and deliver. Every now and then one of these got a piece of
paper out of his vest pocket and privately glanced at it to refresh his
memory.
Of course there was a buzz of conversation going on--there always is;
but at last, when the Rev. Mr. Burgess rose and laid his hand on the
sack, he could hear his microbes gnaw, the place was so still. He
related the curious history of the sack, then went on to speak in
warm terms of Hadleyburg's old and well-earned reputation for spotless
honesty, and of the town's just pride in this reputation. He said that
this reputation was a treasure of priceless value; that under Providence
its value had now become inestimably enhanced, for the recent episode
had spread this fame far and wide, and thus had focussed the eyes of the
American world upon this village, and made its name for all time, as
he hoped and believed, a synonym for commercial incorruptibility.
(Applause.) “And who is to be the guardian of this noble fame--the
community as a whole? No! The responsibility is individual, not
communal. From this day forth each and every one of you is in his own
person its special guardian, and individually responsible that no harm
shall come to it. Do you--does each of you--accept this great trust?
(Tumultuous assent.) Then all is well. Transmit it to your children and
to your children's children. To-day your purity is beyond reproach--see
to it that it shall remain so. To-day there is not a person in your
community who could be beguiled to touch a penny not his own--see to
it that you abide in this grace. (“We will! we will!”) This is not the
place to make comparisons between ourselves and other communities--some
of them ungracious towards us; they have their ways, we have ours; let
us be content. (Applause.) I am done. Under my hand, my friends, rests
a stranger's eloquent recognition of what we are; through him the world
will always henceforth know what we are. We do not know who he is, but
in your name I utter your gratitude, and ask you to raise your voices in
indorsement.”
The house rose in a body and made the walls quake with the thunders of
its thankfulness for the space of a long minute. Then it sat down,
and Mr. Burgess took an envelope out of his pocket. The house held its
breath while he slit the envelope open and took from it a slip of paper.
He read its contents--slowly and impressively--the audience listening
with tranced attention to this magic document, each of whose words stood
for an ingot of gold:
“'The remark which I made to the distressed stranger was this: “You are
very far from being a bad man; go, and reform.”' Then he continued:--'We
shall know in a moment now whether the remark here quoted corresponds
with the one concealed in the sack; and if that shall prove to
be so--and it undoubtedly will--this sack of gold belongs to a
fellow-citizen who will henceforth stand before the nation as the symbol
of the special virtue which has made our town famous throughout the
land--Mr. Billson!'”
The house had gotten itself all ready to burst into the proper tornado
of applause; but instead of doing it, it seemed stricken with a
paralysis; there was a deep hush for a moment or two, then a wave of
whispered murmurs swept the place--of about this tenor: “BILLSON!
oh, come, this is TOO thin! Twenty dollars to a stranger--or
ANYBODY--BILLSON! Tell it to the marines!” And now at this point the
house caught its breath all of a sudden in a new access of astonishment,
for it discovered that whereas in one part of the hall Deacon Billson
was standing up with his head meekly bowed, in another part of it Lawyer
Wilson was doing the same. There was a wondering silence now for a
while. Everybody was puzzled, and nineteen couples were surprised and
indignant.
Billson and Wilson turned and stared at each other. Billson asked,
bitingly:
“Why do YOU rise, Mr. Wilson?”
“Because I have a right to. Perhaps you will be good enough to explain
to the house why YOU rise.”
“With great pleasure. Because I wrote that paper.”
“It is an impudent falsity! I wrote it myself.”
It was Burgess's turn to be paralysed. He stood looking vacantly at
first one of the men and then the other, and did not seem to know what
to do. The house was stupefied. Lawyer Wilson spoke up now, and said:
“I ask the Chair to read the name signed to that paper.”
That brought the Chair to itself, and it read out the name:
“John Wharton BILLSON.”
“There!” shouted Billson, “what have you got to say for yourself
now? And what kind of apology are you going to make to me and to this
insulted house for the imposture which you have attempted to play here?”
“No apologies are due, sir; and as for the rest of it, I publicly charge
you with pilfering my note from Mr. Burgess and substituting a copy of
it signed with your own name. There is no other way by which you could
have gotten hold of the test-remark; I alone, of living men, possessed
the secret of its wording.”
There was likely to be a scandalous state of things if this went
on; everybody noticed with distress that the shorthand scribes were
scribbling like mad; many people were crying “Chair, chair! Order!
order!” Burgess rapped with his gavel, and said:
“Let us not forget the proprieties due. There has evidently been a
mistake somewhere, but surely that is all. If Mr. Wilson gave me an
envelope--and I remember now that he did--I still have it.”
He took one out of his pocket, opened it, glanced at it, looked
surprised and worried, and stood silent a few moments. Then he waved his
hand in a wandering and mechanical way, and made an effort or two to say
something, then gave it up, despondently. Several voices cried out:
“Read it! read it! What is it?”
So he began, in a dazed and sleep-walker fashion:
“'The remark which I made to the unhappy stranger was this: “You are
far from being a bad man. (The house gazed at him marvelling.) Go, and
reform.'” (Murmurs: “Amazing! what can this mean?”) “This one,” said
the Chair, “is signed Thurlow G. Wilson.”
“There!” cried Wilson, “I reckon that settles it! I knew perfectly well
my note was purloined.”
“Purloined!” retorted Billson. “I'll let you know that neither you nor
any man of your kidney must venture to--”
The Chair: “Order, gentlemen, order! Take your seats, both of you,
please.”
They obeyed, shaking their heads and grumbling angrily. The house
was profoundly puzzled; it did not know what to do with this curious
emergency. Presently Thompson got up. Thompson was the hatter. He would
have liked to be a Nineteener; but such was not for him; his stock of
hats was not considerable enough for the position. He said:
“Mr. Chairman, if I may be permitted to make a suggestion, can both of
these gentlemen be right? I put it to you, sir, can both have happened
to say the very same words to the stranger? It seems to me--”
The tanner got up and interrupted him. The tanner was a disgruntled man;
he believed himself entitled to be a Nineteener, but he couldn't get
recognition. It made him a little unpleasant in his ways and speech.
Said he:
“Sho, THAT'S not the point! THAT could happen--twice in a hundred
years--but not the other thing. NEITHER of them gave the twenty
dollars!” (A ripple of applause.)
Billson. “I did!”
Wilson. “I did!”
Then each accused the other of pilfering.
The Chair. “Order! Sit down, if you please--both of you. Neither of the
notes has been out of my possession at any moment.”
A Voice. “Good--that settles THAT!”
The Tanner. “Mr. Chairman, one thing is now plain: one of these men
has been eavesdropping under the other one's bed, and filching family
secrets. If it is not unparliamentary to suggest it, I will remark
that both are equal to it. (The Chair. “Order! order!”) I withdraw the
remark, sir, and will confine myself to suggesting that IF one of them
has overheard the other reveal the test-remark to his wife, we shall
catch him now.”
A Voice. “How?”
The Tanner. “Easily. The two have not quoted the remark in exactly
the same words. You would have noticed that, if there hadn't been a
considerable stretch of time and an exciting quarrel inserted between
the two readings.”
A Voice. “Name the difference.”
The Tanner. “The word VERY is in Billson's note, and not in the other.”
Many Voices. “That's so--he's right!”
The Tanner. “And so, if the Chair will examine the test-remark in
the sack, we shall know which of these two frauds--(The Chair.
“Order!”)--which of these two adventurers--(The Chair. “Order!
order!”)--which of these two gentlemen--(laughter and applause)--is
entitled to wear the belt as being the first dishonest blatherskite ever
bred in this town--which he has dishonoured, and which will be a sultry
place for him from now out!” (Vigorous applause.)
Many Voices. “Open it!--open the sack!”
Mr. Burgess made a slit in the sack, slid his hand in, and brought out
an envelope. In it were a couple of folded notes. He said:
“One of these is marked, 'Not to be examined until all written
communications which have been addressed to the Chair--if any--shall
have been read.' The other is marked 'THE TEST.' Allow me. It is
worded--to wit:
“'I do not require that the first half of the remark which was made
to me by my benefactor shall be quoted with exactness, for it was not
striking, and could be forgotten; but its closing fifteen words are
quite striking, and I think easily rememberable; unless THESE shall be
accurately reproduced, let the applicant be regarded as an impostor. My
benefactor began by saying he seldom gave advice to anyone, but that it
always bore the hallmark of high value when he did give it. Then he said
this--and it has never faded from my memory: 'YOU ARE FAR FROM BEING A
BAD MAN--'”
Fifty Voices. “That settles it--the money's Wilson's! Wilson! Wilson!
Speech! Speech!”
People jumped up and crowded around Wilson, wringing his hand and
congratulating fervently--meantime the Chair was hammering with the
gavel and shouting:
“Order, gentlemen! Order! Order! Let me finish reading, please.” When
quiet was restored, the reading was resumed--as follows:
“'GO, AND REFORM--OR, MARK MY WORDS--SOME DAY, FOR YOUR SINS YOU WILL
DIE AND GO TO HELL OR HADLEYBURG--TRY AND MAKE IT THE FORMER.'”
A ghastly silence followed. First an angry cloud began to settle darkly
upon the faces of the citizenship; after a pause the cloud began to
rise, and a tickled expression tried to take its place; tried so hard
that it was only kept under with great and painful difficulty; the
reporters, the Brixtonites, and other strangers bent their heads down
and shielded their faces with their hands, and managed to hold in by