A favourite dodge
to get your story
read by the public
is to assert
that it is true,
and then add
that Truth
is stranger than Fiction.
I do not know
if the yarn
I am anxious
for you to read
is true;
but the Spanish purser
of the fruit steamer
El Carrero
swore to me
by the shrine
of Santa Guadalupe
that he
had the facts
from the U. S. vice-consul
at La Paz -
a person
who could not possibly
have been cognizant
of half of them.
As for the adage
quoted above,
I take pleasure
in puncturing it
by affirming
that I
read in
a purely fictional story the
other day the line:
"'Be it so,'
said the policeman."
Nothing so strange
has yet
cropped out in Truth.
When H. Ferguson Hedges,
millionaire promoter,
investor and man-about-New-York,
turned his thoughts
upon matters convivial,
and word of it went
"down the line,"
bouncers took a precautionary turn
at the Indian clubs,
waiters put ironstone china
on his favourite tables,
cab drivers crowded
close to the curbstone
in front of all-night cafés,
and careful cashiers
in his regular haunts
charged up a few bottles
to his account
by way
of preface and introduction.
As a money
power a one-millionaire
is of small account
in a city
where the man
who cuts your slice
of beef
behind the free-lunch counter
rides to work
in his own automobile.
But Hedges
spent his money as lavishly,
loudly and showily as
though he
were only
a clerk squandering
a week's wages.
And,
after all,
the bartender
takes no interest
in your reserve fund.
He would
rather look you
up on his cash register
than in Bradstreet.
On the evening
that the material allegation
of facts begins,
Hedges was
bidding dull care begone
in the company of five
or six good fellows
-- acquaintances and friends
who had
gathered in his wake.
Among them
were two younger men
-- Ralph Merriam,
a broker,
and Wade,
his friend.
Two deep-sea cabmen were chartered.
At Columbus Circle
they hove to long enough
to revile the statue
of the great navigator,
unpatriotically rebuking him for
having voyaged
in search of land
instead of liquids.
Midnight overtook the party marooned
in the rear
of a cheap café
far uptown.
Hedges was arrogant,
overriding and quarrelsome.
He was burly and tough,
iron-gray but vigorous,
"good"
for the rest
of the night.
There was a dispute
-- about nothing
that matters --
and the five-fingered words
were passed
-- the words
that represent the glove
cast into the lists.
Merriam played the rôle
of the verbal Hotspur.
Hedges rose quickly,
seized his chair,
swung it once and
smashed wildly dowp
at Merriam's head.
Merriam dodged,
drew a small revolver and
shot Hedges in the chest.
The leading roysterer stumbled,
fell in a wry heap,
and lay still.
Wade,
a commuter,
had formed
that habit of promptness.
He juggled Merriam
out a side door,
walked him to the corner,
ran him a block and
caught a hansom.
They rode five minutes
and then
got out
on a dark corner and
dismissed the cab.
Across the street the lights
of a small saloon
betrayed its hectic hospitality.
"Go in the back room
of that saloon,"
said Wade,
"and wait.
I'll go
find out what's
doing and let you know.