Without a doubt much of the spirit and genius of the Caliph Harun Al Rashid descended to the Margrave August Michael von Paulsen Quigg.
Quigg’s restaurant is in Fourth Avenue—that street that the city seems to have forgotten in its growth. Fourth Avenue—born and bred in the Bowery—staggers northward full of good resolutions.
diff --git a/src/epub/text/a-call-loan.xhtml b/src/epub/text/a-call-loan.xhtml index 8175c43..926d385 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/a-call-loan.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/a-call-loan.xhtml @@ -6,7 +6,7 @@ -In those days the cattlemen were the anointed. They were the grandees of the grass, kings of the kine, lords of the lea, barons of beef and bone. They might have ridden in golden chariots had their tastes so inclined. The cattleman was caught in a stampede of dollars. It seemed to him that he had more money than was decent. But when he had bought a watch with precious stones set in the case so large that they hurt his ribs, and a California saddle with silver nails and Angora skin suaderos, and ordered everybody up to the bar for whisky—what else was there for him to spend money for?
Not so circumscribed in expedient for the reduction of surplus wealth were those lairds of the lariat who had womenfolk to their name. In the breast of the rib-sprung sex the genius of purse lightening may slumber through years of inopportunity, but never, my brothers, does it become extinct.
diff --git a/src/epub/text/a-chaparral-prince.xhtml b/src/epub/text/a-chaparral-prince.xhtml index 3a537fe..21e6752 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/a-chaparral-prince.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/a-chaparral-prince.xhtml @@ -6,7 +6,7 @@ -Nine o’clock at last, and the drudging toil of the day was ended. Lena climbed to her room in the third half-story of the Quarrymen’s Hotel. Since daylight she had slaved, doing the work of a full-grown woman, scrubbing the floors, washing the heavy ironstone plates and cups, making the beds, and supplying the insatiate demands for wood and water in that turbulent and depressing hostelry.
The din of the day’s quarrying was over—the blasting and drilling, the creaking of the great cranes, the shouts of the foremen, the backing and shifting of the flatcars hauling the heavy blocks of limestone. Down in the hotel office three or four of the labourers were growling and swearing over a belated game of checkers. Heavy odours of stewed meat, hot grease, and cheap coffee hung like a depressing fog about the house.
diff --git a/src/epub/text/a-municipal-report.xhtml b/src/epub/text/a-municipal-report.xhtml index a1df247..bdbd1f9 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/a-municipal-report.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/a-municipal-report.xhtml @@ -6,7 +6,7 @@ -diff --git a/src/epub/text/a-night-in-new-arabia.xhtml b/src/epub/text/a-night-in-new-arabia.xhtml index e23427c..5fef780 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/a-night-in-new-arabia.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/a-night-in-new-arabia.xhtml @@ -6,7 +6,7 @@ -+ A Night in New Arabia
The great city of Bagdad-on-the-Subway is caliph-ridden. Its palaces, bazaars, khans, and byways are thronged with Al Rashids in divers disguises, seeking diversion and victims for their unbridled generosity. You can scarcely find a poor beggar whom they are willing to let enjoy his spoils unsuccored, nor a wrecked unfortunate upon whom they will not reshower the means of fresh misfortune. You will hardly find anywhere a hungry one who has not had the opportunity to tighten his belt in gift libraries, nor a poor pundit who has not blushed at the holiday basket of celery-crowned turkey forced resoundingly through his door by the eleemosynary press.
So then, fearfully through the Harun-haunted streets creep the one-eyed calenders, the Little Hunchback and the Barber’s Sixth Brother, hoping to escape the ministrations of the roving horde of caliphoid sultans.
diff --git a/src/epub/text/a-poor-rule.xhtml b/src/epub/text/a-poor-rule.xhtml index 0da5c5a..9ce4e64 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/a-poor-rule.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/a-poor-rule.xhtml @@ -6,7 +6,7 @@ -+ A Poor Rule
I have always maintained, and asserted time to time, that woman is no mystery; that man can foretell, construe, subdue, comprehend, and interpret her. That she is a mystery has been foisted by herself upon credulous mankind. Whether I am right or wrong we shall see. As “Harper’s Drawer” used to say in bygone years: “The following good story is told of Miss ⸻, Mr. ⸻, Mr. ⸻, and Mr. ⸻.”
We shall have to omit “Bishop X” and “the Rev. ⸻,” for they do not belong.
diff --git a/src/epub/text/a-ramble-in-aphasia.xhtml b/src/epub/text/a-ramble-in-aphasia.xhtml index 17b93b6..3b0cc38 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/a-ramble-in-aphasia.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/a-ramble-in-aphasia.xhtml @@ -6,7 +6,7 @@ -+ A Ramble in Aphasia
My wife and I parted on that morning in precisely our usual manner. She left her second cup of tea to follow me to the front door. There she plucked from my lapel the invisible strand of lint (the universal act of woman to proclaim ownership) and bade me to take care of my cold. I had no cold. Next came her kiss of parting—the level kiss of domesticity flavored with Young Hyson. There was no fear of the extemporaneous, of variety spicing her infinite custom. With the deft touch of long malpractice, she dabbed awry my well-set scarf pin; and then, as I closed the door, I heard her morning slippers pattering back to her cooling tea.
When I set out I had no thought or premonition of what was to occur. The attack came suddenly.
diff --git a/src/epub/text/an-afternoon-miracle.xhtml b/src/epub/text/an-afternoon-miracle.xhtml index d262969..dbe2496 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/an-afternoon-miracle.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/an-afternoon-miracle.xhtml @@ -6,7 +6,7 @@ -+ An Afternoon Miracle
At the United States end of an international river bridge, four armed rangers sweltered in a little ‘dobe hut, keeping a fairly faithful espionage upon the lagging trail of passengers from the Mexican side.
Bud Dawson, proprietor of the Top Notch Saloon, had, on the evening previous, violently ejected from his premises one Leandro Garcia, for alleged violation of the Top Notch code of behaviour. Garcia had mentioned twenty-four hours as a limit, by which time he would call and collect a painful indemnity for personal satisfaction.
diff --git a/src/epub/text/babes-in-the-jungle.xhtml b/src/epub/text/babes-in-the-jungle.xhtml index e06037d..5de8725 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/babes-in-the-jungle.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/babes-in-the-jungle.xhtml @@ -6,7 +6,7 @@ -+ Babes in the Jungle
Montague Silver, the finest street man and art grafter in the West, says to me once in Little Rock: “If you ever lose your mind, Billy, and get too old to do honest swindling among grown men, go to New York. In the West a sucker is born every minute; but in New York they appear in chunks of roe—you can’t count ’em!”
Two years afterward I found that I couldn’t remember the names of the Russian admirals, and I noticed some gray hairs over my left ear; so I knew the time had arrived for me to take Silver’s advice.
diff --git a/src/epub/text/best-seller.xhtml b/src/epub/text/best-seller.xhtml index d647dbc..081ade5 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/best-seller.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/best-seller.xhtml @@ -6,9 +6,9 @@ -+ Best-Seller
-I
+I
One day last summer I went to Pittsburgh—well, I had to go there on business.
My chair-car was profitably well filled with people of the kind one usually sees on chair-cars. Most of them were ladies in brown-silk dresses cut with square yokes, with lace insertion, and dotted veils, who refused to have the windows raised. Then there was the usual number of men who looked as if they might be in almost any business and going almost anywhere. Some students of human nature can look at a man in a Pullman and tell you where he is from, his occupation and his stations in life, both flag and social; but I never could. The only way I can correctly judge a fellow-traveller is when the train is held up by robbers, or when he reaches at the same time I do for the last towel in the dressing-room of the sleeper.
The porter came and brushed the collection of soot on the window-sill off to the left knee of my trousers. I removed it with an air of apology. The temperature was eighty-eight. One of the dotted-veiled ladies demanded the closing of two more ventilators, and spoke loudly of Interlaken. I leaned back idly in chair No. 7, and looked with the tepidest curiosity at the small, black, bald-spotted head just visible above the back of No. 9.
@@ -16,7 +16,7 @@In two minutes we were faced, had shaken hands, and had finished with such topics as rain, prosperity, health, residence, and destination. Politics might have followed next; but I was not so ill-fated.
I wish you might know John A. Pescud. He is of the stuff that heroes are not often lucky enough to be made of. He is a small man with a wide smile, and an eye that seems to be fixed upon that little red spot on the end of your nose. I never saw him wear but one kind of necktie, and he believes in cuff-holders and button-shoes. He is as hard and true as anything ever turned out by the Cambria Steel Works; and he believes that as soon as Pittsburgh makes smoke-consumers compulsory, St. Peter will come down and sit at the foot of Smithfield Street, and let somebody else attend to the gate up in the branch heaven. He believes that “our” plate-glass is the most important commodity in the world, and that when a man is in his home town he ought to be decent and law-abiding.
During my acquaintance with him in the City of Diurnal Night I had never known his views on life, romance, literature, and ethics. We had browsed, during our meetings, on local topics, and then parted, after Chateau Margaux, Irish stew, flannel-cakes, cottage-pudding, and coffee (hey, there!—with milk separate). Now I was to get more of his ideas. By way of facts, he told me that business had picked up since the party conventions, and that he was going to get off at Coketown.
-II
+II
“Say,” said Pescud, stirring his discarded book with the toe of his right shoe, “did you ever read one of these best-sellers? I mean the kind where the hero is an American swell—sometimes even from Chicago—who falls in love with a royal princess from Europe who is travelling under an alias, and follows her to her father’s kingdom or principality? I guess you have. They’re all alike. Sometimes this going-away masher is a Washington newspaper correspondent, and sometimes he is a Van Something from New York, or a Chicago wheat-broker worthy fifty millions. But he’s always ready to break into the king row of any foreign country that sends over their queens and princesses to try the new plush seats on the Big Four or the B. and O. There doesn’t seem to be any other reason in the book for their being here.
“Well, this fellow chases the royal chair-warmer home, as I said, and finds out who she is. He meets her on the corso or the strasse one evening and gives us ten pages of conversation. She reminds him of the difference in their stations, and that gives him a chance to ring in three solid pages about America’s uncrowned sovereigns. If you’d take his remarks and set ’em to music, and then take the music away from ’em, they’d sound exactly like one of George Cohan’s songs.
“Well, you know how it runs on, if you’ve read any of ’em—he slaps the king’s Swiss body-guards around like everything whenever they get in his way. He’s a great fencer, too. Now, I’ve known of some Chicago men who were pretty notorious fences, but I never heard of any fencers coming from there. He stands on the first landing of the royal staircase in Castle Schutzenfestenstein with a gleaming rapier in his hand, and makes a Baltimore broil of six platoons of traitors who come to massacre the said king. And then he has to fight duels with a couple of chancellors, and foil a plot by four Austrian archdukes to seize the kingdom for a gasoline-station.
@@ -32,7 +32,7 @@“Think of a Chicago man packing a sword, and talking about freeing anything that sounded as much like canned pork as that! He’d be much more likely to fight to have an import duty put on it.”
“I think I understand you, John,” said I. “You want fiction-writers to be consistent with their scenes and characters. They shouldn’t mix Turkish pashas with Vermont farmers, or English dukes with Long Island clam-diggers, or Italian countesses with Montana cowboys, or Cincinnati brewery agents with the rajahs of India.”
“Or plain business men with aristocracy high above ’em,” added Pescud. “It don’t jibe. People are divided into classes, whether we admit it or not, and it’s everybody’s impulse to stick to their own class. They do it, too. I don’t see why people go to work and buy hundreds of thousands of books like that. You don’t see or hear of any such didoes and capers in real life.”
-III
+III
“Well, John,” said I, “I haven’t read a best-seller in a long time. Maybe I’ve had notions about them somewhat like yours. But tell me more about yourself. Getting along all right with the company?”
“Bully,” said Pescud, brightening at once. “I’ve had my salary raised twice since I saw you, and I get a commission, too. I’ve bought a neat slice of real estate out in the East End, and have run up a house on it. Next year the firm is going to sell me some shares of stock. Oh, I’m in on the line of General Prosperity, no matter who’s elected!”
“Met your affinity yet, John?” I asked.
@@ -100,7 +100,7 @@“ ‘Yes,’ says I, ‘I remember. My foot slipped as I was jumping on the step, and I nearly tumbled off.’
“ ‘I know,’ says she. ‘And—and I—I was afraid you had, John A. I was afraid you had.’
“And then she skips into the house through one of the big windows.”
-IV
+IV
“Coketown!” droned the porter, making his way through the slowing car.
Pescud gathered his hat and baggage with the leisurely promptness of an old traveller.
“I married her a year ago,” said John. “I told you I built a house in the East End. The belted—I mean the colonel—is there, too. I find him waiting at the gate whenever I get back from a trip to hear any new story I might have picked up on the road.”
diff --git a/src/epub/text/buried-treasure.xhtml b/src/epub/text/buried-treasure.xhtml index 2ba0556..9803395 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/buried-treasure.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/buried-treasure.xhtml @@ -6,7 +6,7 @@ -+ Buried Treasure
There are many kinds of fools. Now, will everybody please sit still until they are called upon specifically to rise?
I had been every kind of fool except one. I had expended my patrimony, pretended my matrimony, played poker, lawn-tennis, and bucket-shops—parted soon with my money in many ways. But there remained one rule of the wearer of cap and bells that I had not played. That was the Seeker after Buried Treasure. To few does the delectable furor come. But of all the would-be followers in the hoof-prints of King Midas none has found a pursuit so rich in pleasurable promise.
diff --git a/src/epub/text/calloways-code.xhtml b/src/epub/text/calloways-code.xhtml index c2eadee..067a224 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/calloways-code.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/calloways-code.xhtml @@ -85,7 +85,7 @@
Silent—majority
- Unfortunate—pedestrians1 + Unfortunate—pedestrians2
Richmond—in the field
diff --git a/src/epub/text/caught.xhtml b/src/epub/text/caught.xhtml index 7f615ca..79dd757 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/caught.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/caught.xhtml @@ -6,7 +6,7 @@ -+ Caught
The plans for the detention of the flying President Miraflores and his companion at the coast line seemed hardly likely to fail. Dr. Zavalla himself had gone to the port of Alazan to establish a guard at that point. At Solitas the Liberal patriot Varras could be depended upon to keep close watch. Goodwin held himself responsible for the district about Coralio.
The news of the president’s flight had been disclosed to no one in the coast towns save trusted members of the ambitious political party that was desirous of succeeding to power. The telegraph wire running from San Mateo to the coast had been cut far up on the mountain trail by an emissary of Zavalla’s. Long before this could be repaired and word received along it from the capital the fugitives would have reached the coast and the question of escape or capture been solved.
diff --git a/src/epub/text/christmas-by-injunction.xhtml b/src/epub/text/christmas-by-injunction.xhtml index bc9c1ac..45a74ef 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/christmas-by-injunction.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/christmas-by-injunction.xhtml @@ -6,7 +6,7 @@ -+ Christmas by Injunction
Cherokee was the civic father of Yellowhammer. Yellowhammer was a new mining town constructed mainly of canvas and undressed pine. Cherokee was a prospector. One day while his burro was eating quartz and pine burrs Cherokee turned up with his pick a nugget, weighing thirty ounces. He staked his claim and then, being a man of breadth and hospitality, sent out invitations to his friends in three States to drop in and share his luck.
Not one of the invited guests sent regrets. They rolled in from the Gila country, from Salt River, from the Pecos, from Albuquerque and Phoenix and Santa Fe, and from the camps intervening.
diff --git a/src/epub/text/compliments-of-the-season.xhtml b/src/epub/text/compliments-of-the-season.xhtml index ba90ae7..fe5f59c 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/compliments-of-the-season.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/compliments-of-the-season.xhtml @@ -6,7 +6,7 @@ -+ Compliments of the Season
There are no more Christmas stories to write. Fiction is exhausted; and newspaper items, the next best, are manufactured by clever young journalists who have married early and have an engagingly pessimistic view of life. Therefore, for seasonable diversion, we are reduced to very questionable sources—facts and philosophy. We will begin with—whichever you choose to call it.
Children are pestilential little animals with which we have to cope under a bewildering variety of conditions. Especially when childish sorrows overwhelm them are we put to our wits’ end. We exhaust our paltry store of consolation; and then beat them, sobbing, to sleep. Then we grovel in the dust of a million years, and ask God why. Thus we call out of the rattrap. As for the children, no one understands them except old maids, hunchbacks, and shepherd dogs.
diff --git a/src/epub/text/cupid-a-la-carte.xhtml b/src/epub/text/cupid-a-la-carte.xhtml index 50b8cfa..a8ddac4 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/cupid-a-la-carte.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/cupid-a-la-carte.xhtml @@ -6,7 +6,7 @@ -+ Cupid a La Carte
“The dispositions of woman,” said Jeff Peters, after various opinions on the subject had been advanced, “run, regular, to diversions. What a woman wants is what you’re out of. She wants more of a thing when it’s scarce. She likes to have souvenirs of things that never happened. She likes to be reminded of things she never heard of. A one-sided view of objects is disjointing to the female composition.
“ ’Tis a misfortune of mine, begotten by nature and travel,” continued Jeff, looking thoughtfully between his elevated feet at the grocery stove, “to look deeper into some subjects than most people do. I’ve breathed gasoline smoke talking to street crowds in nearly every town in the United States. I’ve held ’em spellbound with music, oratory, sleight of hand, and prevarications, while I’ve sold ’em jewelry, medicine, soap, hair tonic, and junk of other nominations. And during my travels, as a matter of recreation and expiation, I’ve taken cognisance some of women. It takes a man a lifetime to find out about one particular woman; but if he puts in, say, ten years, industrious and curious, he can acquire the general rudiments of the sex. One lesson I picked up was when I was working the West with a line of Brazilian diamonds and a patent fire kindler just after my trip from Savannah down through the cotton belt with Dalby’s Anti-explosive Lamp Oil Powder. ’Twas when the Oklahoma country was in first bloom. Guthrie was rising in the middle of it like a lump of self-raising dough. It was a boom town of the regular kind—you stood in line to get a chance to wash your face; if you ate over ten minutes you had a lodging bill added on; if you slept on a plank at night they charged it to you as board the next morning.
diff --git a/src/epub/text/cupids-exile-number-two.xhtml b/src/epub/text/cupids-exile-number-two.xhtml index 6fb772f..25b7b96 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/cupids-exile-number-two.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/cupids-exile-number-two.xhtml @@ -6,7 +6,7 @@ -+ Cupid’s Exile Number Two
The United States of America, after looking over its stock of consular timber, selected Mr. John De Graffenreid Atwood, of Dalesburg, Alabama, for a successor to Willard Geddie, resigned.
Without prejudice to Mr. Atwood, it will have to be acknowledged that, in this instance, it was the man who sought the office. As with the self-banished Geddie, it was nothing less than the artful smiles of lovely woman that had driven Johnny Atwood to the desperate expedient of accepting office under a despised Federal Government so that he might go far, far away and never see again the false, fair face that had wrecked his young life. The consulship at Coralio seemed to offer a retreat sufficiently removed and romantic enough to inject the necessary drama into the pastoral scenes of Dalesburg life.
diff --git a/src/epub/text/dicky.xhtml b/src/epub/text/dicky.xhtml index eebc490..4ed1269 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/dicky.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/dicky.xhtml @@ -6,7 +6,7 @@ -+ Dicky
There is little consecutiveness along the Spanish Main. Things happen there intermittently. Even Time seems to hang his scythe daily on the branch of an orange tree while he takes a siesta and a cigarette.
After the ineffectual revolt against the administration of President Losada, the country settled again into quiet toleration of the abuses with which he had been charged. In Coralio old political enemies went arm-in-arm, lightly eschewing for the time all differences of opinion.
diff --git a/src/epub/text/endnotes.xhtml b/src/epub/text/endnotes.xhtml index a199c7d..103d147 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/endnotes.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/endnotes.xhtml @@ -5,18 +5,15 @@ -<<<<<<< HEAD -<<<<<<< HEAD -- -
- -
The methods of the Rev. Sam Jones, who was the Billy Sunday of his time, were frequently the subject of O. Henry’s satire. ↩
-======= -Endnotes
+
- +
The methods of the Rev. Sam Jones, who was the Billy Sunday of his time, were frequently the subject of O. Henry’s satire. ↩
+- +
Mr. Vesey afterward explained that the logical journalistic complement of the word “unfortunate” was once the word “victim.” But, since the automobile became so popular, the correct following word is now “pedestrians.” Of course, in Calloway’s code it meant infantry. ↩
+- @@ -46,24 +43,8 @@
See advertising column, “Where to Dine Well,” in the daily newspapers. ↩
An estate famous in Texas legal history. It took many, many years for adjustment and a large part of the property was, of course, consumed as expenses of litigation. ↩
->>>>>>> rolling-stones/master -======= - -- -<<<<<<< HEAD -<<<<<<< HEAD -======= - ->>>>>>> rolling-stones/master -======= --
- -
Mr. Vesey afterward explained that the logical journalistic complement of the word “unfortunate” was once the word “victim.” But, since the automobile became so popular, the correct following word is now “pedestrians.” Of course, in Calloway’s code it meant infantry. ↩
->>>>>>> whirligigs/master