“DOING” A LANDLORD. A STORY OF SHAPE AND TALENT.
Tom C. H————, Esq., a genius, whose ideas of life were on such a magnificent scale that they outran his interest, capital and all, was seated upon the porch of a fashionable hotel, in a large eastern village, one bright Monday morning, cogitating how, in the nature of things, it was possible for him to compass a dinner. The long score, unpaid, which stood recorded on the books within, precluded the idea of getting one there without the tin, and numerous searches through sundry pockets about his person were unrewarded by a single shiner. The case was desperate, but great minds are always equal to great emergencies, and Tom's was of that order. His coat had been renovated by a scourer, for whom he had written a love letter, his hat had been ironed by a good-natured hatter, who had enjoyed his custom in better days, a new coat of japan varnish had been lavished upon his cane, his dicky was passable, and no gentleman would think of examining the extremities of his covering, or pry into the shifts he had been put to for a shirt. Tom thought himself passable, and he resolved to pass off for a dinner, if possible. A stranger lolling easily on a settee near him looked vulnerable, and Tom, approaching him in a very bland and friendly manner, remarked:—
“Excuse me, sir, but you look so like an old friend of mine, J. B————, who has resided for years in the south, that I can't help addressing you.”
“I am from the south, sir,” answered the stranger, courteously, “but not the person you speak of—know him, however, and am pleased to encounter a friend of his.”
“That's it,” said Tom to himself, “got him as easy as rolling off a log!”
An animated conversation ensued, which ended by Tom being asked to dine, and when the gong proclaimed the table spread, in walked the stranger and Tom, arm-in-arm, large as life and twice as natural. He called the waiters with an air of ease, passed the stranger's wine with friendly freedom, laughed musically, jested with spirit, wiped his mouth with grace, and, in short, completely captivated the southerner. During the period of Tom's luxuriating, he was observed by the landlord, who, indignant, sent a servant to order him from the table. Tom had “come it” over him for so many odd dinners, without a shadow of prospect for pay, that he would stand it no longer. The servant approached, whispered in his ear, and stood off to give him room to move. Tom clutched the wine bottle, with the intention of hurling it at his head, but altered his purpose, and poured out another glass, drank it off, looked daggers at the servant, and in a moment more smiled confidence upon his friend.
“Would you believe it,” said Tom, to the southerner, “that since my absence from the city for a few days past, a rival house of our shipping firm has whispered the possibility of our failure, and this rascally landlord, having heard the calumny, has insulted me here at table by sending a servant to demand the trifling sum I owe him.”
The southerner was burning with indignation.
“It is too humiliating;” added Tom, “not dreaming of such an outrage, I am entirely unprovided at the moment.”
“Here, my dear fellow,” promptly proffered his friend, “here is my pocket-book, make use of it without hesitation.”
“You're very kind,” said Tom, “very, I will but borrow this thousand dollar bill for a moment—I know the rascal can't change it!”
With an air of offended dignity, Tom approached the office of the hotel, the landlord, frowning with anger, stood at the desk, the offended “diner out,” put his hand to his eyes, as if hiding deep emotion, and then addressing the landlord in a grief-stricken voice, he said:
“I never dreamed of such an insult from you, sir, at such a time, too, just as my uncle in the south has expired,—and his agent with me to deliver up the portion bequeathed to me—it is—it—sir, I cannot express in language my feelings. Take out of that the paltry sum I owe you,”—throwing down the thousand dollar bill,—“and henceforth I never will enter your door. Just at a time too,” he further added, “when I had intended to make your house my home, and endeavor to make some return for your forbearance. It is too much—my feelings are lacerated,” and here he became almost overpowered by emotion.
The strip of crape around his hat—put there to hide the greasy band—the thousand dollar bill, and the renovated coat, which looked like new on the possessor of such a sum, all assured the landlord that he had been hasty. He, therefore, denied the indignity, straight, said that it was an impertinence of his servant, who had twice before offended his best guests by his insolence, and assured Tom that he would discharge the fellow forthwith—pushed back to him the thousand dollar bill, and begged he would forget the circumstance—indeed, he felt shocked that such an outrage had been perpetrated upon his oldest friend and customer. These warm expressions mollified Tom's wrath, and folding up his bill he walked back, resumed his seat, returned the bill to the southerner, merely remarking he had “brought the landlord to his feelings,” and cheerfully sipped a little iced champagne. As he left the table arm-in-arm with his friend, the landlord approached, bowing, and begged to know where he should send for his trunk, as No. 24, a fine airy room, which would suit him to a charm, was at present empty. Tom said he would send the baggage up, and after lighting a choice Havana, strolled out with an air aristocratic.
In good time, the trunk arrived—a rude one, but very heavy. The landlord winked as the servant bent beneath its weight, and remarked, as he paid the porterage, that a large quantity of bullion was generally rather heavy. Tom was in clover—the thousand dollar bill got whispered about, and one of his creditors, a fashionable tailor, insisted on trusting him for another suit; he yielded after much persuasion, and it was astonishing how everything altered with Tom's appearance. His note was good for any small sum now, and it was a pleasure to make his acquaintance.
In the course of about six months the landlord thought he would just hint to Tom that a small check would be agreeable, as they were hard pushed. The hint was given, and he received a check—anything but a cash one, though. Tom very coolly informed him that the agent who had raised his hopes was a rascally impostor.
“But the thousand dollar bill, Mr. H.?” said the landlord, inquiringly.
“Was handed to me, by the rogue, to keep up appearances,” coolly responded Tom.
“I shall seize your baggage, sir!” cried the enraged host.
“I can't help it, my dear fellow,” said Tom; “you know if I had a 'pocket full of rocks,' you should share them, for I like you, vastly—I do—cuss me if I don't; so keep cool, and keep the baggage until I make a draw and raise the little sum.”
The trunk was seized, and so roughly that it burst open, when the landlord discovered that if Tom had no pocket full of rocks, it was because he had stowed them all in his trunk, and that accounted very naturally for its being so heavy!