Vistas of New York

by Brander Matthews

“How did he manage that?” asked the other, in involuntary admiration before so splendid an audacity.

“You’ve no idea how fertile Skinner was in devices of all kinds,” replied the gentleman who was telling the story. “He got out on bail, and he arranged for a light sentence if he pleaded guilty. Then one day, suddenly, a man came into court, giving himself up as Skinner, pleading guilty, and asking for immediate sentence. Of course, nobody inquired too curiously into the identity of a self-surrendered prisoner who wanted to go to Sing Sing. Well—”

The car stopped at the corner of Fifth Avenue, several passengers alighted, and a party of three ladies came in. There were two vacant seats by the side of Harry Brackett, and as he thought these three ladies wished to sit together, he gave up his place and took another farther down the car. Here he found himself again opposite the man who had entered the car almost simultaneously with him, and who had not yet paid his fare. Harry Brackett wondered whether this attempt to steal a ride was intentional or whether it was merely inadvertent. His consideration of this metaphysical problem was interrupted by another conversation. His right-hand neighbor, who was apparently a physician, was telling the friend next to him of the strange desires of convalescents.

“I think,” said he, “that the queerest request I ever heard was down in Connecticut. There was a man there, a day-laborer, but a fine young fellow, who had a crowbar driven clean through his head by a forgotten blast. Well, I happened to be the first doctor on the spot, and it was nip-and-tuck whether anything could be done for him; it was a most interesting case. But he was in glorious condition physically. I found out afterward that he was the champion sprint-runner of the place. I got him into the nearest hotel, and in time I managed to patch him up as best I could. At last we pulled him through, and the day came when I was able to tell him that I thought he would recover, and that he was quite out of danger, and that all he had to do was to get his strength back again as fast as he could, and he would be all right again soon. He was lying in bed, emaciated and speechless, when I said this, and when I added that he could have anything to eat he might fancy, his eyes brightened and his lips moved. ‘Is there anything in particular you would prefer?’ I asked him, and his lips moved again as though he had a wish to express. You see, he hadn’t spoken once since the accident, but he seemed to be trying to find his tongue; so I bent over the bed and put my head over his mouth, and finally I heard a faint voice saying, ‘Quail on toast!’ and as I drew back in surprise, he gave me a wink. Feeble as his tones were, there was infinite gusto in the way he said the words. I suppose he had never had quail on toast in all his life; probably he had dreamed of it as an unattainable luxury.”

“Did he get it?” asked the doctor’s friend.

“He got it every day,” answered the doctor, “until he said he didn’t want any more. I remember another man who—”

But now, with many a jolt and jar, the car was rattling noisily across Sixth Avenue under the dripping shadow of the station of the elevated railway. Harry Brackett rose to his feet, and as he did so he glanced again at the man opposite to him, to see if, even then, at the eleventh hour, he did intend to pay his fare. But the man caught Harry Brackett’s eye hardily, and looked him in the face, with a curiously knowing smile.

There was something very odd about the expression of the man’s face, so Harry Brackett thought, as he left the car and began to mount the steps which led to the station of the elevated railroad. He could not help thinking that there was a queer suggestion in that smile—a suggestion of a certain complicity on his part: it was as though the owner of the smile had ventured to hint that they were birds of a feather.

“Confound his impudence!” said Harry Brackett to himself, as he stood before the window of the ticket-agent.

Then he put his fingers into the little pocket in his overcoat and took from it a ten-cent piece and a five-cent piece. And he knew at once why the man opposite had smiled so impertinently—it was the smile of the pot at the kettle.