Our room was raided by upper class men one day, and the thing found out, but as the midshipman in charge was certain of "bilging" himself, he didn't report us, but simply gave us unofficial hell instead. Well, when the game was broken up, a certain Rogers of Cincinnati, Ohio, was in debt to yours truly to the extent of twenty-five dollars. I made a hurried departure from Annapolis, and furthermore I didn't care to mention such a then trifling thing to Rogers, as I had between five and six hundred dollars.
Well, you know how we arranged it—went to Pittsburg, then to Chicago, and due principally to your good management, we never got to the stage where I had to ask for it. Every letter Hardin wrote me how he really believed Rogers meant to pay, and all that sort of thing. To make a long story brief, Rogers never was man enough to offer to close the little "debt of honor," and I was too proud to ask him. When leaving Huron, though, I wrote him a letter asking him to send it, in part or in full, to Omaha, Nebraska; I depended on his honor and started out. Went to Sioux City, Iowa, on a cattle pass and left most of my capital there. When I took an account of my coin, found that I possessed less than three dollars, and the fare to Omaha was three dollars and fifteen cents. I went to the Bureau of Information, and found that I could go to Blair, Neb., for amount on hand. Accordingly, I paid passage to Blair, trusting to luck to catch a freight train out of Blair, and I figured that even if this failed I could walk it, the distance being only twenty-four miles.
Arriving at Blair, broke, I slept in the depot over-night—Christmas Eve—think of it! Woke up Christmas Day without a cent, and feeling like the wrath of God. Oh, yes, it was a merry, merry Christmas. Finding that no freight trains were running on account of holiday. I soliloquized, "Well, William B. Anderson, ex-midshipman, United States Navy, it's up to you to make the best of your way via 'the hoof' to Omaha, so get thee busy at once."
I knew, or thought I knew, I would find a money order for twenty-five dollars there. Arrived in Omaha about dusk, footsore and weary, and went at once to the P. O., only to find to my intense anger and chagrin that it was "Closed on Account of Holiday."
I marched on the double quick to a Western Union Telegraph office, and scribbled a lengthy telegram for funds. I was told that it would have to be "O. K.'d" by the manager before it could be sent Collect—so I waited three hours or thereabouts before that personage finally materialized. The long wait didn't tend to calm my general feelings of irascibility. I handed the form to him, and after half scrutinizing it, he told me that he couldn't pass on it and have the risk of its not making good at the other end, but if I would cut out about three-fourths of it, he would. Now, I knew that every single little word was absolutely necessary, and tried to reason with him, but to no end. Then all the bad, irascible, ruffled feelings that had accumulated within me for the last couple of days surged forth, and I read the riot act to him as it had never been read before. I never thought I was capable of such a supply of invective. It did no good, of course, and ended in my being shown the door by the uniformed attendant.
I went to the Postal Telegraph with almost the identical result, so broke, but not in spirit, I walked the streets till morning, and then sat in a saloon till business opened up and I could get my bearings. I went to the Post Office as soon as it opened, asked for my mail, but received a brief "Nothing." I went to an employment agency and asked for a job in a restaurant, having had nothing to appease my hunger for more than a day. Told him I'd make good when I got paid. He wouldn't do business on those grounds, but said he had received a 'phone call for a man to beat carpets just for the day, and that if I wanted that, he wouldn't charge me anything. I wanted it all right. I reasoned, "Well, within two weeks I'll be attending college, but Jack and I did it once when we were up against it, so it's good enough for me now and nobody need ever know."
I went to the address handed me, a private family of the middle class, and applied. A good looking young woman brought me a line and a couple of carpet beaters, and I smiled as I thought of the time you and I used to utilize them. At noon she showed me where to wash, invited me to lunch, and really treated me elegantly. She asked me my name, and a whole lot more, and then told me that she and her mother rather liked my looks, and wished I'd stay and sleep in the vacant house to which they intended moving, and help the men transfer the different articles from one house to another. I had intended staying the one day only, thus getting sufficient to send home for outfit and fare to Palo Alto, but she didn't understand my case, of course. She thought she was doing me a favor, and as she "looked awfully good to me," I stayed, and that's really the beginning of the story proper, the former part being merely prelude.
At night the young woman's husband came home. He's head broker for one of the largest packing houses, and she told him about it. He was a little insignificant runt with a glass eye, and the tip of his olfactory organ betokened more than a speaking acquaintance with beverages of an alcoholic nature. He was pleasant at first, but he by no means approved of his wife's interest in me. She probably regarded me as a mere child, but I liked to think otherwise. He stayed at home the next day "to help move" of course. He made several significant remarks, such as, "Your hands don't look like those of a laboring man," "You say you're from Richmond, Va., but you haven't much Southern accent." "It's funny one with your control of languages, and apparent education should be beating carpets." I knew he wasn't saying this to peddle my good qualities to his pretty little spouse, the shrimp, so I at once suspected that he possessed a streak for amateur detective work.
Well, I helped him move, and he watched me as a cat does a mouse, but I didn't blame him, as he had several articles of value among his stuff. We had most of the articles moved by night, but as things were strewn around in topsy-turvy fashion in the new house, he concluded to remain in the old apartments that night.
He sent me after two keys, for the front and back doors of the new house, and said he would pay me and dismiss me when I returned. I went to the locksmith's and got the two keys, but—well, you know how careless and absent minded I am, and when I returned I'll be damned if I could find but one of them—I had lost the other. Then he as much as told me that I had hidden the key or given it to an accomplice, so that I could go over and unlock the door of the new house and help myself, and that it strengthened his convictions all along that I didn't work for a living. That sure made me hot under the collar, and I got eloquent and told him that his theories were preposterous in the extreme, and that I was well aware of the fact that I was no Hercules, but if it were not for the kind treatment of his wife, I'd thrash him right there. I got warm and excited and reached in my pocket for my handkerchief to wipe away the perspiration. That little fool must have misunderstood my purpose, for then, old man, honest Injun, cross my heart, he ran over to the dresser, took a loaded revolver from the drawer, and fired. The bullet went through the glass back of me with a racket capable of waking the dead. His wife fainted, I rushed him, and hit him a left hook that would have broken any punching machine manufactured.