JIMMY VALENTINE -- by O Henry

JIMMY VALENTINE

- by O Henry

A guard came to the prison shoe-shop, where Jimmy Valentine was assiduously stitching uppers, and escorted him to the front office. There the warden handed Jimmy his pardon, which had been signed that morning by the governor. Jimmy took it in a tired kind of way. He had served nearly ten months of a four year sentence. He had expected to stay only about three months, at the longest. When a man with as many friends on the outside as Jimmy Valentine had is received in the "stir" it is hardly worth while to cut his hair.

"Now, Valentine," said the warden, "you'll go out in the morning. Brace up, and make a man of yourself. You're not a bad fellow at heart. Stop cracking safes, and live straight."

"Me?" said Jimmy, in surprise. "Why, I never cracked a safe in my life."

"Oh, no," laughed the warden. "Of course not. Let's see, now. How was it you happened to get sent up on that Springfield job? Was it because you wouldn't prove an alibi for fear of compromising somebody in extremely high-toned society? Or was it simply a case of a mean old jury that had it in for you? It's always one or the other with you innocent victims."

"Me?" said Jimmy, still blankly virtuous. "Why, warden, I never was in Springfield in my life!"

"Take him back, Cronin!" said the warden, "and fix him up with outgoing clothes. Unlock him at seven in the morning, and let him come to the bull-pen. Better think over my advice, Valentine."

At a quarter past seven on the next morning Jimmy stood in the warden's outer office. He had on a suit of the villainously fitting, ready-made clothes and a pair of the stiff, squeaky shoes that the state furnishes to its discharged compulsory guests.

The clerk handed him a railroad ticket and the five-dollar bill with which the law expected him to rehabilitate himself into good citizenship and prosperity. The warden gave him a cigar, and shook hands. Valentine, 9762, was chronicled on the books, "Pardoned by Governor," and Mr. James Valentine walked out into the sunshine.

Disregarding the song of the birds, the waving green trees, and the smell of the flowers, Jimmy headed straight for a restaurant. There he tasted the first sweet joys of liberty in the shape of a broiled chicken and a bottle of white wine--followed by a cigar a grade better than the one the warden had given him. From there he proceeded leisurely to the depot. He tossed a quarter into the hat of a blind man sitting by the door, and boarded his train. Three hours set him down in a little town near the state line. He went to the cafe of one Mike Dolan and shook hands with Mike, who was alone behind the bar.

"Sorry we couldn't make it sooner, Jimmy, me boy," said Mike. "But we had that protest from Springfield to buck against, and the governor nearly balked. Feeling all right?"

"Fine," said Jimmy. "Got my key?"

He got his key and went upstairs, unlocking the door of a room at the rear. Everything was just as he had left it. There on the floor was still Ben Price's collar-button that had been torn from that eminent detective's shirt-band when they had overpowered Jimmy to arrest him.

Pulling out from the wall a folding-bed, Jimmy slid back a panel in the wall and dragged out a dust-covered suit-case. He opened this and gazed fondly at the finest set of burglar's tools in the East. It was a complete set, made of specially tempered steel, the latest designs in drills, punches, braces and bits, jimmies, clamps, and augers, with two or three novelties, invented by Jimmy himself, in which he took pride. Over nine hundred dollars they had cost him to have made at ----, a place where they make such things for the profession.

In half an hour Jimmy went down stairs and through the cafe. He was now dressed in tasteful and well-fitting clothes, and carried his dusted and cleaned suit-case in his hand.

"Got anything on?" asked Mike Dolan, genially.

"Me?" said Jimmy, in a puzzled tone. "I don't understand. I'm representing the New York Amalgamated Short Snap Biscuit Cracker and Frazzled Wheat Company."

This statement delighted Mike to such an extent that Jimmy had to take a seltzer-and-milk on the spot. He never touched "hard" drinks.

A week after the release of Valentine, 9762, there was a neat job of safe-burglary done in Richmond, Indiana, with no clue to the author. A scant eight hundred dollars was all that was secured. Two weeks after that a patented, improved, burglar-proof safe in Logansport was opened like a cheese to the tune of fifteen hundred dollars, currency; securities and silver untouched. That began to interest the rogue- catchers. Then an old-fashioned bank-safe in Jefferson City became active and threw out of its crater an eruption of bank-notes amounting to five thousand dollars. The losses were now high enough to bring the matter up into Ben Price's class of work. By comparing notes, a remarkable similarity in the methods of the burglaries was noticed. Ben Price investigated the scenes of the robberies, and was heard to remark:

"That's Dandy Jim Valentine's autograph. He's resumed business. Look at that combination knob--jerked out as easy as pulling up a radish in wet weather. He's got the only clamps that can do it. And look how clean those tumblers were punched out! Jimmy never has to drill but one hole. Yes, I guess I want Mr. Valentine. He'll do his bit next time without any short-time or clemency foolishness."

Ben Price knew Jimmy's habits. He had learned them while working on the Springfield case. Long jumps, quick get-aways, no confederates, and a taste for good society--these ways had helped Mr. Valentine to become noted as a successful dodger of retribution. It was given out that Ben Price had taken up the trail of the elusive cracksman, and other people with burglar-proof safes felt more at ease.

One afternoon Jimmy Valentine and his suit-case climbed out of the mail-hack in Elmore, a little town five miles off the railroad down in the black-jack country of Arkansas. Jimmy, looking like an athletic young senior just home from college, went down the board side-walk toward the hotel.

A young lady crossed the street, passed him at the corner and entered a door over which was the sign, "The Elmore Bank." Jimmy Valentine looked into her eyes, forgot what he was, and became another man. She lowered her eyes and coloured slightly. Young men of Jimmy's style and looks were scarce in Elmore.

Jimmy collared a boy that was loafing on the steps of the bank as if he were one of the stockholders, and began to ask him questions about the town, feeding him dimes at intervals. By and by the young lady came out, looking royally unconscious of the young man with the suit- case, and went her way.

"Isn' that young lady Polly Simpson?" asked Jimmy, with specious guile.

"Naw," said the boy. "She's Annabel Adams. Her pa owns this bank. Why'd you come to Elmore for? Is that a gold watch-chain? I'm going to get a bulldog. Got any more dimes?"

Jimmy went to the Planters' Hotel, registered as Ralph D. Spencer, and engaged a room. He leaned on the desk and declared his platform to the clerk. He said he had come to Elmore to look for a location to go into business. How was the shoe business, now, in the town? He had thought of the shoe business. Was there an opening?

The clerk was impressed by the clothes and manner of Jimmy. He, himself, was something of a pattern of fashion to the thinly gilded youth of Elmore, but he now perceived his shortcomings. While trying to figure out Jimmy's manner of tying his four-in-hand he cordially gave information.

Yes, there ought to be a good opening in the shoe line. There wasn't an exclusive shoe-store in the place. The dry-goods and general stores handled them. Business in all lines was fairly good. Hoped Mr. Spencer would decide to locate in Elmore. He would find it a pleasant town to live in, and the people very sociable.

Mr. Spencer thought he would stop over in the town a few days and look over the situation. No, the clerk needn't call the boy. He would carry up his suit-case, himself; it was rather heavy.

Mr. Ralph Spencer, the phoenix that arose from Jimmy Valentine's ashes --ashes left by the flame of a sudden and alterative attack of love-- remained in Elmore, and prospered. He opened a shoe-store and secured a good run of trade.

Socially he was also a success, and made many friends. And he accomplished the wish of his heart. He met Miss Annabel Adams, and became more and more captivated by her charms.

At the end of a year the situation of Mr. Ralph Spencer was this: he had won the respect of the community, his shoe-store was flourishing, and he and Annabel were engaged to be married in two weeks. Mr. Adams, the typical, plodding, country banker, approved of Spencer. Annabel's pride in him almost equalled her affection. He was as much at home in the family of Mr. Adams and that of Annabel's married sister as if he were already a member.

One day Jimmy sat down in his room and wrote this letter, which he mailed to the safe address of one of his old friends in St. Louis:

Dear Old Pal:

I want you to be at Sullivan's place, in Little Rock, next
Wednesday night, at nine o'clock. I want you to wind up some
little matters for me. And, also, I want to make you a present of
my kit of tools. I know you'll be glad to get them--you couldn't
duplicate the lot for a thousand dollars. Say, Billy, I've quit
the old business--a year ago. I've got a nice store. I'm making an
honest living, and I'm going to marry the finest girl on earth two
weeks from now. It's the only life, Billy--the straight one. I
wouldn't touch a dollar of another man's money now for a million.
After I get married I'm going to sell out and go West, where there
won't be so much danger of having old scores brought up against
me. I tell you, Billy, she's an angel. She believes in me; and I
wouldn't do another crooked thing for the whole world. Be sure to be
at Sully's, for I must see you. I'll bring along the tools with me.

Your old friend,

Jimmy.

On the Monday night after Jimmy wrote this letter, Ben Price jogged unobtrusively into Elmore in a livery buggy. He lounged about town in his quiet way until he found out what he wanted to know. From the drug-store across the street from Spencer's shoe-store he got a good look at Ralph D. Spencer.

"Going to marry the banker's daughter are you, Jimmy?" said Ben to himself, softly. "Well, I don't know!"

The next morning Jimmy took breakfast at the Adamses. He was going to Little Rock that day to order his wedding-suit and buy something nice for Annabel. That would be the first time he had left town since he came to Elmore. It had been more than a year now since those last professional "jobs," and he thought he could safely venture out.

After breakfast quite a family party went downtown together--Mr. Adams, Annabel, Jimmy, and Annabel's married sister with her two little girls, aged five and nine. They came by the hotel where Jimmy still boarded, and he ran up to his room and brought along his suit- case. Then they went on to the bank. There stood Jimmy's horse and buggy and Dolph Gibson, who was going to drive him over to the railroad station.

All went inside the high, carved oak railings into the banking-room-- Jimmy included, for Mr. Adams's future son-in-law was welcome anywhere. The clerks were pleased to be greeted by the good-looking, agreeable young man who was going to marry Miss Annabel. Jimmy set his suit-case down. Annabel, whose heart was bubbling with happiness and lively youth, put on Jimmy's hat, and picked up the suit-case. "Wouldn't I make a nice drummer?" said Annabel. "My! Ralph, how heavy it is? Feels like it was full of gold bricks."

"Lot of nickel-plated shoe-horns in there," said Jimmy, coolly, "that I'm going to return. Thought I'd save express charges by taking them up. I'm getting awfully economical."

The Elmore Bank had just put in a new safe and vault. Mr. Adams was very proud of it, and insisted on an inspection by every one. The vault was a small one, but it had a new, patented door. It fastened with three solid steel bolts thrown simultaneously with a single handle, and had a time-lock. Mr. Adams beamingly explained its workings to Mr. Spencer, who showed a courteous but not too intelligent interest. The two children, May and Agatha, were delighted by the shining metal and funny clock and knobs.

While they were thus engaged Ben Price sauntered in and leaned on his elbow, looking casually inside between the railings. He told the teller that he didn't want anything; he was just waiting for a man he knew.

Suddenly there was a scream or two from the women, and a commotion. Unperceived by the elders, May, the nine-year-old girl, in a spirit of play, had shut Agatha in the vault. She had then shot the bolts and turned the knob of the combination as she had seen Mr. Adams do.

The old banker sprang to the handle and tugged at it for a moment. "The door can't be opened," he groaned. "The clock hasn't been wound nor the combination set."

Agatha's mother screamed again, hysterically.

"Hush!" said Mr. Adams, raising his trembling hand. "All be quite for a moment. Agatha!" he called as loudly as he could. "Listen to me." During the following silence they could just hear the faint sound of the child wildly shrieking in the dark vault in a panic of terror.

"My precious darling!" wailed the mother. "She will die of fright! Open the door! Oh, break it open! Can't you men do something?"

"There isn't a man nearer than Little Rock who can open that door," said Mr. Adams, in a shaky voice. "My God! Spencer, what shall we do? That child--she can't stand it long in there. There isn't enough air, and, besides, she'll go into convulsions from fright."

Agatha's mother, frantic now, beat the door of the vault with her hands. Somebody wildly suggested dynamite. Annabel turned to Jimmy, her large eyes full of anguish, but not yet despairing. To a woman nothing seems quite impossible to the powers of the man she worships.

"Can't you do something, Ralph--/try/, won't you?"

He looked at her with a queer, soft smile on his lips and in his keen eyes.

"Annabel," he said, "give me that rose you are wearing, will you?"

Hardly believing that she heard him aright, she unpinned the bud from the bosom of her dress, and placed it in his hand. Jimmy stuffed it into his vest-pocket, threw off his coat and pulled up his shirt- sleeves. With that act Ralph D. Spencer passed away and Jimmy Valentine took his place.

"Get away from the door, all of you," he commanded, shortly.

He set his suit-case on the table, and opened it out flat. From that time on he seemed to be unconscious of the presence of any one else. He laid out the shining, queer implements swiftly and orderly, whistling softly to himself as he always did when at work. In a deep silence and immovable, the others watched him as if under a spell.

In a minute Jimmy's pet drill was biting smoothly into the steel door. In ten minutes--breaking his own burglarious record--he threw back the bolts and opened the door.

Agatha, almost collapsed, but safe, was gathered into her mother's arms.

Jimmy Valentine put on his coat, and walked outside the railings towards the front door. As he went he thought he heard a far-away voice that he once knew call "Ralph!" But he never hesitated.

At the door a big man stood somewhat in his way.

"Hello, Ben!" said Jimmy, still with his strange smile. "Got around at last, have you? Well, let's go. I don't know that it makes much difference, now."

And then Ben Price acted rather strangely.

"Guess you're mistaken, Mr. Spencer," he said. "Don't believe I recognize you. Your buggy's waiting for you, ain't it?"

And Ben Price turned and strolled down the street.

THE WRONG HOUSE -- by James N. Young

 THE WRONG HOUSE

-- by James N. Young

The night was dark. And the house was dark. Dark -- and silent. The two men ran toward it quietly. They slipped quickly through the dark bushes, which surrounded the house. They reached the porch, ran quickly up the steps, kneeled-down, breathing heavily, in the dark shadows. They waited -- listening.

Silence. Perfect silence. Then – out of the blackness – a whisper: “we can’t stay out here….Take this suitcase….Let me try those keys. We’ve got to get in!”

Ten – twenty – thirty seconds. With one of the keys the one man opened the door. Silently, the two men entered the house, closed the door behind them, locked it.

Whispering, they discussed the situation. They wondered if they had awakened anyone in the house.

“Let’s have a look at this place.” “Careful, Hasty!” “Oh, there is not anybody awake!” And the soft rays of a flashlight swept the room.

It was a large room. A living room. Rugs, carefully rolled, lay piled on one side. The furniture –chairs, tables, couches-was covered by sheets. Dust lay like a light snow over everything.

The man who held the flashlight spoke first. ”Well, Blackie,” he said, “We’re in luck. Looks as if the family’s away.”

“Yeah, Gone for the summer, I guess. We better make sure, though. Huh.” Together they searched the house. They went on tiptoe through every room. There could be no doubt about it. The family was away. Had been away for weeks.

Yes, Hasty Hogan and Blackie Burns were in luck. Only once in the past ten days had their luck failed them. It had been with them when they made their big robbery – their truly magnificent robbery-on the Coast. It had been with them during their thousand-mile trip eastward, by automobile. It had been with them every moment – but one.

That moment had come just one hour before. It came when Blackie, driving the car, ran over a policeman. And Blackie, thinking of the suitcase at Hasty’s feet, had driven away. Swiftly.

There had been a chase, of course. A wild crazy chase. And when a bullet had punctured the gasoline tank, they had had to abandon the car. But luck or no luck, here they were. Alone, and without a car, in a completely strange town. But safe and sound – with the suitcase.

The suitcase lay in the centre of the table, in the centre of the room. In the suitcase, neat little package on neat little package, lay nearly three hundred thousand dollars!

“Listen,” said Mr. Hogan. “We have to get a car. Quick, too. And we can not steal one – and use it. It’s too dangerous. We have to buy one. That means that we have to wait until the stores open. That will be about eight o’clock in this town.”

“But what are we going to do with that?” And Mr. Burns pointed to the suitcase.

“Hide it right here. Sure! Why not? It’s much safer here than with us – until we get a car.”

And so they hid the suitcase. They carried it down to the cellar. Buried it deep in some coal, which lay in a corner of the cellar. After this, just before dawn, they slipped out.

“Say, Blackie,” Mr. Hogan remarked as they walked down the street, “The name of the gentleman we are visiting is Mr. Samuel W. Rogers.”

“How do you know?”

“Saw with on some of them books. He’s surely got a wonderful library, hasn’t he?”

The automobile salesrooms opened at 8 o’clock, as Mr. Hogan had supposed. Shortly before nine, Mr. Hogan and Mr. Burns had a car. A very nice little car. Very quiet. Very inconspicuous. And very speedy. The dealer lent them his license plates and away they rode.

Three blocks from the house, they stopped. Mr. Hogan got out. Walked toward the house. He had just to go around to the rear, he thought, and slip in.

Fifty yards from the house he stopped. Stared, swore softly. The front door was open. The window shades were up. The family had returned!

Well, what bad luck. And what could they do? Break into the cellar that night, and pick up the suitcase? No -- too dangerous. Mr. Hogan would have to think of something.

“Leave it to me, kid “He told Mr. Burns. “You drive the car. I’ll do the special brainwork. Let’s find a telephone. Quick.”

Ten minutes later, Mr. Hogan was consulting a telephone directory. Yes, there it was – Samuel W. Rogers, Plainview 6329. A moment later he was talking to the surprised Mr. Rogers.

“Hello,” he began, “Is this Mr. Rogers – Mr. Samuel Rogers?”

“Yes, this is Mr. Rogers.”

Mr. Hogan cleared his throat. “Mr. Rogers, “he said — and his tone was sharp, official, impressive — “this is Headquarters, Police Headquarters, talking. I am Simpson. Sergeant Simpson, of the detective division —”

“Yes, yes!” came over the wire.

“The Chief – the Chief of Police, you know,” — here Mr. Hogan lowered his voice a little — “has ordered me to get in touch with you. He’s sending me out with one of our men to see you.”

“Am I in trouble of some kind?” asked Mr. Rogers.

“No, no, no. Nothing like that. But I have something of great importance to talk to you about.”

“Very well,” came the voice of Mr. Rogers. ”I’ll wait for you.”

“And, Mr. Rogers” Mr. Hogan cautioned, “please keep quiet about this. Don’t say anything to anybody. You’ll understand why when I see you.”

On the way back to the house, Mr. Hogan explained his idea to Mr. Burns.

Within ten minutes “Sergeant Simpson” and “Detective Johnson” were conversing with the surprised Mr. Rogers. Mr. Rogers was a small man. Rather insignificant. He had pale blue eyes. Not much of a chin. A funny little face. He was nervous — a badly frightened man.

Mr. Hogan told the whole story. Somewhat changed. Very much changed. And Mr. Rogers was surprised, but delighted.

He accompanied Mr. Hogan to the cellar. And together they dug up to the suitcase. Took it to the living room, opened it, so that it had not been touched-that it really did hold a small fortune. Bills, bills, bills!

Mr. Hogan closed the suitcase.

“And now, Mr. Rogers,” he announced, in this best official manner, “Johnson and I must run along. The chief wants a report – quick. We have to catch the rest of the robbers. I’ll keep in touch with you.”

He picked up the suitcase and rose.  Mr. Burns also rose. Mr. Rogers also rose. The trio walked to the door. Mr. Rogers opened in. “Come in boys,” he said pleasantly. And in walked three men. Large men. Strong men. Men in police uniform who without fear, stared at Mr. Hasty Hogan and Mr. Blackie Burns.

“What does this mean Mr. Rogers?” asked Mr. Hogan.

“It’s quiet simple,” said Mr. Rogers. “It just happens that I am the Chief of Police!”

THE CONJURER'S REVENGE -- by Stephen Leacock

THE CONJURERS'S REVENGE

 -- by Stephen Leacock

 

"Now, ladies and gentlemen," said the conjurer, "having shown you that the cloth is absolutely empty, I will proceed to take from it a bowl of goldfish. Presto!"

All around the hall people were saying, "Oh, how wonderful! How does he do it?"

But the Quick Man on the front seat said in a big whisper to the people near him, "He-had-it-up-his-sleeve."

Then the people nodded brightly at the Quick Man and said, "Oh, of course"; and everybody whispered round the hall, "He-had-it-up-his-sleeve."

"My next trick," said the conjurer, "is the famous Hindostanee rings. You will notice that the rings are apparently separate; at a blow they all join (clang, clang, clang)--Presto!"

There was a general buzz of stupefaction till the Quick Man was heard to whisper, "He-must-have-had-another-lot-up-his-sleeve."

Again everybody nodded and whispered, "The-rings-were-up-his-sleeve."

The brow of the conjurer was clouded with a gathering frown. "I will now," he continued, "show you a most amusing trick by which I am enabled to take any number of eggs from a hat. Will some gentleman kindly lend me his hat?
Ah, thank you--Presto!"

He extracted seventeen eggs, and for thirty-five seconds the audience began to think that he was wonderful. Then the Quick Man whispered along the front bench, "He-has-a-hen-up-his-sleeve," and all the people whispered it on. "He-has-a-lot-of-hens-up-his-sleeve."

The egg trick was ruined.

It went on like that all through. It transpired from the whispers of the Quick Man that the conjurer must have concealed up his sleeve, in addition to the rings, hens, and fish, several packs of cards, a loaf of bread, a doll's cradle, a live guinea-pig, a fifty-cent piece, and a rocking-chair.

The reputation of the conjurer was rapidly sinking below zero. At the close of the evening he rallied for a final effort.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "I will present to you, in conclusion, the famous Japanese trick recently invented by the natives of Tipperary. Will you, sir," he continued turning toward the Quick Man, "will you kindly hand me your gold watch?"

It was passed to him.

"Have I your permission to put it into this mortar and pound it to pieces?" he asked savagely.

The Quick Man nodded and smiled.

The conjurer threw the watch into the mortar and grasped a sledge hammer from the table. There was a sound of violent smashing, "He's-slipped-it-up-his-sleeve," whispered the Quick Man.

"Now, sir," continued the conjurer, "will you allow me to take your handkerchief and punch holes in it? Thank you. You see, ladies and gentlemen, there is no deception; the holes are visible to the eye."

The face of the Quick Man beamed. This time the real mystery of the thing fascinated him.

"And now, sir, will you kindly pass me your silk hat and allow me to dance on it? Thank you."

The conjurer made a few rapid passes with his feet and exhibited the hat crushed beyond recognition.

"And will you now, sir, take off your celluloid collar and permit me to burn it in the candle? Thank you, sir. And will you allow me to smash your spectacles for you with my hammer? Thank you."

By this time the features of the Quick Man were assuming a puzzled expression. "This thing beats me," he whispered, "I don't see through it a bit."

There was a great hush upon the audience. Then the conjurer drew himself up to his full height and, with a withering look at the Quick Man, he concluded:

"Ladies and gentlemen, you will observe that I have, with this gentleman's permission, broken his watch, burnt his collar, smashed his spectacles, and danced on his hat. If he will give me the further permission to paint green stripes on his overcoat, or to tie his suspenders in a knot, I shall be delighted to entertain you. If not, the performance is at an end."

And amid a glorious burst of music from the orchestra the curtain fell, and the audience dispersed, convinced that there are some tricks, at any rate, that are not done up the conjurer's sleeve.

THE SILVER LINING -- by Chaman Nahal

THE SILVER LINING

- by Chaman Nahal

It is difficult to assess the range and quality of human emotions. Those with smiling, evergreen faces may have wormlike griefs gnawing at their existence, and a dull, idiotic-looking person may be blissfully happy. Life is a strange, humdrum affair, where even a few moments of peace snatched should be gratefully acknowledged.

I had recently the very pleasant experience of staying at a private Guest House in one of the hill-resorts. A friend of mine had earlier warmly recommended the place to me, claiming for it all the facilities which most of these boarding-houses advertise but generally lack. It was centrally situated-close to the post-office, close to the market, close to the bus stand-and was yet isolated and away from the common din. There were pleasant views to be had from there, it had an excellent cuisine, and was well looked after by one of the most charming hostesses one could find anywhere.

I discovered that the place exactly corresponded to the details described. But it was the hostess, particularly, and her husband and their little daughter who really proved to be the centre of attraction to me.

The lady belonged to the South, though she had married a North Indian. She was rather dark, but had a very pleasant face, all smiles and kindness. The husband was a huge, swarthy man, with large, bony limbs. He was extremely well-mannered and there was not a trace of that untempered roughness which one finds in most men hailing from the North.

Mrs Bhandari, the landlady, took me in hand the moment I arrived. She looked after my luggage, gave instructions regarding my room, had a cup of delicious coffee improvised in no time, and then put me at my ease by talking to me informally about myself and my visit. I was completely won over by the family. It appeared as if I had known them for years.

While thus chatting with the two of them, I became aware of the slightly-built girl hiding behind the settee. She must have been about eight, and was sweet and charming like her mother. Her hair was closely cropped, with a straight fringe across the forehead, in Chinese fashion. She was in jeans and, in here half-sleeved loose jersey and high boots, looked a miniature jungle queen. But she was behaving a bit too timidly for one, and was trying to avoid me.

I couldn’t help smiling. I saw that she was staring at me. I said, ‘What’s your name?’ and beckoned to her to come to me.

The girl became immediately self-conscious, shook her head, and stood where she was.

I called once more, ‘Hello! Come here, my dear.’

She blushed and again shook her head. After a second, she ran out. I thought I saw tears in her eyes.

I suddenly became aware of an awkward pause in the room, and, turning to look at the Bhandaris, I discovered that both of them were frowning, a painful look on their faces. Mr Bhandari squeezed the arm of his wife, and said, apologetically, ‘I’m sorry, Mr Dhanda. You see, our daughter cannot hear anything, nor speak. That’s why she didn’t come to you.’

I gasped and muttered something about being sorry. I became confused and did not know what more to say. For I was feeling ashamed at my forwardness with a child who was obviously not in a position to respond to my overtures of friendship. I vaguely felt I had wronged her and her parents.

It did not take me long to see that this was a situation the poor parents had to put up with almost daily. For every day one or two guests left and new ones came along. And, at the very first meeting, or son afterwards, they would run into the child, be fascinated by her charm and beauty, and want to talk to her, to pat her, and so on and so forth. And every time it would result in the child silently smiling, sighing and withdrawing, leaving looks of agony on the faces of her parents. Often, it would lead to lengthy explanations as to how the calamity had come about, for many of the inquisitive visitors liked to know if it was from birth, or the result of an accident, whether anyone else in the family suffered from a similar disability; and if any treatment was being given.

The queries were answered by the parents haltingly and with obvious anguish. What struck me as the worst part of the situation was that the girl would be often gravely looking on, her eyes aghast with horror and self-pity, aware that she was the topic of discussion. She had no other pastime than to run around the house, or play with the servants. She did not go to school as there was none there to cater for her needs. They had tried to teach her at home, but without success. She could only hear faintly, without feeling much, when one shouted close to her ears; and she could speak nothing except utter animal-like cries of happiness and sorrow; or say crudely such words as 'ma-ma' or 'unc-ll'. All her other communications were confined to gestures with her hands, which brought a fleeting sensation of torture to her whole being when one failed to follow what she was saying.

To save the child from such repeated humiliation, I one day suggested something to the Bhandaris which the parents, after some trepidation, agreed to try. We decided to have bits of paper typed, and to hand over one of these chits, duly sealed in a cover, to every new visitor as soon as he entered the Guest House. The text of the chit ran: 'Our daughter is deaf and dumb. You may hurt her by trying to be friendly too soon, as she can neither understand nor reply to you kind words. You are requested to please give her time to approach you and make your acquaintance. Thank you.’

A line to the effect that they might be spared questions about her was removed by Mrs Bhandari on the plea that it would not be compatible with her spirit of hospitality. As it was, she felt the note was not a very kind one to be given to people who were going to make her Guest House their temporary home. But she gave consent to save the girl the untold misery and helplessness she experienced every time a stranger approached her.

The ruse worked well, even beyond our expectations. Though a few sympathetic questions were still put to the parents, the poor child was spared. Later, the girl herself slowly became intimate with many of the guests. The Bhandaris felt relieved, and thought that at least one of their problems was temporarily solved.

But they had a strange visitor one day.

It was late in the afternoon and I was talking to the landlord about some packed lunch that I needed the next day-I was planning a short excursion, by myself, to a group of caves nearby. The landlord was in a hurry, arranging things for a new guest who had booked a room for the season and was supposed to be moving in any moment-arriving by the Mail train.

And sure enough, soon a young man came in, a porter carrying his luggage. He was barely twenty-five, clad in an ill-fitting tweed suit, with drooping shoulders and wide trouser-bottoms. Because of the journey, he looked untidy, his hair, his necktie, his shoes-all unkempt and needing attention. But he had a cheerful face and jet-black eyes sparkling with vitality.

Mr Bhandari stepped forward and asked, ‘Mr David, I presume?’

The young man looked closely at his face, smiled and nodded.

‘Room No. 18, please. Everything is ready.’

The young man again looked at him, smiled and nodded. He paid the porter, who bowed low-for he was not asked to return the change-and disappeared. The young man gave me a brief, friendly look and sat before a huge book, which the landlord had pushed before him, making the necessary entries about himself and his intended stay.

At this time, he discovered the sealed envelope containing the typed chit lying on the table, addressed to him by name. He took the cover and tore it open. This coincided with the entry of the landlady into the room. She hurriedly asked her husband if this was the new guest, and, having received confirmation, came forward and shook hands with the young man.

‘Did you have a nice journey, Mr David?’ she asked, with her sweet smile.

The young man smiled and nodded nonchalantly, as if to say, ‘Well, neither very pleasant nor very unpleasant.’

‘Would you like to have hot bath immediately or tea first?’

The young man pursed his lips and shrugged his shoulders obviously implying that one would be as good as the other and that he had no preferences.

Both the landlord and the landlady were by now slightly disconcerted by what they inferred to be their guest’s pride and arrogance, since he had not even deigned to reply adequately to their polite enquiries.

The young man, meanwhile, took out the typed chit and started reading it. As soon as he had gone through it, he looked around, astonished. The little girl, Promodni, was at the moment playing in the courtyard. We could see her sitting near the flower-beds. The young man looked at all of us with a smile and darted out towards her.

‘Now this is very strange!’ Mrs Bhandari cried out in protest, ‘How rude he is!’

‘He shouldn’t have ignored out request like this,’ the landlord put in, more mildly.

I, too, was a bit upset. For it was obvious that our effort to save Promodni’s embarrassment from strangers was going to fail in this instance.

After a few moments, we all walked out to the verandah, and I was apprehensive of that impending look of anguish on the faces of the parents and the child.

The scene that confronted us was something we least expected to see.

The strange young man was reclining on the grassy ground and Promodni was sitting on his lap. He was showing her the flowers.

And suddenly, like the sound of a gun exploding, the shrill animal-like laughter of Promodni pierced the air.

The parents looked at each other with wonder and amazement.

‘Our daughter has not laughed like this for years!’ Mrs Bhandari said.

Curious, we watched the two of them who were now walking towards us hand in hand. Promodni ran to her mother and danced about her with joy. She made her queer sounds of ‘ma-ma! ma-ma!’ and wildly pointed to the young man.

It was Mr David who came to our rescue.

We soon realized that he was deaf and dumb, too!

His strange, ambiguous silences, his sudden rush for the girl on reading the note – all became instantly clear to us. It took us time to digest the news. And then, both parents broke into incoherent statements of profuse apologies that they had not noticed it earlier. Imagining the type of man they were talking to, they spoke in half-sentences and tried to convey the rest through gestures. But the young man had not the slightest difficulty in understanding them: he appeared to read their lips. He gracefully acknowledged their warmth and either nodded or shook his head in reply. For more complicated and lengthy answers, he used pen and paper.

The next day, Mrs Bhandari was full of news. She talked as she had never talked before. She mentioned the stranger and the plans for the betterment of Promodni he had outlined to her and her husband. There were schools for such people, he had told them, though they were beyond most people’s means. He had himself been educated in one such institution abroad; and had now returned to India to render the same useful service to others, by staring a school here. She almost broke down with gratitude when she said that he had agreed to accept Promodni as his first pupil. He had emphatically stated that the girl could, in course of time, live almost as normal a life as any one of us who had the powers of hearing and of speech.

Mrs Bhandari laughed like a carefree girl. She gave us an extra helping of jam and butter and honey at the table. She looked the happiest woman in the world.