O. Henry



   The Badge Of Policeman O'Roon
         
    It cannot be denied that men and women have looked upon one another for the 
first time and become instantly enamored. It is a risky process, this  love  at 
first sight, before she has seen him in Bradstreet or he has seen her  in  curl 
papers. But these things do happen; and one instance must form a theme for this 
story - though not, thank Heaven,  to  the  overshadowing  of  more  vital  and 
important subjects, such as drink, policemen, horses and earldoms.
    During a certain war a troop calling itself the  Gentle  Riders  rode  into 
history and one or two ambuscades. The Gentle Riders were  recruited  from  the 
aristocracy of the wild men of the West and the wild men of the aristocracy  of 
the East. In khaki there is little telling  them  one  from  another,  so  they 
became good friends and comrades all around.
    Ellsworth Remsen, whose old Knickerbocker descent  atoned  for  his  modest 
rating at only ten millions, ate his canned beef gayly by the campfires of  the 
Gentle Riders. The war was a great lark to him, so that he  scarcely  regretted 
polo and planked shad.
    One of the troopers was a well set up, affable, cool young man, who  called 
himself O'Roon. To this young man Remsen took an especial liking. The two  rode 
side by side during the famous mooted up-hill charge that was disputed so hotly 
at the time by the Spaniards and afterward by the Democrats.
    After the war Remsen came back to his polo and shad. One day a well set up, 
affable, cool young man disturbed him at his club, and he and O'Roon were  soon 
pounding each other and exchanging opprobrious epithets  after  the  manner  of 
long-lost friends. O'Roon looked seedy and out of luck and perfectly contented. 
But it seemed that his content was only apparent.
    "Get me a job, Remsen," he  said.  "I've  just  handed  a  barber  my  last 
shilling."
    "No trouble at all," said Remsen. "I know a lot of men who have  banks  and 
stores and things downtown. Any particular line you fancy?"
    "Yes," said O'Roon, with a look of interest. "I took a walk in your Central 
Park this morning. I'd like to be one of those bobbies on horseback. That would 
be about the ticket. Besides, it's the only  thing  I  could  do.  I  can  ride 
a little and the fresh air suits me. Think you could land that for me?"
    Remsen was sure that he could. And in a very short time he  did.  And  they 
who were not above looking at mounted policemen might have seen a well set  up, 
affable, cool young man on a prancing chestnut steed attending  to  his  duties 
along the driveways of the park.
    And now at the extreme risk of wearying old gentlemen who carry leather fob 
chains, and elderly ladies who - but no! grandmother  herself  yet  thrills  at 
foolish, immortal Romeo - there must be a hint of love at first sight.
    It came just as Remsen was strolling into Fifth avenue from his club a  few 
doors away.
    A motor car was creeping along foot  by  foot,  impeded  by  a  freshet  of 
vehicles that filled the street.  In  the  car  was  a  chauffeur  and  an  old 
gentleman with snowy side whiskers and a Scotch plaid cap which  could  not  be 
worn while automobiling except by a personage. Not even a wine agent would dare 
do it. But these two were of no consequence - except, perhaps, for the  guiding 
of the machine and the paying for it. 
    At  the  old  gentleman's  side  sat  a  young  lady  more  beautiful  than 
pomegranate blossoms, more exquisite than the  first  quarter  moon  viewed  at 
twilight through the tops of oleanders. Remsen saw her and knew  his  fate.  He 
could have flung himself under the very wheels that conveyed her, but  he  knew 
that would be the last means of attracting the attention of those who  ride  in 
motor cars. Slowly the auto passed, and,  if  we  place  the  poets  above  the 
autoists, carried the heart of Remsen  with  it.  Here  was  a  large  city  of 
millions, and  many  women  who  at  a  certain  distance  appear  to  resemble 
pomegranate blossoms. Yet he hoped to see her again; for each one fancies  that 
his romance has its own tutelary guardian and divinity.
    Luckily for Remsen's peace of mind there came a diversion in the guise of a 
reunion of the Gentle Riders of the city. There were not many of them - perhaps 
a score - and there was wassail  and  things  to  eat,  and  speeches  and  the 
Spaniard was bearded again in recapitulation. And when daylight threatened them 
the survivors prepared to depart. But some remained upon the  battlefield.  One 
of these was Trooper O'Roon, who was not seasoned to potent liquids.  His  legs 
declined to fulfil the obligations they had sworn to the police department.
    "I'm stewed, Remsen," said O'Roon to his friend. "Why do they build  hotels 
that go round and round like catherine wheels? They'll take away my shield  and 
break me. I can think and talk con-con-consec-sec-secutively, but I s-s-stammer 
with my feet. I've got to go on duty in three hours. The jig is up, Remsen. The 
jig is up, I tell you."
    "Look at me," said Remsen, who was his smiling self, pointing  to  his  own 
face; "whom do you see here?"
    "Goo' fellow," said O'Roon, dizzily, "Goo' old Remsen."
    "Not so," said Remsen. "You see Mounted  Policeman  O'Roon.  Look  at  your 
face - no; you can't do that without a glass - but look at mine, and  think  of 
yours. How much alike are we? As two French  table d'hote  dinners.  With  your 
badge, on your horse, in your uniform, will I charm nurse-maids and prevent the 
grass from growing under people's feet in the Park this day. I will  have  your 
badge and your honor, besides having the jolliest lark I've been  blessed  with 
since we licked Spain."
    Promptly on time the counterfeit presentment of  Mounted  Policeman  O'Roon 
single-footed into the Park on his chestnut steed. In a uniform two men who are 
unlike will look alike; two who somewhat resemble each  other  in  feature  and 
figure will appear as twin brothers. So Remsen trotted down the  bridle  paths, 
enjoying himself hugely, so few real pleasures do ten-millionaires have.
    Along the driveway in the early morning spun a victoria drawn by a pair  of 
fiery bays. There was something foreign about  the  affair,  for  the  Park  is 
rarely used in the morning except by unimportant people who love to be healthy, 
poor and wise. In the vehicle sat an old gentleman with snowy side-whiskers and 
a Scotch plaid cap which could not be worn while driving except by a personage. 
At his side  sat  the  lady  of  Remsen's  heart - the  lady  who  looked  like 
pomegranate blossoms and the gibbous moon.
    Remsen met them coming. At the instant of their  passing  her  eyes  looked 
into his, and but for the ever coward's heart of a true  lover  he  could  have 
sworn that she flushed a faint pink. He trotted on for twenty yards,  and  then 
wheeled his horse at the sound of runaway hoofs. The bays had bolted.
    Remsen sent his chestnut after the victoria like a shot. There was work cut 
out for the impersonator of Policeman O'Roon. The chestnut ranged alongside the 
off bay thirty seconds after the chase began, rolled his eye  back  at  Remsen, 
and said in the only manner open to policemen's horses:
    "Well, you duffer, are you going to do your share? You're not  O'Roon,  but 
it seems to me if you'd lean to the right you could reach  the  reins  of  that 
foolish slow-running bay - ah! you're all right; O'Roon couldn't have  done  it 
more neatly!"
    The runaway team was  tugged  to  an  inglorious  halt  by  Remsen's  tough 
muscles. The driver released his hands from the wrapped reins, jumped from  his 
seat and stood at the heads of the team. The chestnut, approving his new rider, 
danced and pranced, reviling equinely the subdued bays. Remsen, lingering,  was 
dimly conscious of a vague, impossible, unnecessary old gentleman in  a  Scotch 
cap who talked incessantly about something. And he  was  acutely  conscious  of 
a pair of violet eyes that  would  have  drawn  Saint  Pyrites  from  his  iron 
pillar - or whatever the allusion is - and  of  the  lady's  smile  and  look - 
a little frightened, but a look that, with the ever  coward  heart  of  a  true 
lover, he could not yet construe. They were asking his name and bestowing  upon 
him wellbred thanks for his heroic deed, and  the  Scotch  cap  was  especially 
babbling and insistent. But the eloquent appeal was in the eyes of the lady.
    A little thrill of satisfaction ran through Remsen, because he had  a  name 
to give which, without undue pride, was worthy of being spoken in high  places, 
and a small fortune which, with due pride, he could leave at  his  end  without 
disgrace.
    He opened his lips to speak and closed them again.
    Who was he? Mounted Policeman O'Roon.  The  badge  and  the  honor  of  his 
comrade  were  in  his  hands.  If  Ellsworth   Remsen,   ten-millionaire   and 
Knickerbocker, had just  rescued  pomegranate  blossoms  and  Scotch  cap  from 
possible death, where was Policeman O'Roon? Off his beat,  exposed,  disgraced, 
discharged. Love had come, but  before  that  there  had  been  something  that 
demanded precedence - the fellowship of men on battlefields fighting  an  alien 
foe.
    Remsen touched his cap, looked between the chestnut's ears, and took refuge 
in vernacularity.
    "Don't mention it," he said stolidly. "We policemen are paid  to  do  these 
things. It's our duty."
    And he rode away - rode away cursing noblesse oblige, but knowing he  could 
never have done anything else.
    At the end of the day Remsen sent the chestnut to his stable  and  went  to 
O'Roon's room. The policeman was again a well set up, affable, cool  young  man 
who sat by the window smoking cigars.
    "I wish you and the rest of the police force and all badges, horses,  brass 
buttons and men who can't drink two glasses of brut without getting upset  were 
at the devil," said Remsen feelingly.
    O'Roon smiled with evident satisfaction.
    "Good old Remsen," he said, affably, "I know all about it. They trailed  me 
down and cornered me here two hours ago. There was a little row  at  home,  you 
know, and I cut sticks just to show them. I don't believe I told  you  that  my 
Governor was the Earl of Ardsley. Funny you should  bob  against  them  in  the 
Park. If you damaged that horse of mine I'll never forgive you.  I'm  going  to 
buy him and take him back with me.  Oh,  yes,  and  I  think  my  sister - Lady 
Angela, you know - wants particularly for you to come up to the hotel  with  me 
this evening. Didn't lose my badge, did you, Remsen? I've got to turn  that  in 
at Headquarters when I resign."

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