O. Henry



   Vanity And Some Sables

    When "Kid" Brady was sent to the rope by Molly McKeever's  blue-black  eyes 
he withdrew from the Stovepipe Gang. So much  for  the  power  of  a  colleen's 
blanderin' tongue and stubborn true-heartedness. If you  are  a  man  who  read 
this, may such an influence be sent you before 2 o'clock to-morrow; if you  are 
a woman, may your Pomeranian greet you this morning with a cold  nose - a  sign 
of doghealth and your happiness.
    The Stovepipe Gang borrowed its name from a sub-district of the city called 
the "Stovepipe," which is a  narrow  and  natural  extension  of  the  familiar 
district known as "Hell's Kitchen." The "Stovepipe" strip of  town  runs  along 
Eleventh and Twelfth avenues on the river, and bends a  hard  and  sooty  elbow 
around little, lost homeless DeWitt Clinton park. Consider that a stovepipe  is 
an important factor in any kitchen and the situation is analyzed. The chefs  in 
"Hell's Kitchen" are many, and the "Stovepipe" gang, wears the cordon blue.
    The members of this unchartered but widely known  brotherhood  appeared  to 
pass their time on street corners arrayed like the lilies of  the  conservatory 
and busy with nail files and penknives. Thus displayed as a guarantee  of  good 
faith, they carried on an innocuous conversation in a 200-word  vocabulary,  to 
the casual observer as innocent and immaterial as that  heard  in  clubs  seven
blocks to the east.
    But off exhibition the "Stovepipes" were not mere street  corner  ornaments 
addicted to posing and manicuring. Their serious occupation was the  separating 
of citizens from their coin and valuables. Preferably this was  done  by  weird 
and singular tricks without  noise  or  bloodshed;  but  whenever  the  citizen 
honored by their  attentions  refused  to  impoverish  himself  gracefully  his
objections came to be spread  finally  upon  some  police  station  blotter  or 
hospital register.
    The police held the "Stovepipe" gang in perpetual suspicion and respect. As 
the nightingale's liquid note is heard in the deepest  shadows,  so  along  the 
"Stovepipe's" dark and narrow confines the whistle for reserves  punctures  the 
dull ear of night. Whenever there was smoke in the  "stovepipe"  the  tasselled 
men in blue knew there was fire in "Hell's Kitchen."
    "Kid" Brady  promised  Molly  to  be  good.  "Kid"  was  the  vainest,  the 
strongest, the wariest and the most successful plotter in the gang.  Therefore, 
the boys were sorry to give him up.
    But they witnessed his fall to a virtuous life without protest. For, in the 
Kitchen it is considered neither unmanly nor improper for a guy to  do  as  his 
girl advises.
    Black her eye for love's sake, if  you  will;  but  it  is  all-to-the-good 
business to do a thing when she wants you to do it.
    "Turn off the hydrant," said  the  Kid,  one  night  when  Molly,  tearful, 
besought him to amend his ways. "I'm going to cut out the gang. You  for  mine, 
and the simple life on the side. I'll tell you, Moll - I'll get  work;  and  in 
a year we'll get married. I'll do it for you. We'll get a flat and a flute, and 
a sewing machine and a rubber plant and live as honest as we can."
    "Oh, Kid," sighed Molly, wiping  the  powder  off  his  shoulder  with  her
handkerchief, "I'd rather hear you say that than to own all of New York. And we 
can be happy on so little!"
    The Kid looked down at his speckless cuffs and shining patent leathers with 
a suspicion of melancholy.
    "It'll hurt hardest in the rags department," said he. "I've kind of  always 
liked to rig out swell when I could. You know how I hate  cheap  things,  Moll. 
This suit set me back sixty-five. Anything in the wearing apparel line has  got 
to be just so, or it's to the misfit parlors  for  it,  for  mine.  If  I  work 
I won't have so much coin to hand over to the little man with the big shears."
    "Never mind, Kid. I'll like you just as much in a blue jumper as I would in 
a red automobile."
    Before the Kid had grown large enough to knock out his father he  had  been 
compelled to learn the plumber's art. So now back to this honorable and  useful 
profession he returned. But it was as an assistant that he engaged himself; and 
it is the master plumber and not the assistant, who wears diamonds as large  as 
hailstones and looks contemptuously  upon  the  marble  colonnades  of  Senator 
Clark's mansion.
    Eight months went by as smoothly and surely as though they had "elapsed" on 
a theater program. The Kid worked away at his pipes and solder with no symptoms 
of backsliding. The Stovepipe gang continued its piracy on  the  high  avenues, 
cracked policemen's heads, held up late  travelers,  invented  new  methods  of 
peaceful plundering, copied Fifth avenue's cut of clothes and neckwear  fancies 
and comported itself according to its lawless bylaws. But the  Kid  stood  firm 
and faithful to his Molly, even though the polish was gone from his fingernails 
and it took him 15 minutes to tie his purple silk ascot so that the worn places 
would not show.
    One evening he brought a mysterious bundle with him to Molly's house.
    "Open that, Moll!" he said in his large, quiet way. "It's for you."
    Molly's eager fingers tore off the wrappings. She shrieked  aloud,  and  in 
rushed a sprinkling of little McKeevers, and Ma  McKeever,  dishwashy,  but  an 
undeniable relative of the late Mrs. Eve.
    Again Molly shrieked, and something dark and  long  and  sinuous  flew  and 
enveloped her neck like an anaconda.
    "Russian sables," said the Kid, pridefully, enjoying the sight  of  Molly's 
round cheek against the clinging fur. "The real thing. They don't grow anything 
in Russia too good for you, Moll."
    Molly plunged her hands into the muff,  overturned  a  row  of  the  family 
infants and flew to the mirror. Hint for the  beauty  column.  To  make  bright 
eyes, rosy checks and a bewitching smile: Recipe  -  one  set  Russian  sables. 
Apply.
    When they were alone Molly became aware of a  small  cake  of  the  ice  of 
common sense floating down the full tide of her happiness.
    "You're a bird, all right, Kid," she admitted gratefully. "I never had  any 
furs on before in my life. But ain't Russian sables awful expensive?  Seems  to 
me I've heard they were."
    "Have I ever chucked any bargain-sale stuff at you, Moll?" asked  the  Kid, 
with calm dignity. "Did you ever notice me leaning on the  remnant  counter  or 
peering in the window of the five-and-ten? Call that scarf $250  and  the  muff 
$175 and you won't make any mistake about the  price  of  Russian  sables.  The 
swell goods for me. Say, they look fine on you, Moll."
    Molly hugged the sables to her bosom in rapture. And then  her  smile  went 
away little by little, and she looked the Kid straight in  the  eye  sadly  and 
steadily.
    He knew what every look of hers meant; and he laughed with  a  faint  flush 
upon his face.
    "Cut it out," he said, with affectionate roughness. "I told you I was  done 
with that. I bought 'em and paid for 'em, all right, with my own money."
    "Out of the money you worked for, Kid? Out of $75 a month?"
    "Sure. I been saving up."
    "Let's see - saved $425 in eight months, Kid?"
    "Ah, let up," said the Kid, with some heat. "I had some money when  I  went 
to work. Do you think I've been holding 'em up again?  I  told  you  I'd  quit. 
They're paid for on the square. Put 'em on and come out for a walk."
    Molly calmed her doubts. Sables are soothing. Proud as  a  queen  she  went 
forth in the streets at the Kid's side. In all that region of low-lying streets 
Russian sables had never been seen before. The word sped, and doors and windows 
blossomed with heads eager to see the swell furs Kid Brady had given his  girl. 
All down the street there were "Oh's" and "Ah's" and the reported fabulous  sum 
paid for the sables was passed from lip to lip, increasing as it went.  At  her
right elbow sauntered the Kid with the air of princes. Work had not  diminished 
his love of pomp and show and his  passion  for  the  costly  and  genuine.  On 
a corner they saw a group of  the  Stovepipe  Gang  loafing,  immaculate.  They 
raised their hats to the Kid's girl and went on  with  their  calm,  unaccented 
palaver.
    Three blocks behind the admired couple strolled Detective  Ransom,  of  the 
Central office. Ransom was the only detective  on  the  force  who  could  walk 
abroad with safety in the Stovepipe district. He was fair dealing and  unafraid 
and went there with the hypothesis that the inhabitants were human. Many  liked 
him, and now and then one would tip off to him something that  he  was  looking 
for.
    "What's the excitement down the street?" asked Ransom of a  pale  youth  in 
a red sweater.
    "Dey're out rubberin' at a set of buffalo robes Kid Brady staked  his  girl 
to," answered the youth. "Some say he paid $900 for de skins. Dey're swell  all 
right enough."
    "I hear Brady has been working at his old trade for nearly  a  year,"  said 
the detective. "He doesn't travel with the gang any more, does he?"
    "He's workin', all right," said the red sweater, "but - say, sport, are you 
trailin' anything in the fur line? A job in a plumbin' shop don' match wid  dem 
skins de Kid's girl's got on."
    Ransom overtook the strolling couple on an  empty  street  near  the  river 
bank. He touched the Kid's arm from behind.
    "Let me see you a moment, Brady," he said,  quietly.  His  eye  rested  for 
a second on the  long  fur  scarf  thrown  stylishly  back  over  Molly's  left 
shoulder. The Kid, with his old-time police hating frown on his face, stepped a 
yard or two aside with the detective.
    "Did you go to Mrs. Hethcote's on  West  7 - th  street  yesterday  to  fix 
a leaky water pipe?" asked Ransom.
    "I did," said the Kid. "What of it?"
    "The lady's $1,000 set of Russian sables went out of the  house  about  the 
same time you did. The description fits the ones this lady has on."
    "To h - Harlem with you," cried the Kid, angrily. "You know  I've  cut  out 
that sort of thing, Ransom. I bought them sables yesterday at - "
    The Kid stopped short.
    "I know you've been working straight lately," said Ransom. "I'll  give  you 
every chance. I'll  go  with  you  where  you  say  you  bought  the  furs  and 
investigate. The lady can wear 'em along with us and nobody'll  be  on.  That's 
fair, Brady."
    "Come on," agreed the Kid, hotly. And  then  he  stopped  suddenly  in  his 
tracks and looked with an odd smile at Molly's distressed and anxious face.
    "No use," he said, grimly. "They're the Hethcote sables, all right.  You'll 
have to turn 'em over, Moll, but they ain't too  good  for  you  if  they  cost 
a million."
    Molly, with anguish in her face, hung upon the Kid's arm.
    "Oh, Kiddy, you've broke my heart," she said. "I was so proud of  you - and 
now they'll do you - and where's our happiness gone?"
    "Go home," said the Kid, wildly. "Come on, Ransom - take  the  furs.  Let's 
get  away  from here. Wait a minute - I've a good mind to - no, I'll be d- if I 
can do it - run along, Moll - I'm ready, Ransom."
    Around the corner of a lumber-yard came Policeman Kohen on his way  to  his 
beat along the river. The detective signed to him for assistance. Kohen  joined 
the group. Ransom explained.
    "Sure," said Kohen. "I hear about those saples dat vas stole. You  say  you 
have dem here?"
    Policeman Kohen took the end of Molly's late scarf in his hands and  looked 
at it closely.
    "Once," he said, "I sold furs in Sixth avenue. Yes, dese  are  saples.  Dey 
come from Alaska. Dis scarf is vort $12 and dis muff - "
    "Biff!" came the palm of the  Kid's  powerful  hand  upon  the  policeman's 
mouth. Kohen staggered and rallied. Molly screamed. The detective threw himself 
upon Brady and with Kohen's aid got the nippers on his wrist.
    "The scarf is vort $12 and the muff is vort $9," persisted  the  policeman. 
"Vot is dis talk about $1,000 saples?"
    The Kid sat upon a pile of lumber and his face turned dark red.
    "Correct, Solomonski!" he declared, viciously. "I paid $21.50 for the  set. 
I'd rather have got six months and not have told it. Me,  the  swell  guy  that 
wouldn't look at anything cheap! I'm a plain bluffer. Moll - my salary couldn't 
spell sables in Russian."
    Molly cast herself upon his neck.
    "What do I care for all the sables and money  in  the  world,"  she  cried. 
"It's my Kiddy I want. Oh, you dear, stuck-up, crazy blockhead!"
    "You can take dose nippers off,"  said  Kohen  to  the  detective."  Before 
I leaf de station de report come in dat de lady vind  her  saples - hanging  in 
her wardrobe. Young man, I excuse you dat punch in my vace - dis von time."
    Ransom handed Molly her furs. Her eyes were smiling upon the Kid. She wound 
the scarf and threw the end over her left shoulder with a duchess' grace.
    "A gouple of young vools," said Policeman Kohen to Ransom; "come on away."

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