O. Henry



   Whistling Dick's Christmas Stocking

    It was with much caution that Whistling Dick slid back the door of the box-
car, for Article 5716, City Ordinances, authorized (perhaps unconstitutionally) 
arrest on suspicion, and he was familiar of old with this ordinance. So, before 
climbing out, he surveyed the field with all the care of a good general.
    He saw no change since his last  visit  to  this  big,  alms-giving,  long-
suffering city of the South, the cold weather paradise of the tramps. The levee 
where his freight-car stood was pimpled with dark  bulks  of  merchandise.  The 
breeze reeked with the well-remembered, sickening smell of the  old  tarpaulins 
that covered bales and barrels. The dun river slipped along among the  shipping 
with an oily gurgle. Far down toward Chalmette he could see the great  bend  in 
the stream outlined by the row of electric lights.  Across  the  river  Algiers 
lay, a long, irregular blot, made darker by the dawn which  lightened  the  sky 
beyond. An industrious tug or two, coming for some  early  sailing  ship,  gave 
a few appalling toots, that seemed to be  the  signal  for  breaking  day.  The 
Italian luggers were creeping nearer their landing, laden with early vegetables 
and shellfish. A vague roar, subterranean in  quality,  from  dray  wheels  and 
street cars, began to make itself heard and felt; and the ferryboats, the  Mary 
Anns of water craft, stirred sullenly to their menial morning tasks.
    Whistling Dick's red head popped suddenly back into the car.  A  sight  too 
imposing and magnificent for his gaze had been added  to  the  scene.  A  vast, 
incomparable policeman rounded a pile of rice sacks  and  stood  within  twenty 
yards of the car. The daily miracle of the  dawn,  now  being  performed  above 
Algiers, received the  flattering  attention  of  this  specimen  of  municipal 
official splendour. He gazed with  unbiased  dignity  at  the  faintly  glowing 
colours until, at last, he turned to them his broad back, as if convinced  that 
legal interference was not needed, and the sunrise might proceed unchecked.  So 
he turned his face to the rice bags, and, drawing a flat flask from  an  inside 
pocket, he placed it to his lips and regarded the firmament.
    Whistling Dick, professional tramp, possessed a half-friendly  acquaintance 
with this officer. They had met several times before on the levee at night, for 
the officer, himself a lover of music, had  been  attracted  by  the  exquisite 
whistling of the shiftless vagabond. Still, he did not care, under the  present 
circumstances, to renew the acquaintance. There is a difference between meeting 
a policeman on a lonely wharf and whistling a few operatic airs with  him,  and 
being caught by him crawling out of a freight-car.  So  Dick  waited,  as  even 
a New Orleans policeman must move on some time - perhaps it  is  a  retributive 
law of nature - and before long "Big Fritz"  majestically  disappeared  between 
the trains of cars.
    Whistling Dick waited as long  as  his  judgment  advised,  and  then  slid 
swiftly to the ground. Assuming as  far  as  possible  the  air  of  an  honest 
labourer who seeks his daily toil, he  moved  across  the  network  of  railway 
lines, with the intention of making his way by quiet Girod Street to a  certain 
bench in Lafayette Square, where, according to appointment, he hoped to  rejoin 
a pal known as "Slick," this adventurous pilgrim having preceded him by one day 
in a cattle-car into which a loose slat had enticed him.
    As Whistling Dick picked his way where night still lingered among the  big, 
reeking, musty warehouses, he gave way to the habit that had won  for  him  his 
title. Subdued, yet clear, with each note as true and liquid as  a  bobolink's, 
his whistle tinkled about the dim, cold mountains of brick like drops  of  rain 
falling into a hidden pool. He followed  an  air,  but  it  swam  mistily  into 
a swirling current of improvisation. You could cull out the trill  of  mountain 
brooks, the staccato of green rushes shivering above chilly lagoons,  the  pipe 
of sleepy birds.
    Rounding a corner, the whistler collided with a mountain of blue and brass.
    "So," observed the mountain calmly, "You are already pack.  Und  dere  vill 
not pe frost before two veeks yet! Und you haf forgotten how  to  vistle.  Dere 
was a valse note in dot last bar."
    "Watcher know about it?" said Whistling Dick, with  tentative  familiarity; 
"you wit yer little Gherman-band nixcumrous chunes. Watcher know  about  music? 
Pick yer ears, and listen agin. Here's de way I whistled it - see?"
    He puckered his lips, but the big policeman held up his hand.
    "Shtop," he said, "und learn der right way. Und learn also  dot  a  rolling 
shtone can't vistle for a cent."
    Big Fritz's heavy moustache rounded into a circle, and from its depths came 
a sound deep and mellow as that from a flute. He repeated a few bars of the air 
the tramp had been whistling. The rendition  was  cold,  but  correct,  and  he 
emphasized the note he had taken exception to.
    "Dot p is p natural, und not p vlat. Py der vay, you petter pe glad I  meet 
you. Von hour later, und I vould half to put you in a gage to  vistle  mit  der 
chail pirds. Der orders are to bull all der pums after sunrise."
    "To which?"
    "To bull der pums - eferybody mitout  fisible  means.  Dirty  days  is  der 
price, or fifteen tollars."
    "Is dat straight, or a game you givin' me?"
    "It's der pest tip you efer had. I gif it to you pecause I pelief  you  are 
not so bad as der rest. Und pecause you gan visl 'Der Freisechutz' bezzer dan I 
myself gan. Don't run against any more bolicemans aroundt der corners,  but  go 
away from town a few tays. Good-pye."
    So Madame Orleans had at last grown weary of the strange and ruffled  brood 
that came yearly to nestle beneath her charitable pinions.
    After  the  big  policeman  had  departed,  Whistling  Dick  stood  for  an 
irresolute minute, feeling all the outraged indignation of a delinquent  tenant 
who is ordered to vacate his premises. He had pictured  to  himself  a  day  of 
dreamful ease when he should have joined his pal; a  day  of  lounging  on  the 
wharf, munching the bananas and cocoanuts  scattered  in  unloading  the  fruit 
steamers; and then a feast along the free-lunch counters from which  the  easy-
going owners were too good-natured or too  generous  to  drive  him  away,  and 
afterward a pipe in one of the little flowery parks and a snooze in some  shady
corner of the wharf. But here was a stern order to exile, and one that he  knew 
must be obeyed. So, with a wary eye open from the gleam of  brass  buttons,  he 
began his retreat toward a rural refuge. A few days in  the  country  need  not 
necessarily prove disastrous. Beyond the possibility of a slight nip of  frost, 
there was no formidable evil to be looked for.
    However, it was with a depressed spirit that Whistling Dick passed the  old 
French market on his chosen route down the river. For safety's  sake  he  still 
presented to the world his portrayal of the part of the worthy artisan  on  his 
way to labour. A stall-keeper in the market,  undeceived,  hailed  him  by  the 
generic name of his ilk, and "Jack" halted,  taken  by  surprise.  The  vender, 
melted by this proof of his own acuteness, bestowed a foot of  Frankfurter  and 
half a loaf, and thus the problem of breakfast was solved.
    When the streets, from topographical reasons, began to shun the river  bank 
the exile mounted to the top of the levee, and on its well-trodden path pursued 
his way. The  suburban  eye  regarded  him  with  cold  suspicion,  individuals 
reflected the stern spirit  of  the  city's  heartless  edict.  He  missed  the 
seclusion of the crowded town and the  safety  he  could  always  find  in  the 
multitude.
    At Chalmette, six miles upon his desultory way, there suddenly menaced  him 
a vast and bewildering industry. A new port was being established; the dock was 
being built, compresses were going up; picks and shovels and barrows struck  at 
him like serpents from every side. An arrogant  foreman  bore  down  upon  him, 
estimating his muscles with the eye of a  recruiting-sergeant.  Brown  men  and 
black men all about him were toiling away. He fled in terror.
    By noon he had reached the country of  the  plantations,  the  great,  sad, 
silent levels bordering the mighty river. He overlooked fields of sugar-cane so 
vast that their farthest limits melted into the sky.  The  sugar-making  season 
was well advanced, and the cutters were at work; the waggons  creaked  drearily 
after them; the Negro teamsters inspired the mules to greater speed with mellow 
and sonorous imprecations. Dark-green groves, blurred by the blue of  distance, 
showed where the plantation-houses stood. The tall chimneys of the  sugar-mills 
caught the eye miles distant, like lighthouses at sea.
    At a certain point Whistling Dick's  unerring  nose  caught  the  scent  of 
frying fish. Like a pointer to a quail, he made his way  down  the  levee  side 
straight to the camp of a credulous and ancient fisherman, whom he charmed with 
song and story, so that he dined like an admiral, and then like  a  philosopher 
annihilated the worst three hours of the day by a nap under the trees.
    When he awoke and again continued his hegira, a frosty sparkle in  the  air 
had succeeded the drowsy warmth of the day, and as this  portent  of  a  chilly 
night translated itself to the brain of Sir Peregrine, he lengthened his stride 
and bethought him of shelter. He travelled a road that faithfully followed  the 
convolutions of the levee, running along its base, but  whither  he  knew  not. 
Bushes and rank grass crowded it to the wheel ruts, and out of  this  ambuscade 
the pests of the lowlands swarmed after him, humming a keen,  vicious  soprano. 
And as the night grew nearer, although colder,  the  whine  of  the  mosquitoes 
became a greedy, petulant snarl that shut out all other sounds. To  his  right, 
against the heavens, he saw a green light moving,  and,  accompanying  it,  the 
masts and funnels of a big  incoming  steamer,  moving  as  upon  a  screen  at 
a magic-lantern show. And there were mysterious marshes at  his  left,  out  of 
which came queer gurgling cries and a choked croaking.  The  whistling  vagrant 
struck up a merry warble to offset  these  melancholy  influences,  and  it  is 
likely that never before, since Pan himself jigged it on his  reeds,  had  such 
sounds been heard in those depressing solitudes.
    A distant clatter in the rear quickly developed  into  the  swift  beat  of 
horses' hoofs, and Whistling Dick stepped aside into the dew-wet grass to clear 
the track. Turning his head, he saw approaching a fine team  of  stylish  grays 
drawing a double surrey. A stout man with a white moustache occupied the  front 
seat, giving all his attention to the rigid lines in his hands. Behind him  sat 
a placid, middle-aged lady and a brilliant-looking girl hardly arrived at young 
ladyhood. The lap-robe had slipped partly  from  the  knees  of  the  gentleman 
driving, and Whistling Dick saw two stout canvas bags between  his  feet - bags 
such as, while loafing in  cities,  he  had  seen  warily  transferred  between 
express waggons and bank doors. The remaining space in the vehicle  was  filled 
with parcels of various sizes and shapes.
    As the surrey swept even with the sidetracked tramp, the bright-eyed  girl, 
seized by some merry, madcap impulse, leaned  out  toward  him  with  a  sweet, 
dazzling smile, and cried, "Mer-ry Christ-mas!" in a shrill, plaintive  treble.
Such a thing had not often happened to Whistling Dick, and he felt  handicapped 
in devising the correct response. But lacking time for reflection, he  let  his 
instinct decide, and snatching off his battered derby, he rapidly  extended  it 
at arm's length, and drew it back with a continuous motion, and shouted a loud, 
but ceremonious, "Ah, there!" after the flying surrey.
    The sudden movement of the girl had caused one of  the  parcels  to  become 
unwrapped, and something limp and black fell from it into the road.  The  tramp 
picked it up, and found it to be a new black silk stocking, long and  fine  and 
slender. It crunched crisply, and yet with a luxurious  softness,  between  his 
fingers.
    "Ther bloomin' little skeezicks!" said Whistling Dick, with  a  broad  grin 
bisecting his freckled face. "W't d' yer think of dat, now!  Mer-ry  Chris-mus! 
Sounded like a cuckoo clock, da'ts what she did. Dem guys is swells,  too,  bet 
yer life, an' der old 'un stacks dem sacks of dough  down  under  his  trotters 
like dey was common as dried apples. Been shoppin' for Chrismus, and  de  kid's 
lost one of her new socks w'ot she was goin' to hold up Santy wid. De  bloomin' 
little skeezicks! Wit' her 'Mer-ry Chris-mus!' W'ot d' yer t'ink!  Same  as  to 
say, 'Hello, Jack, how goes it?' and as swell as Fift' Av'noo, and as  easy  as 
a blowout in Cincinnat."
    Whistling Dick folded the stocking  carefully,  and  stuffed  it  into  his 
pocket.
    It was nearly two hours later when he came upon signs  of  habitation.  The 
buildings of an extensive plantation were brought into view by a  turn  in  the 
road. He easily selected the planter's residence in  a  large  square  building 
with two wings, with  numerous  good-sized,  well-lighted  windows,  and  broad 
verandas running around its full extent. it was set upon a smooth  lawn,  which 
was faintly lit by the far-reaching rays of the lamps  within.  A  noble  grove 
surrounded it, and old-fashioned shrubbery grew thickly  about  the  walks  and 
fences. The quarters of the hands and  the  mill  buildings  were  situated  at 
a distance in the rear.
    The road was now enclosed on each  side  by  a  fence,  and  presently,  as 
Whistling Dick drew nearer the house, he suddenly stopped and sniffed the air.
    "If dere ain't a hobo stew cookin' somewhere in dis immediate precint,"  he 
said to himself, "me nose as quit tellin' de trut'."
    Without hesitation he climbed the fence to windward. He found himself in an 
apparently disused lot, where piles of old bricks were stacked,  and  rejected, 
decaying lumber. In a corner he saw the faint glow of a fire  that  had  become 
little more than a bed of living coals, and he thought he could  see  some  dim 
human forms sitting or lying about it. He drew nearer,  and  by  the  light  of 
a little blaze that suddenly flared  up  he  saw  plainly  the  fat  figure  of 
a ragged man in an old brown sweater and cap.
    "Dat man," said Whistling Dick to himself softly, "is  a  dead  ringer  for 
Boston Harry. I'll try him wit de high sign."
    He whistled one or  two  bars  of  a  rag-time  melody,  and  the  air  was 
immediately taken up, and then quickly ended with a  peculiar  run.  The  first 
whistler walked confidently up to the fire. The fat man looked up, and spake in 
a loud, asthmatic wheeze:
    "Gents, the unexpected but welcome addition to our circle is  Mr. Whistling 
Dick, an old friend of mine for whom I  fully  vouches.  The  waiter  will  lay 
another cover at once. Mr. W. D. will join us at supper, during which  function 
he will enlighten us in regard to the circumstances that gave us  the  pleasure 
of his company."
    "Chewin' de  stuffin'  out  'n  de  dictionary,  as  usual,  Boston,"  said 
Whistling Dick; "but t'anks all de same for de  invitashun.  I  guess  I  finds 
meself here about de same way as yous guys. A cop gimme  de  tip  dis  mornin'. 
Yous workin' on dis farm?"
    "A guest," said Boston, sternly, "shouldn't never insult  his  entertainers 
until he's filled up wid grub.  'Tain't  good  business  sense.  Workin'! - but 
I will restrain myself. We five - me, Deaf Pete, Blinky, Goggles,  and  Indiana 
Tom - got put on to this scheme of Noo Orleans to work visiting gentlemen  upon 
her dirty streets, and we hit the road last evening just as the tender hues  of 
twilight had flopped down upon the daisies and things. Blinky, pass  the  empty 
oyster-can at your left to the empty gentleman at your right."
    For the next ten  minutes  the  gang  of  roadsters  paid  their  undivided 
attention to the supper. In an old five-gallon kerosene  can  they  had  cooked 
a stew of potatoes, meat, and onions, which they partook of from  smaller  cans 
they had found scattered about the vacant lot.
    Whistling Dick had known Boston Harry of old, and knew him to be one of the 
shrewdest and most successful of his brotherhood. He looked like  a  prosperous 
stock-drover or solid merchant from some country  village.  He  was  stout  and 
hale, with a ruddy, always smoothly shaven face. His clothes  were  strong  and 
neat, and he gave special attention to his decent-appearing shoes.  During  the 
past ten years he had acquired a reputation for  working  a  larger  number  of 
successfully managed confidence games than any of his acquaintances, and he had 
not a day's work  to  be  counted  against  him.  It  was  rumoured  among  his 
associates that he had saved a considerable amount of money. The four other men 
were fair specimens of the slinking, ill-clad, noisome genus who carried  their 
labels of "suspicious" in plain view.
    After the bottom of the large can had been scraped, and pipes  lit  at  the 
coals, two of the men  called  Boston  aside  and  spake  with  him  lowly  and 
mysteriously. He nodded decisively, and then said aloud to Whistling Dick:
    "Listen, sonny, to some plain talky-talk.  We  five  are  on  a  lay.  I've 
guaranteed you to be square, and you're to come in on the  profits  equal  with 
the boys, and you've got to help. Two hundred  hands  on  this  plantation  are 
expecting to be paid a week's wages to-morrow morning.  To-morrow's  Christmas, 
and they want to lay off. Says the boss: 'Work from five to nine in the morning 
to get a train load of sugar off, and I'll pay every man cash down for the week 
and a day extra.' They say: 'Hooray for the boss! It goes.' He drives  to  Noo 
Orleans to-day, and fetches back the cold dollars. Two  thousand  and  seventy-
four fifty is the amount. I got the figures from a man who talks too much,  who 
got 'em from the bookkeeper. The boss of this plantation thinks he's  going  to 
pay this wealth to the hands. He's got it down wrong; he's going to pay  it  to 
us. It's going to stay in the leisure class, where it  belongs.  Now,  half  of 
this haul goes to me, and the other half the rest of you may  divide.  Why  the 
difference? I represent the brains. It's my scheme. Here's the way we're  going 
to get it. There's some company at supper in the house, but they'll leave about 
nine. They've just happened in for an hour or so. If they don't go pretty soon,
we'll work the scheme anyhow. We want all night  to  get  away  good  with  the 
dollars. They're heavy. About nine o'clock Deaf Pete and Blinky'll go down  the 
road about a quarter beyond the house, and set fire to a big  cane-field  there 
that the cutters haven't touched yet. The wind's just right to have it  roaring 
in two minutes. The alarm'll be given, and every man Jack about the place  will 
be down there in ten minutes, fighting fire. That'll leave the money sacks  and 
the women alone in the house for us to handle. You've heard  cane  burn?  Well, 
there's mighty few women  can  screech  loud  enough  to  be  heard  above  its 
crackling. The thing's dead safe. The only danger is in being caught before  we 
can get far enough away with the money. Now, if you -"
    "Boston," interrupted Whistling Dick, rising to his feet, "T'anks  for  the 
grub yous fellers has given me, but I'll be movin' on now."
    "What do you mean?" asked Boston, also rising.
    "W'y, you can count me outer dis deal. You oughter know that. I'm on de bum 
all right enough, but dat other t'ing don't go wit' me. Burglary  is  no  good. 
I'll say good night and many t'anks fer -"
    Whistling Dick had moved away a few steps as he spoke, but he stopped  very 
suddenly. Boston had covered him with a short revolver of roomy calibre.
    "Take your seat," said the tramp leader. "I'd feel mighty proud  of  myself 
if I let you go and spoil the game. You'll stick right in this  camp  until  we 
finish the job. The end of that brick pile is your limit.  You  go  two  inches 
beyond that, and I'll have to shoot. Better take it easy, now."
    "It's my way of doin'," said Whistling Dick. "Easy goes. You can depress de 
muzzle of dat twelve-incher, and run 'er back on de trucks. I  remains,  as  de 
newspapers says, 'in yer midst.'"
    "All right," said Boston, lowering his piece, as  the  other  returned  and 
took his seat again on a projecting plank in a pile of timber.  "Don't  try  to 
leave; that's all. I wouldn't miss this chance even if I had to  shoot  an  old 
acquaintance to make it go. I don't want to hurt anybody  specially,  but  this 
thousand dollars I'm going to get will fix me for fair. I'm going to  drop  the 
road, and start a saloon in a little town I know  about.  I'm  tired  of  being 
kicked around."
    Boston Harry took from his pocket a cheap silver watch, and  held  it  near 
the fire.
    "It's a quarter to nine," he said. "Pete, you and Blinky start. Go down the 
road past the house, and fire the cane in a dozen places. Then strike  for  the 
levee, and come back on it, instead of the road, so you won't meet anybody.  By 
the time you get back the men will all be striking out for the fire, and  we'll 
break for the house and collar the dollars. Everybody  cough  up  what  matches 
he's got."
    The two surly tramps made a collection of all the  matches  in  the  party, 
Whistling Dick contributing his quota with propitiatory alacrity, and then they 
departed in the dim starlight in the direction of the road.
    Of the three remaining vagrants, two, Goggles  and  Indiana  Tom,  reclined 
lazily upon convenient lumber and  regarded  Whistling  Dick  with  undisguised 
disfavour. Boston, observing that the dissenting recruit was disposed to remain 
peaceably, relaxed a little of his vigilance. Whistling  Dick  arose  presently 
and strolled leisurely up and  down  keeping  carefully  within  the  territory 
assigned him.
    "Dis planter chap," he said, pausing before Boston Harry, "w'ot  makes  yer 
t'ink he's got de tin in de house wit' 'im?"
    "I'm advised of the facts in the case,"  said  Boston.  "He  drove  to  Noo 
Orleans and got it, I say, to-day. Want to change your mind now and come in?"
    "Naw, I was just askin'. Wot kind o' team did de boss drive?"
    "Pair of grays."
    "Double surrey?"
    "Yep."
    "Women folks along?"
    "Wife and kid. Say, what morning paper are you trying to pump news for?"
    "I was just conversin' to pass de time away. I guess dat team passed me  in 
de road dis evenin'. Dat's all."
    As Whistling Dick put his hands in his pockets and continued his  curtailed 
beat up and down by the fire, he felt the silk stocking he had picked up in the 
road.
    "Ther bloomin' little skeezicks," he muttered, with a grin.
    As he walked up and down he could see, through a sort of natural opening or 
lane among the trees, the planter's residence some seventy-five yards  distant. 
The side of the house  toward  him  exhibited  spacious,  well-lighted  windows 
through which a soft radiance streamed, illuminating the broad veranda and some 
extent of the lawn beneath.
    "What's that you said?" asked Boston, sharply.
    "Oh, nuttin' 't all," said Whistling Dick, lounging carelessly, and kicking 
meditatively at a little stone on the ground.
    "Just as easy," continued the warbling  vagrant  softly  to  himself,  "an'
sociable an' swell an' sassy, wit' her 'Mer-ry  Chris-mus,'  Wot  d'yer  t'ink, 
now!"


    Dinner, two hours late, was  being  served  in  the  Bellemeade  plantation 
dining-room.
    The dining-room and all its appurtenances spoke of an old regime  that  was 
here continued rather than suggested to the memory. The plate was rich  to  the 
extent that its age and quaintness alone saved it from being showy; there  were 
interesting names signed in the corners of  the  pictures  on  the  walls;  the 
viands were of the kind that bring a shine  into  the  eyes  of  gourmets.  The 
service was swift, silent, lavish, as in the days when the waiters were  assets 
like the plate. The names by which the  planter's  family  and  their  visitors 
addressed one another were historic in the annals of two nations. Their manners 
and conversation had that most difficult kind of  ease - the  kind  that  still
preserves punctilio. The planter himself seemed to be the dynamo that generated 
the larger portion of the gaiety and wit. The younger ones at the  board  found 
it more than difficult to turn back on him his guns of raillery and banter.  It 
is true, the young men attempted to storm his works repeatedly, incited by  the 
hope of gaining the approbation of their fair companions; but  even  when  they 
sped a well-aimed shaft,  the  planter  forced  them  to  feel  defeat  by  the 
tremendous discomfiting thunder of the laughter with which he  accompanied  his 
retorts. At the head of the table, serene, matronly,  benevolent,  reigned  the 
mistress of the house, placing here and there the right smile, the right  word,
the encouraging glance.
    The talk of the party was too desultory, too evanescent to follow,  but  at 
last they came to the subject of the tramp nuisance, one that had of late vexed 
the plantations for many miles around.  The  planter  seized  the  occasion  to 
direct his good-natured fire of raillery  at  the  mistress,  accusing  her  of 
encouraging the plague. 
    "They swarm up and down the river every winter," he said. "They overrun New 
Orleans, and we catch the surplus, which is  generally  the  worst  part.  And, 
a day or two ago, Madame New Orleans, suddenly discovering that  she  can't  go 
shopping without brushing her  skirts  against  great  rows  of  the  vagabonds 
sunning themselves on the banquettes, says to the police: 'Catch 'em all,'  and 
the police catch a dozen or two, and  the  remaining  three  or  four  thousand 
overflow up and down the levee, and madame there," - pointing  tragically  with 
the  carving-knife  at  her - "feeds  them.  They  won't  work;  they  defy  my 
overseers, and they make friends with my  dogs;  and  you,  madame,  feed  them 
before my eyes, and intimidate me when I would interfere. Tell us, please,  how 
many to-day did you thus incite to future laziness and depredation?"
    "Six, I think," said madame, with a reflective smile; "but you know two  of 
them offered to work, for you heard them yourself."
    The planter's disconcerting laugh rang out again.
    "Yes, at their own trades. And one was an artificial-flower maker, and  the 
other a glass-blower. Oh, they were looking for work! Not  a  hand  would  they 
consent to lift to labour of any other kind."
    "And another one," continued the soft-hearted mistress,  "used  quite  good 
language. It was really extraordinary for one of  his  class.  And  he  carried 
a watch. And had lived in Boston. I don't believe they are all bad.  They  have 
always seemed to me to rather lack development. I  always  look  upon  them  as 
children with whom wisdom has remained at  a  standstill  while  whiskers  have 
continued to grow. We passed one this evening as we were driving home who had a 
face as good as it was  incompetent.  He  was  whistling  the  intermezzo  from 
'Cavalleria' and blowing the spirit of Mascagni himself into it."
    A bright eyed young girl who sat at the left of the mistress  leaned  over, 
and said in a confidential undertone:
    "I wonder, mamma, if that tramp we passed on the road  found  my  stocking, 
and do you think he will hang it up to-night? Now I can hang up but one. Do you 
know why I wanted a new pair of silk stockings when I have  plenty?  Well,  old 
Aunt Judy says, if you hang up two that have never been worn, Santa Claus  will 
fill one with good things, and Monsieur Pambe will place in the  other  payment 
for all the words you have spoken - good or bad - on the day before  Christmas. 
That's why I've been unusually nice and polite  to  everyone  to-day.  Monsieur 
Pambe, you know, is a witch gentleman; he -"
    The words of the young girl were interrupted by a startling thing.
    Like the wraith of some burned-out  shooting  star,  a  black  streak  came 
crashing through the window-pane and upon the table,  where  it  shivered  into 
fragments a dozen pieces of crystal and china ware, and  then  glanced  between 
the heads of  the  guests  to  the  wall,  imprinting  therein  a  deep,  round 
indentation, at which, to-day, the visitor to Bellemeade marvels  as  he  gazes 
upon it and listens to this tale as it is told.
    The women screamed in many keys, and the men  sprang  to  their  feet,  and 
would have laid  their  hands  upon  their  swords  had  not  the  verities  of 
chronology forbidden.
    The planter was the first to act; he sprang to the intruding  missile,  and 
held it up to view.
    "By Jupiter!" he cried. "A meteoric shower of hosiery! Has communication at 
last been established with Mars?"
    "I should say - ahem - Venus," ventured a young-gentleman visitor,  looking 
hopefully for approbation toward the unresponsive young-lady visitors.
    The planter  held  at  arm's  length  the  unceremonious  visitor - a  long 
dangling black stocking. 
    "It's loaded," he announced.
    As he spoke, he reversed the stocking, holding it by the toe, and down from 
it dropped a roundish stone, wrapped about by a piece of yellowish paper.  "Now 
for the first interstellar message of the century!" he cried;  and  nodding  to 
the company, who had crowded about him, he adjusted his glasses with  provoking 
deliberation, and examined it closely. When he finished, he  had  changed  from 
the jolly host to the practical,  decisive  man  of  business.  He  immediately 
struck a bell, and said to the silent-footed mulatto man who responded: "Go and 
tell Mr. Wesley to get Reeves and Maurice and about ten stout  hands  they  can 
rely upon, and come to the hall door at once. Tell him  to  have  the  men  arm 
themselves, and bring plenty of ropes and plough lines. Tell him to hurry." And 
then he read aloud from the paper these words:

      To the Gent of de Hous:
      
      Dere is five tuff hoboes xcept meself in the vaken lot near de  road  war 
  de old brick piles is. Dey got me stuck up wid a gun  see  and  I  taken  dis 
  means of communication. 2 of der lads is gone down to set  fire  to  de  cain 
  field below de hous and when yous fellers goes to turn de hoes on it de  hole 
  gang is goin to rob de hous of de money yoo gotto pay off wit say git a  move 
  on ye say de kid dropt dis sock on der rode tel her mery crismus de  same  as 
  she told me. Ketch de bums down de rode first and den sen a  relefe  core  to 
  get me out of soke youres truly,

  Whistlen Dick.
    
    There was some quiet, but  rapid,  mavoeuvring  at  Bellemeade  during  the 
ensuring half hour, which ended in  five  disgusted  and  sullen  tramps  being 
captured, and locked securely in an outhouse pending the coming of the  morning 
and retribution. For another result, the visiting young gentlemen  had  secured 
the unqualified worship of the visiting young ladies by their distinguished and 
heroic conduct. For still another, behold Whistling Dick, the hero,  seated  at 
the planter's table, feasting upon  viands  his  experience  had  never  before 
included, and waited upon by admiring femininity in shapes of such  beauty  and
"swellness" that even his ever-full  mouth  could  scarcely  prevent  him  from 
whistling. He was made to disclose in detail his adventure with the  evil  gang 
of Boston Harry, and how he cunningly wrote the note and wrapped it around  the 
stone and placed it at the toe of the stocking, and, watching his chance,  sent 
it silently, with a wonderful centrifugal momentum, like a comet, at one of the 
big lighted windows of the dining-room.
    The planter vowed that the wanderer should wander no  more;  that  his  was 
a goodness and an honesty that should be rewarded, and that a debt of gratitude 
had been made that must be paid; for had he not saved  them  from  a  doubtless 
imminent loss, and maybe a greater calamity? He assured Whistling Dick that  he 
might consider himself a charge upon the honour of Bellemeade; that a  position 
suited to his powers would be found for him at once, and hinted  that  the  way 
would be heartily smoothed for him to rise to as high places of  emolument  and 
trust as the plantation afforded.
    But now, they said, he must be weary, and the immediate thing  to  consider 
was rest and sleep. So the mistress spoke to a servant, and Whistling Dick  was 
conducted to a room in the wing of the house occupied by the servants. To  this 
room, in a few minutes, was brought a portable tin bathtub filled  with  water, 
which was placed on a piece of oiled cloth upon the floor.  There  the  vagrant 
was left to pass the night.
    By the light of a candle he examined the  room.  A  bed,  with  the  covers 
neatly turned back, revealed snowy pillows and sheets. A worn, but  clean,  red 
carpet  covered  the  floor.  There  was  a  dresser  with  a  beveled  mirror, 
a washstand with a flowered bowl and pitcher; the  two  or  three  chairs  were 
softly upholstered. A little table held books, papers, and a day-old cluster of 
roses in a jar. There were towels on a rack and soap in a white dish.
    Whistling Dick set his candle on a chair and placed his hat carefully under 
the table. After satisfying what we must suppose to have been his curiosity  by 
a sober scrutiny, he removed his coat, folded it, and laid it upon  the  floor, 
near the wall, as far as possible from the unused bathtub. Taking his coat  for 
a pillow, he stretched himself luxuriously upon the carpet.
    When, on Christmas morning, the first  streaks  of  dawn  broke  above  the 
marshes, Whistling Dick awoke, and reached instinctively for his hat.  Then  he 
remembered that the skirts of Fortune had swept him into  their  folds  on  the 
night previous, and he went to the window and  raised  it,  to  let  the  fresh 
breath of the morning cool his brow and fix the yet dream-like  memory  of  his 
good luck within his brain.
    As he stood there, certain dread and ominous  sounds  pierced  the  fearful 
hollow of his ear.
    The force of plantation workers,  eager  to  complete  the  shortened  task 
allotted to them, were all astir. The mighty din of the ogre Labour  shook  the 
earth, and the poor tattered and forever disguised  Prince  in  search  of  his 
fortune held tight to  the  window-sill  even  in  the  enchanted  castle,  and 
trembled.
    Already from the bosom of the mill came the thunder of rolling  barrels  of 
sugar, and (prison-like sounds) there was a great rattling  of  chains  as  the 
mules were harried with stimulant imprecations to their places by  the  waggon-
tongues. A little vicious "dummy" engine, with a train of  flat  cars  in  tow, 
stewed and fumed on the  plantation  tap  of  the  narrow-gauge  railroad,  and 
a toiling, hurrying, hallooing stream of workers were dimly seen  in  the  half 
darkness loading the train with the weekly output of sugar. Here was a poem; an 
epic - nay, a tragedy - with work, the curse of the world, for its theme.
    The December air was frosty, but the sweat broke out upon Whistling  Dick's 
face. He thrust his head out of the window, and looked down. Fifteen feet below 
him, against the wall of the house, he could make out that a border of  flowers 
grew, and by that token he overhung a bed of soft earth.
    Softly as a burglar goes, he clambered out upon the sill,  lowered  himself 
until he hung by his hands alone, and then dropped safely. No one seemed to  be 
about upon this side of the house. He dodged low, and  skimmed  swiftly  across 
the yard to the low fence. It was an easy matter to vault this,  for  a  terror 
urged him such as lifts the gazelle over the thorn bush when the lion  pursues. 
A crash through the dew-drenched weeds on the roadside, a  clutching,  slippery 
rush up the grassy side of the levee to the footpath at  the  summit,  and - he 
was free!
    The east was blushing and brightening. The wind, himself a  vagrant  rover, 
saluted his brother upon the cheek. Some wild  geese,  high  above,  gave  cry. 
A rabbit skipped along the path before him, free to turn to  the  right  or  to 
the left as his mood should send him. The river slid past, and certainly no one 
could tell the ultimate abiding place of its waters.
    A small, ruffled, brown-breasted bird, sitting  upon  a  dog-wood  sapling, 
began a soft, throaty, tender little piping in praise of the dew which  entices 
foolish worms from their holes; but suddenly he stopped, and sat with his  head 
turned sidewise, listening.
    From the path along the levee  there  burst  forth  a  jubilant,  stirring, 
buoyant, thrilling whistle, loud and keen and clear as the  cleanest  notes  of 
the piccolo. The soaring sound rippled and trilled and arpeggioed as the  songs 
of wild birds do not; but it had a wild free grace that, in a way, reminded the 
small, brown bird of something familiar, but exactly what he  could  not  tell. 
There was in it the bird call, or reveille, that all birds know;  but  a  great 
waste of lavish, unmeaning things that art had added and arranged, besides, and 
that were quite puzzling and strange; and the little brown bird  sat  with  his 
head on one side until the sound died away in the distance.
    The little bird did not know that the part of that strange warbling that he 
understood was just what kept the warbler without his breakfast;  but  he  knew 
very well that the part he did not understand did not concern him, so he gave a 
little flutter of his wings and swooped down like a brown bullet upon a big fat 
worm that was wriggling along the levee path.

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