: O. Henry
: Rolling Stones
: Seltzer Books
: 9781455333493
: 1
: CHF 0.10
:
: Erzählende Literatur
: English
: 478
: DRM
: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet
: ePUB
Accord ng to Wikipedia: 'O. Henry was the pen name of American writer William Sydney Porter (September 11, 1862 - June 5, 1910). O. Henry short stories are known for wit, wordplay, warm characterization and clever twist endings.... Most of O. Henry's stories are set in his own time, the early years of the 20th century. Many take place in New York City, and deal for the most part with ordinary people: clerks, policemen, waitresses. Fundamentally a product of his time, O. Henry's work provides one of the best English examples of catching the entire flavor of an age. Whether roaming the cattle-lands of Texas, exploring the art of the 'gentle grafter,' or investigating the tensions of class and wealth in turn-of-the-century New York, O. Henry had an inimitable hand for isolating some element of society and describing it with an incredible economy and grace of language. Some of his best and least-known work resides in the collection Cabbages and Kings, a series of stories which each explore some individual aspect of life in a paralytically sleepy Central American town while each advancing some aspect of the larger plot and relating back one to another in a complex structure which slowly explicates its own background even as it painstakingly erects a town which is one of the most detailed literary creations of the period. The Four Million is another collection of stories. It opens with a reference to Ward McAllister's 'assertion that there were only 'Four Hundred' people in New York City who were really worth noticing. But a wiser man has arisen-the census taker-and his larger estimate of human interest has been preferred in marking out the field of these little stories of the 'Four Million.'' To O. Henry, everyone in New York counted. He had an obvious affection for the city, which he called 'Bagdad-on-the-Subway,'

A DINNER AT -------*


 

[Footnote: See advertising column,"Where to Dine Well," in the daily newspapers.]

 

[The story referred to in this skit appears in"The Trimmed Lamp" under the same title--"The Badge of Policeman O'Roon."]

 

The Adventures of an Author With His Own Hero

 

All that day--in fact from the moment of his creation--Van Sweller had conducted himself fairly well in my eyes. Of course I had had to make many concessions; but in return he had been no less considerate. Once or twice we had had sharp, brief contentions over certain points of behavior; but, prevailingly, give and take had been our rule.

 

His morning toilet provoked our first tilt. Van Sweller went about it confidently.

 

"The usual thing, I suppose, old chap," he said, with a smile and a yawn."I ring for a b. and s., and then I have my tub. I splash a good deal in the water, of course. You are aware that there are two ways in which I can receive Tommy Carmichael when he looks in to have a chat about polo. I can talk to him through the bathroom door, or I can be picking at a grilled bone which my man has brought in. Which would you prefer?"

 

I smiled with diabolic satisfaction at his coming discomfiture.

 

"Neither," I said."You will make your appearance on the scene when a gentleman should--after you are fully dressed, which indubitably private function shall take place behind closed doors. And I will feel indebted to you if, after you do appear, your deportment and manners are such that it will not be necessary to inform the public, in order to appease its apprehension, that you have taken a bath."

 

Van Sweller slightly elevated his brows."Oh, very well," he said, a trifle piqued."I rather imagine it concerns you more than it does me. Cut the 'tub' by all means, if you think best. But it has been the usual thing, you know."

 

This was my victory; but after Van Sweller emerged from his apartments in the"Beaujolie" I was vanquished in a dozen small but well-contested skirmishes. I allowed him a cigar; but routed him on the question of naming its brand. But he worsted me when I objected to giving him a"coat unmistakably English in its cut." I allowed him to"stroll down Broadway," and even permitted"passers by" (God knows there's nowhere to pass but by) to"turn their heads and gaze with evident admiration at his erect figure." I demeaned myself, and, as a barber, gave him a"smooth, dark face with its keen, frank eye, and firm jaw."

 

Later on he looked in at the club and saw Freddy Vavasour, polo team captain, dawdling over grilled bone No. 1.

 

"Dear old boy," began Van Sweller; but in an instant I had seized him by the collar and dragged him aside with the scantiest courtesy.

 

"For heaven's sake talk like a man," I said, sternly."Do you think it is manly to use those mushy and