A Dinner at--------*

by O. Henry

The Adventures of an Author With His Own HeroAll that day--in fact from the moment of his creation--Van Sweller hadconducted himself fairly well in my eyes. Of course I had had to makemany concessions; but in return he had been no less considerate. Once ortwice we had had sharp, brief contentions over certain points ofbehavior; but, prevailingly, give and take had been our rule.His morning toilet provoked our first tilt. Van Sweller went about itconfidently."The usual thing, I suppose, old chap," he said, with a smile and ayawn. "I ring for a b. and s., and then I have my tub. I splash a gooddeal in the water, of course. You are aware that there are two ways inwhich I can receive Tommy Carmichael when he looks in to have a chatabout polo. I can talk to him through the bathroom door, or I can bepicking at a grilled bone which my man has brought in. Which would youprefer?"I smiled with diabolic satisfaction at his coming discomfiture."Neither," I said. "You will make your appearance on the scene when agentleman should--after you are fully dressed, which indubitably privatefunction shall take place behind closed doors. And I will feel indebtedto you if, after you do appear, your deportment and manners are suchthat it will not be necessary to inform the public, in order to appeaseits apprehension, that you have taken a bath."Van Sweller slightly elevated his brows. "Oh, very well," he said, atrifle 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 usualthing, you know."This was my victory; but after Van Sweller emerged from his apartmentsin the "Beaujolie" I was vanquished in a dozen small but well-contestedskirmishes. I allowed him a cigar; but routed him on the question ofnaming its brand. But he worsted me when I objected to giving him a"coat unmistakably English in its cut." I allowed him to "stroll downBroadway," and even permitted "passers by" (God knows there's nowhere topass but by) to "turn their heads and gaze with evident admiration athis 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 teamcaptain, dawdling over grilled bone No. 1."Dear old boy," began Van Sweller; but in an instant I had seized him bythe collar and dragged him aside with the scantiest courtesy."For heaven's sake talk like a man," I said, sternly. "Do you think itis manly to use those mushy and inane forms of address? That man isneither dear nor old nor a boy."To my surprise Van Sweller turned upon me a look of frank pleasure."I am glad to hear you say that," he said, heartily. "I used those wordsbecause I have been forced to say them so often. They really arecontemptible. Thanks for correcting me, dear old boy."Still I must admit that Van Sweller's conduct in the park that morningwas almost without flaw. The courage, the dash, the modesty, the skill,and fidelity that he displayed atoned for everything.This is the way the story runs. Van Sweller has been a gentleman memberof the "Rugged Riders," the company that made a war with a foreigncountry famous. Among his comrades was Lawrence O'Roon, a man whom VanSweller liked. A strange thing--and a hazardous one in fiction--was thatVan Sweller and O'Roon resembled each other mightily in face, form, andgeneral appearance. After the war Van Sweller pulled wires, and O'Roonwas made a mounted policeman.Now, one night in New York there are commemorations and libations by oldcomrades, and in the morning, Mounted Policeman O'Roon, unused to potentliquids--another premise hazardous in fiction--finds the earth buckingand bounding like a bronco, with no stirrup into which he may insertfoot and save his honor and his badge.Noblesse oblige? Surely. So out along the driveways and bridle pathstrots Hudson Van Sweller in the uniform of his incapacitated comrade, aslike unto him as one French pea is unto a petit pois.It is, of course, jolly larks for Van Sweller, who has wealth and socialposition enough for him to masquerade safely even as a policecommissioner doing his duty, if he wished to do so. But society, notgiven to scanning the countenances of mounted policemen, sees nothingunusual in the officer on the beat.And then comes the runaway.That is a fine scene--the swaying victoria, the impetuous, daft horsesplunging through the line of scattering vehicles, the driver stupidlyholding his broken reins, and the ivory-white face of Amy Ffolliott, asshe clings desperately with each slender hand. Fear has come and gone:it has left her expression pensive and just a little pleading, for lifeis not so bitter.And then the clatter and swoop of Mounted Policeman Van Sweller! Oh, itwas--but the story has not yet been printed. When it is you shall learnbow he sent his bay like a bullet after the imperilled victoria. ACrichton, a Croesus, and a Centaur in one, he hurls the invinciblecombination into the chase.When the story is printed you will admire the breathless scene where VanSweller checks the headlong team. And then he looks into Amy Ffolliott'seyes and sees two things--the possibilities of a happiness he has longsought, and a nascent promise of it. He is unknown to her; but he standsin her sight illuminated by the hero's potent glory, she his and he hersby all the golden, fond, unreasonable laws of love and light literature.Ay, that is a rich moment. And it will stir you to find Van Sweller inthat fruitful nick of time thinking of his comrade O'Roon, who iscursing his gyrating bed and incapable legs in an unsteady room in aWest Side hotel while Van Sweller holds his badge and his honor.Van Sweller hears Miss Ffolliott's voice thrillingly asking the name ofher preserver. If Hudson Van Sweller, in policeman's uniform, has savedthe life of palpitating beauty in the park--where is Mounted PolicemanO'Roon, in whose territory the deed is done? How quickly by a word canthe hero reveal himself, thus discarding his masquerade of ineligibilityand doubling the romance! But there is his friend!Van Sweller touches his cap. "It's nothing, Miss," he says, sturdily;"that's what we are paid for--to do our duty." And away he rides. Butthe story does not end there.As I have said, Van Sweller carried off the park scene to my decidedsatisfaction. Even to me he was a hero when he foreswore, for the sakeof his friend, the romantic promise of his adventure. It was later inthe day, amongst the more exacting conventions that encompass thesociety hero, when we had our liveliest disagreement. At noon he went toO'Roon's room and found him far enough recovered to return to his post,which he at once did.At about six o'clock in the afternoon Van Sweller fingered his watch,and flashed at me a brief look full of such shrewd cunning that Isuspected him at once."Time to dress for dinner, old man," he said, with exaggeratedcarelessness."Very well," I answered, without giving him a clew to my suspicions; "Iwill go with you to your rooms and see that you do the thing properly. Isuppose that every author must be a valet to his own hero."He affected cheerful acceptance of my somewhat officious proposal toaccompany him. I could see that he was annoyed by it, and that factfastened deeper in my mind the conviction that he was meditating someact of treachery.When he had reached his apartments he said to me, with a too patronizingair: "There are, as you perhaps know, quite a number of littledistinguishing touches to be had out of the dressing process. Somewriters rely almost wholly upon them. I suppose that I am to ring for myman, and that he is to enter noiselessly, with an expressionlesscountenance.""He may enter," I said, with decision, "and only enter. Valets do notusually enter a room shouting college songs or with St. Vitus's dance intheir faces; so the contrary may be assumed without fatuous orgratuitous asseveration.""I must ask you to pardon me," continued Van Sweller, gracefully, "forannoying you with questions, but some of your methods are a little newto me. Shall I don a full-dress suit with an immaculate white tie--oris there another tradition to be upset?""You will wear," I replied, "evening dress, such as a gentleman wears.If it is full, your tailor should be responsible for its bagginess. AndI will leave it to whatever erudition you are supposed to possesswhether a white tie is rendered any whiter by being immaculate. And Iwill leave it to the consciences of you and your man whether a tie thatis not white, and therefore not immaculate, could possibly form any partof a gentleman's evening dress. If not, then the perfect tie is includedand understood in the term 'dress,' and its expressed additionpredicates either a redundancy of speech or the spectacle of a manwearing two ties at once."With this mild but deserved rebuke I left Van Sweller in hisdressing-room, and waited for him in his library.About an hour later his valet came out, and I heard him telephone for anelectric cab. Then out came Van Sweller, smiling, but with that sly,secretive design in his eye that was puzzling me."I believe," he said easily, as he smoothed a glove, "that I will dropin at -----* [Footnote: See advertising column, "Where to Dine Well," inthe daily newspapers.] for dinner."I sprang up, angrily, at his words. This, then, was the paltry trick hehad been scheming to play upon me. I faced him with a look so grim thateven his patrician poise was flustered."You will never do so," I exclaimed, "with my permission. What kind of areturn is this," I continued, hotly, "for the favors I have granted you?I gave you a 'Van' to your name when I might have called you 'Perkins'or 'Simpson.' I have humbled myself so far as to brag of your poloponies, your automobiles, and the iron muscles that you acquired whenyou were stroke-oar of your 'varsity eight,' or 'eleven,' whichever itis. I created you for the hero of this story; and I will not submit tohaving you queer it. I have tried to make you a typical young New Yorkgentleman of the highest social station and breeding. You have no reasonto complain of my treatment to you. Amy Ffolliott, the girl you areto win, is a prize for any man to be thankful for, and cannot beequalled for beauty--provided the story is illustrated by the rightartist. I do not understand why you should try to spoil everything. Ihad thought you were a gentleman.""What it is you are objecting to, old man?" asked Van Sweller, in asurprised tone."To your dining at---," I answered. [FOOTNOTE: See advertising column,"Where to Dine Well," in the daily newspapers.] "The pleasure would beyours, no doubt, but the responsibility would fall upon me. You intenddeliberately to make me out a tout for a restaurant. Where you dinetonight has not the slightest connection with the thread of our story.You know very well that the plot requires that you be in front of theAlhambra Opera House at 11:30 where you are to rescue Miss Ffolliott asecond time as the fire engine crashes into her cab. Until that timeyour movements are immaterial to the reader. Why can't you dine out ofsight somewhere, as many a hero does, instead of insisting upon aninapposite and vulgar exhibition of yourself?""My dear fellow," said Van Sweller, politely, but with a stubborntightening of his lips, "I'm sorry it doesn't please you, but there's nohelp for it. Even a character in a story has rights that an authorcannot ignore. The hero of a story of New York social life must dine at----* [*See advertising column, "Where to Dine Well," in the dailynewspapers.] at least once during its action.""'Must,'" I echoed, disdainfully; "why 'must'? Who demands it?""The magazine editors," answered Van Sweller, giving me a glance ofsignificant warning."But why?" I persisted."To please subscribers around Kankakee, Ill.," said Van Sweller, withouthesitation."How do you know these things?" I inquired, with sudden suspicion. "Younever came into existence until this morning. You are only a characterin fiction, anyway. I, myself, created you. How is it possible for youto know anything?""Pardon me for referring to it," said Van Sweller, with a sympatheticsmile, "but I have been the hero of hundreds of stories of this kind."I felt a slow flush creeping into my face."I thought..." I stammered; "I was hoping ...that is... Oh, well, ofcourse an absolutely original conception in fiction is impossible inthese days.""Metropolitan types," continued Van Sweller, kindly, "do not offer ahold for much originality. I've sauntered through every story in prettymuch the same way. Now and then the women writers have made me cut somerather strange capers, for a gentleman; but the men generally pass mealong from one to another without much change. But never yet, in anystory, have I failed to dine at ----.*" [*Footnote: See advertisingcolumn, "Where to Dine Well," in the daily newspapers.]"You will fail this time," I said, emphatically."Perhaps so," admitted Van Sweller, looking out of the window into thestreet below, "but if so it will be for the first time. The authors allsend me there. I fancy that many of them would have liked to accompanyme, but for the little matter of the expense.""I say I will be touting for no restaurant," I repeated, loudly. "Youare subject to my will, and I declare that you shall not appear ofrecord this evening until the time arrives for you to rescue MissFfolliott again. If the reading public cannot conceive that you havedined during that interval at some one of the thousands ofestablishments provided for that purpose that do not receive literaryadvertisement it may suppose, for aught I care, that you have gonefasting.""Thank you," said Van Sweller, rather coolly, "you are hardly courteous.But take care! it is at your own risk that you attempt to disregard afundamental principle in metropolitan fiction--one that is dear alike toauthor and reader. I shall, of course attend to my duty when it comestime to rescue your heroine; but I warn you that it will be your loss ifyou fail to send me to-night to dine at ----.*" [Footnote: * Seeadvertising column, "Where to Dine Well," in the daily newspapers.]"I will take the consequences if there are to be any," I replied. "I amnot yet come to be sandwich man for an eating-house."I walked over to a table where I had left my cane and gloves. I heardthe whirr of the alarm in the cab below and I turned quickly. VanSweller was gone.I rushed down the stairs and out to the curb. An empty hansom was justpassing. I hailed the driver excitedly."See that auto cab halfway down the block?" I shouted. "Follow it. Don'tlose sight of it for an instant, and I will give you two dollars!"If I only had been one of the characters in my story instead of myself Icould easily have offered $10 or $25 or even $100. But $2 was all I feltjustified in expending, with fiction at its present rates.The cab driver, instead of lashing his animal into a foam, proceeded ata deliberate trot that suggested a by-the-hour arrangement.But I suspected Van Sweller's design; and when we lost sight of his cabI ordered my driver to proceed at once to ----.* [* See advertisingcolumn, "Where to Dine Well," in the daily newspapers.]I found Van Sweller at a table under a palm, just glancing over themenu, with a hopeful waiter hovering at his elbow."Come with me," I said, inexorably. "You will not give me the slipagain. Under my eye you shall remain until 11:30."Van Sweller countermanded the order for his dinner, and arose toaccompany me. He could scarcely do less. A fictitious character is butpoorly equipped for resisting a hungry but live author who comes to draghim forth from a restaurant. All he said was: "You were just in time;but I think you are making a mistake. You cannot afford to ignore thewishes of the great reading public."I took Van Sweller to my own rooms--to my room. He had never seenanything like it before."Sit on that trunk," I said to him, "while I observe whether thelandlady is stalking us. If she is not, I will get things at adelicatessen store below, and cook something for you in a pan over thegas jet. It will not be so bad. Of course nothing of this will appear inthe story.""Jove! old man!" said Van Sweller, looking about him with interest,"this is a jolly little closet you live in! Where the devil do yousleep?--Oh, that pulls down! And I say--what is this under the corner ofthe carpet?--Oh, a frying pan! I see--clever idea! Fancy cooking overthe gas! What larks it will be!""Think of anything you could eat?" I asked; "try a chop, or what?""Anything," said Van Sweller, enthusiastically, "except a grilled bone."Two weeks afterward the postman brought me a large, fat envelope. Iopened it, and took out something that I had seen before, and thistypewritten letter from a magazine that encourages society fiction: Your short story, "The Badge of Policeman O'Roon," is herewith returned. We are sorry that it has been unfavorably passed upon; but it seems to lack in some of the essential requirements of our publication. The story is splendidly constructed; its style is strong and inimitable, and its action and character-drawing deserve the highest praise. As a story per se it has merit beyond anything that we have read for some time. But, as we have said, it fails to come up to some of the standards we have set. Could you not re-write the story, and inject into it the social atmosphere, and return it to us for further consideration? It is suggested to you that you have the hero, Van Sweller, drop in for luncheon or dinner once or twice at ----* or at the ----* [* See advertising column, "Where to Dine Well," in the daily newspapers.] which will be in line with the changes desired. Very truly yours, THE EDITORS.

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