The Caliph and the Cad

by O. Henry

　　

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Surely there is no pastime more diverting than that of mingling,incognito, with persons of wealth and station. Where else but in thosecircles can one see life in its primitive, crude state unhampered by theconventions that bind the dwellers in a lower sphere? There was a certain Caliph of Bagdad who was accustomed to go down amongthe poor and lowly for the solace obtained from the relation of theirtales and histories. Is it not strange that the humble andpoverty-stricken have not availed themselves of the pleasure they mightglean by donning diamonds and silks and playing Caliph among the haunts ofthe upper world? There was one who saw the possibilities of thus turning the tables onHaroun al Raschid. His name was Corny Brannigan, and he was a truckdriver for a Canal Street importing firm. And if you read further youwill learn how he turned upper Broadway into Bagdad and learned somethingabout himself that he did not know before. Many people would have called Corny a snob -- preferably by means of atelephone. His chief interest in life, his chosen amusement, and his solediversion after working hours, was to place himself in juxtaposition --since he could not hope to mingle -- with people of fashion and means. Every evening after Corny had put up his team and dined at a lunch-counterthat made immediateness a specialty, he would clothe himself in eveningraiment as correct as any you will see in the palm rooms. Then he wouldbetake himself to that ravishing, radiant roadway devoted to Thespis,Thais, and Bacchus. For a time he would stroll about the lobbies of the best hotels, his soulsteeped in blissful content. Beautiful women, cooing like doves, butfeathered like birds of Paradise, flicked him with their robes as theypassed. Courtly gentlemen attended them, gallant and assiduous. AndCorny's heart within him swelled like Sir Lancelot's, for the mirror spoketo him as he passed and said: "Corny, lad, there's not a guy among 'emthat looks a bit the sweller than yerself. And you drivin' of a truck andthem swearin' off their taxes and playin' the red in art galleries withthe best in the land!" And the mirrors spake the truth. Mr. Corny Brannigan had acquired theoutward polish, if nothing more. Long and keen observation of politesociety had gained for him its manner, its genteel air, and -- mostdifficult of acquirement -- its repose and ease. Now and then in the hotels Corny had managed conversation and temporaryacquaintance with substantial, if not distinguished, guests. With many ofthese he had exchanged cards, and the ones he received he carefullytreasured for his own use later. Leaving the hotel lobbies, Corny wouldstroll leisurely about, lingering at the theatre entrance, dropping intothe fashionable restaurants as if seeking some friend. He rarelypatronized any of these places; he was no bee come to suck honey, but abutterfly flashing his wings among the flowers whose calyces held nosweets for him. His wages were not large enough to furnish him with morethan the outside garb of the gentleman. To have been one of the beings heso cunningly imitated, Corny Brannigan would have given his right hand. One night Corny had an adventure. After absorbing the delights of anhour's lounging in the principal hotels along Broadway, he passed up intothe stronghold of Thespis. Cab drivers hailed him as a likely fare, tohis prideful content. Languishing eyes were turned upon him as a hopefulsource of lobsters and the delectable, ascendant globules ofeffervescence. These overtures and unconscious compliments Cornyswallowed as manna, and hoped Bill, the off horse, would be less lame inthe left forefoot in the morning. Beneath a cluster of milky globes of electric light Corny paused to admirethe sheen of his low-cut patent leather shoes. The building occupying theangle was a pretentious _cafe_. Out of this came a couple, a lady in awhite, cobwebby evening gown, with a lace wrap like a wreath of mistthrown over it, and a man, tall, faultless, assured -- too assured. Theymoved to the edge of the sidewalk and halted. Corny's eye, ever alert for"pointers" in "swell" behaviour, took them in with a sidelong glance. "The carriage is not here," said the lady. "You ordered it to wait?" "I ordered it for nine-thirty," said the man. "It should be here now." A familiar note in the lady's voice drew a more especial attention fromCorny. It was pitched in a key well known to him. The soft electricshone upon her face. Sisters of sorrow have no quarters fixed for them.In the index to the book of breaking hearts you will find that Broadwayfollows very soon after the Bowery. This lady's face was sad, and hervoice was attuned with it. They waited, as if for the carriage. Cornywaited too, for it was out of doors, and he was never tired ofaccumulating and profiting by knowledge of gentlemanly conduct. "Jack," said the lady, "don't be angry. I've done everything I could toplease you this evening. Why do you act so?" "Oh, you're an angel," said the man. "Depend upon woman to throw theblame upon a man." "I'm not blaming you. I'm only trying to make you happy." "You go about it in a very peculiar way." "You have been cross with me all the evening without any cause." "Oh, there isn't any cause except -- you make me tired." Corny took out his card case and looked over his collection. He selectedone that read: "Mr. R. Lionel Whyte-Melville, Bloomsbury Square, London."This card he had inveigled from a tourist at the King Edward Hotel. Cornystepped up to the man and presented it with a correctly formal air. "May I ask why I am selected for the honour?" asked the lady's escort. Now, Mr. Corny Brannigan had a very wise habit of saying little during hisimitations of the Caliph of Bagdad. The advice of Lord Chesterfield:"Wear a black coat and hold your tongue," he believed in without havingheard. But now speech was demanded and required of him. "No gent," said Corny, "would talk to a lady like you done. Fie upon you,Willie! Even if she happens to be your wife you ought to have more respectfor your clothes than to chin her back that way. Maybe it ain't mybutt-in, but it goes, anyhow -- you strike me as bein' a whole lot to thewrong." The lady's escort indulged in more elegantly expressed but fetchingrepartee. Corny, eschewing his truck driver's vocabulary, retorted asnearly as he could in polite phrases. Then diplomatic relations weresevered; there was a brief but lively set-to with other than oral weapons,from which Corny came forth easily victor. A carriage dashed up, driven by a tardy and solicitous coachman. "Will you kindly open the door for me?" asked the lady. Corny assistedher to enter, and took off his hat. The escort was beginning to scrambleup from the sidewalk. "I beg your pardon, ma'am," said Corny, "if he's your man." "He's no man of mine," said the lady. "Perhaps he -- but there's nochance of his being now. Drive home, Michael. If you care to take this-- with my thanks." Three red roses were thrust out through the carriage window into Corny'shand. He took them, and the hand for an instant; and then the carriagesped away. Corny gathered his foe's hat and began to brush the dust from his clothes. "Come along," said Corny, taking the other man by the arm. His late opponent was yet a little dazed by the hard knocks he hadreceived. Corny led him carefully into a saloon three doors away. "The drinks for us," said Corny "me and my friend." "You're a queer feller," said the lady's late escort -- "lick a man andthen want to set 'em up. "You're my best friend," said Corny exultantly. "You don't understand?Well, listen. You just put me wise to somethin'. I been playin' gent along time, thinkin' it was just the glad rags I had and nothin' else. Say-- you're a swell, ain't you? Well, you trot in that class, I guess. Idon't; but I found out one thing -- I'm a gentleman, by -- and I know itnow. What'll you have to drink?"

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