The Champion of the Weather

by O. Henry

　　

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If you should speak of the Kiowa Reservation to the average New Yorker heprobably wouldn't know whether you were referring to a new political dodgeat Albany or a leitmotif from "Parsifal." But out in the Kiowa Reservationadvices have been received concerning the existence of New York. A party of us were on a hunting trip in the Reservation. Bud Kingsbury,our guide, philosopher, and friend, was broiling antelope steaks in campone night. One of the party, a pinkish-haired young man in a correcthunting costume, sauntered over to the fire to light a cigarette, andremarked carelessly to Bud: "Nice night!" "Why, yes," said Bud, "as nice as any night could be that ain't receivedthe Broadway stamp of approval." Now, the young man was from New York, but the rest of us wondered how Budguessed it. So, when the steaks were done, we besought him to lay barehis system of ratiocination. And as Bud was something of a Territorialtalking machine he made oration as follows: "How did I know he was from New York? Well, I figured it out as soon ashe sprung them two words on me. I was in New York myself a couple ofyears ago, and I noticed some of the earmarks and hoof tracks of theRancho Manhattan." "Found New York rather different from the Panhandle, didn't you, Bud?"asked one of the hunters. "Can't say that I did," answered Bud; "anyways, not more than some. Themain trail in that town which they call Broadway is plenty travelled, butthey're about the same brand of bipeds that tramp around in Cheyenne andAmarillo, At first I was sort of rattled by the crowds, but I soon says tomyself, 'Here, now, Bud; they're just plain folks like you and Geronimoand Grover Cleveland and the Watson boys, so don't get all flustered upwith consternation under your saddle blanket,' and then I feels calm andpeaceful, like I was back in the Nation again at a ghost dance or a greencorn pow-wow. "I'd been saving up for a year to give this New York a whirl. I knew aman named Summers that lived there, but I couldn't find him; so I played alone hand at enjoying the intoxicating pleasures of the corn-fedmetropolis. "For a while I was so frivolous and locoed by the electric lights and thenoises of the phonographs and the second-story railroads that I forgot oneof the crying needs of my Western system of natural requirements. I neverwas no hand to deny myself the pleasures of sociable vocal intercoursewith friends and strangers. Out in the Territories when I meet a man Inever saw before, inside of nine minutes I know his income, religion, sizeof collar, and his wife's temper, and how much he pays for clothes, alimony, and chewing tobacco. It's a gift with me not to be penurious withmy conversation. "But this here New York was inaugurated on the idea of abstemiousness inregard to the parts of speech. At the end of three weeks nobody in thecity had fired even a blank syllable in my direction except the waiter inthe grub emporium where I fed. And as his outpourings of syntax wasn'tnothing but plagiarisms from the bill of fare, he never satisfied myyearnings, which was to have somebody hit. If I stood next to a man at abar he'd edge off and give a Baldwin-Ziegler look as if he suspected me ofhaving the North Pole concealed on my person. I began to wish that I'dgone to Abilene or Waco for my _paseado_; for the mayor of them placeswill drink with you, and the first citizen you meet will tell you hismiddle name and ask' you to take a chance in a raffle for a music box. "Well, one day when I was particular hankering for to be gregarious withsomething more loquacious than a lamp post, a fellow in a caffy says tome, says he: "'Nice day!' "He was a kind of a manager of the place, and I reckon he'd seen me inthere a good many times. He had a face like a fish and an eye like Judas,but I got up and put one arm around his neck. "'Pardner,' I says, 'sure it's a nice day. You're the first gentleman inall New York to observe that the intricacies of human speech might not bealtogether wasted on William Kingsbury. But don't you think,' says I,'that 'twas a little cool early in the morning; and ain't there a feelingof rain in the air to-night? But along about noon it sure was gallupsiousweather. How's all up to the house? You doing right well with the caffy,now?' "Well, sir, that galoot just turns his back and walks off stiff, without aword, after all my trying to be agreeable! I didn't know what to make ofit. That night I finds a note from Summers, who'd been away from town,giving the address of his camp. I goes up to his house and has a good,old-time talk with his folks. And I tells Summers about the actions ofthis coyote in the caffy, and desires interpretation. "'Oh,' says Summers, 'he wasn't intending to strike up a conversation withyou. That's just the New York style. He'd seen you was a regularcustomer and he spoke a word or two just to show you he appreciated yourcustom. You oughtn't to have followed it up. That's about as far as wecare to go with a stranger. A word or so about the weather may beventured, but we don't generally make it the basis of an acquaintance. ' "'Billy,' says I, 'the weather and its ramifications is a solemn subjectwith me. Meteorology is one of my sore points. No man can open up thequestion of temperature or humidity or the glad sunshine with me, and thenturn tail on it without its leading to a falling barometer. I'm goingdown to see that man again and give him a lesson in the art of continuousconversation. You say New York etiquette allows him two words and noanswer. Well, he's going to turn himself into a weather bureau and finishwhat he begun with me, besides indulging in neighbourly remarks on othersubjects.' "Summers talked agin it, but I was irritated some and I went on the streetcar back to that caffy. "The same fellow was there yet, walking round in a sort of back corralwhere there was tables and chairs. A few people was sitting around havingdrinks and sneering at one another. "I called that man to one side and herded him into a corner. I unbuttonedenough to show him a thirty-eight I carried stuck under my vest. "'Pardner,' I says, 'a brief space ago I was in here and you seized theopportunity to say it was a nice day. When I attempted to corroborateyour weather signal, you turned your back and walked off. Now,' says I,'you frog-hearted, language-shy, stiff-necked cross between a Spitzbergensea cook and a muzzled oyster, you resume where you left off in yourdiscourse on the weather.' "The fellow looks at me and tries to grin, but he sees I don't and hecomes around serious. "'Well,' says he, eyeing the handle of my gun, 'it was rather a nice day;some warmish, though.' "'Particulars, you mealy-mouthed snoozer,' I says -- 'let's have thespecifications -- expatiate -- fill in the outlines. When you startanything with me in short-hand it's bound to turn out a storm signal.' "'Looked like rain yesterday,' says the man, 'but it cleared off fine inthe forenoon. I hear the farmers are needing rain right badly up-State.' "'That's the kind of a canter,' says I. 'Shake the New York dust off yourhoofs and be a real agreeable kind of a centaur. You broke the ice, youknow, and we're getting better acquainted every minute. Seems to me Iasked you about your family?' "'They're all well, thanks,' says he. 'We -- we have a new piano.' "'Now you're coming it,' I says. 'This cold reserve is breaking up atlast. That little touch about the piano almost makes us brothers. What'sthe youngest kid's name?' I asks him. "'Thomas,' says he. 'He's just getting well from the measles.' "'I feel like I'd known you always,' says I. 'Now there was just one more-- are you doing right well with the caffy, now?' "'Pretty well,' he says. 'I'm putting away a little money.' "'Glad to hear it,' says I. 'Now go back to your work and get civilized.Keep your hands off the weather unless you're ready to follow it up in apersonal manner, It's a subject that naturally belongs to sociability andthe forming of new ties, and I hate to see it handed out in small changein a town like this.' "So the next day I rolls up my blankets and hits the trail away from NewYork City." For many minutes after Bud ceased talking we lingered around the fire, andthen all hands began to disperse for bed. As I was unrolling my bedding I heard the pinkish-haired young man sayingto Bud, with something like anxiety in his voice: "As I say, Mr. Kingsbury, there is something really beautiful about thisnight. The delightful breeze and the bright stars and the clear air unitein making it wonderfully attractive." "Yes," said Bud, "it's a nice night."

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