The Unknown Quantity

by O. Henry

　　

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The poet Longfellow--or was it Confucius, the inventor ofwisdom?--remarked:"Life is real, life is earnest;And things are not what they seem."As mathematics are--or is: thanks, old subscriber!--the only just ruleby which questions of life can be measured, let us, by all means,adjust our theme to the straight edge and the balanced column of thegreat goddess Two-and-Two-Makes-Four. Figures--unassailable sums inaddition--shall be set over against whatever opposing element theremay be.A mathematician, after scanning the above two lines of poetry, wouldsay: "Ahem! young gentlemen, if we assume that X plus--that is, thatlife is real--then things (all of which life includes) are real.Anything that is real is what it seems. Then if we consider theproposition that 'things are not what they seem,' why--"But this is heresy, and not poesy. We woo the sweet nymph Algebra; wewould conduct you into the presence of the elusive, seductive, pursued,satisfying, mysterious X.Not long before the beginning of this century, Septimus Kinsolving, anold New Yorker, invented an idea. He originated the discovery that breadis made from flour and not from wheat futures. Perceiving that the flourcrop was short, and that the Stock Exchange was having no perceptibleeffect on the growing wheat, Mr. Kinsolving cornered the flour market.The result was that when you or my landlady (before the war she neverhad to turn her hand to anything; Southerners accommodated) bought afive-cent loaf of bread you laid down an additional two cents, whichwent to Mr. Kinsolving as a testimonial to his perspicacity.A second result was that Mr. Kinsolving quit the game with $2,000,000prof--er--rake-off.Mr. Kinsolving's son Dan was at college when the mathematical experimentin breadstuffs was made. Dan came home during vacation, and found theold gentleman in a red dressing-gown reading "Little Dorrit" on theporch of his estimable red brick mansion in Washington Square. He hadretired from business with enough extra two-cent pieces from breadbuyers to reach, if laid side by side, fifteen times around the earthand lap as far as the public debt of Paraguay.Dan shook hands with his father, and hurried over to Greenwich Villageto see his old high-school friend, Kenwitz. Dan had always admiredKenwitz. Kenwitz was pale, curly-haired, intense, serious, mathematical,studious, altruistic, socialistic, and the natural foe of oligarchies.Kenwitz had foregone college, and was learning watch-making in hisfather's jewelry store. Dan was smiling, jovial, easy-tempered andtolerant alike of kings and ragpickers. The two foregathered joyously,being opposites. And then Dan went back to college, and Kenwitz to hismainsprings--and to his private library in the rear of the jewelry shop.Four years later Dan came back to Washington Square with theaccumulations of B. A. and two years of Europe thick upon him. He took afilial look at Septimus Kinsolving's elaborate tombstone in Greenwoodand a tedious excursion through typewritten documents with the familylawyer; and then, feeling himself a lonely and hopeless millionaire,hurried down to the old jewelry store across Sixth Avenue.Kenwitz unscrewed a magnifying glass from his eye, routed out his parentfrom a dingy rear room, and abandoned the interior of watches foroutdoors. He went with Dan, and they sat on a bench in WashingtonSquare. Dan had not changed much; he was stalwart, and had a dignitythat was inclined to relax into a grin. Kenwitz was more serious, moreintense, more learned, philosophical and socialistic."I know about it now," said Dan, finally. "I pumped it out of theeminent legal lights that turned over to me poor old dad's collectionsof bonds and boodle. It amounts to $2,000,000, Ken. And I am told thathe squeezed it out of the chaps that pay their pennies for loaves ofbread at little bakeries around the corner. You've studied economics,Dan, and you know all about monopolies, and the masses, and octopuses,and the rights of laboring people. I never thought about those thingsbefore. Football and trying to be white to my fellow-man were about theextent of my college curriculum."But since I came back and found out how dad made his money I've beenthinking. I'd like awfully well to pay back those chaps who had to giveup too much money for bread. I know it would buck the line of my incomefor a good many yards; but I'd like to make it square with 'em. Is thereany way it can be done, old Ways and Means?"Kenwitz's big black eyes glowed fierily. His thin, intellectual facetook on almost a sardonic cast. He caught Dan's arm with the grip of afriend and a judge."You can't do it!" he said, emphatically. "One of the chief punishmentsof you men of ill-gotten wealth is that when you do repent you find thatyou have lost the power to make reparation or restitution. I admireyour good intentions, Dan, but you can't do anything. Those people wererobbed of their precious pennies. It's too late to remedy the evil. Youcan't pay them back""Of course," said Dan, lighting his pipe, "we couldn't hunt up every oneof the duffers and hand 'em back the right change. There's an awful lotof 'em buying bread all the time. Funny taste they have--I never caredfor bread especially, except for a toasted cracker with the Roquefort.But we might find a few of 'em and chuck some of dad's cash back whereit came from. I'd feel better if I could. It seems tough for people to beheld up for a soggy thing like bread. One wouldn't mind standing a risein broiled lobsters or deviled crabs. Get to work and think, Ken. I wantto pay back all of that money I can.""There are plenty of charities," said Kenwitz, mechanically."Easy enough," said Dan, in a cloud of smoke. "I suppose I could givethe city a park, or endow an asparagus bed in a hospital. But I don'twant Paul to get away with the proceeds of the gold brick we sold Peter.It's the bread shorts I want to cover, Ken."The thin fingers of Kenwitz moved rapidly."Do you know how much money it would take to pay back the losses ofconsumers during that corner in flour?" he asked."I do not." said Dan, stoutly. "My lawyer tells me that I have twomillions.""If you had a hundred millions," said Kenwitz, vehemently, "you couldn'trepair a thousandth part of the damage that has been done. You cannotconceive of the accumulated evils produced by misapplied wealth.Each penny that was wrung from the lean purses of the poor reacted athousandfold to their harm. You do not understand. You do not see howhopeless is your desire to make restitution. Not in a single instancecan it be done.""Back up, philosopher!" said Dan. "The penny has no sorrow that thedollar cannot heal.""Not in one instance," repeated Kenwitz. "I will give you one, and letus see. Thomas Boyne had a little bakery over there in Varick Street.He sold bread to the poorest people. When the price of flour went up hehad to raise the price of bread. His customers were too poor to pay it,Boyne's business failed and he lost his $1,000 capital--all he had inthe world."Dan Kinsolving struck the park bench a mighty blow with his fist."I accept the instance," he cried. "Take me to Boyne. I will repay histhousand dollars and buy him a new bakery.""Write your check," said Kenwitz, without moving, "and then begin towrite checks in payment of the train of consequences. Draw the next onefor $50,000. Boyne went insane after his failure and set fire to thebuilding from which he was about to be evicted. The loss amounted tothat much. Boyne died in an asylum.""Stick to the instance," said Dan. "I haven't noticed any insurancecompanies on my charity list.""Draw your next check for $100,000," went on Kenwitz. "Boyne's son fellinto bad ways after the bakery closed, and was accused of murder. He wasacquitted last week after a three years' legal battle, and the statedraws upon taxpayers for that much expense.""Back to the bakery!" exclaimed Dan, impatiently. "The Governmentdoesn't need to stand in the bread line.""The last item of the instance is--come and I will show you," saidKenwitz, rising.The Socialistic watchmaker was happy. He was a millionaire-baiter bynature and a pessimist by trade. Kenwitz would assure you in one breaththat money was but evil and corruption, and that your brand-new watchneeded cleaning and a new ratchet-wheel.He conducted Kinsolving southward out of the square and into ragged,poverty-haunted Varick Street. Up the narrow stairway of a squalid bricktenement he led the penitent offspring of the Octopus. He knocked on adoor, and a clear voice called to them to enter.In that almost bare room a young woman sat sewing at a machine. Shenodded to Kenwitz as to a familiar acquaintance. One little stream ofsunlight through the dingy window burnished her heavy hair to the colorof an ancient Tuscan's shield. She flashed a rippling smile at Kenwitzand a look of somewhat flustered inquiry.Kinsolving stood regarding her clear and pathetic beauty inheart-throbbing silence. Thus they came into the presence of the lastitem of the Instance."How many this week, Miss Mary?" asked the watchmaker. A mountain ofcoarse gray shirts lay upon the floor."Nearly thirty dozen," said the young woman cheerfully. "I've madealmost $4. I'm improving, Mr. Kenwitz. I hardly know what to do with somuch money." Her eyes turned, brightly soft, in the direction of Dan. Alittle pink spot came out on her round, pale cheek.Kenwitz chuckled like a diabolic raven."Miss Boyne," he said, "let me present Mr. Kinsolving, the son of theman who put bread up five years ago. He thinks he would like to dosomething to aid those who where inconvenienced by that act."The smile left the young woman's face. She rose and pointed herforefinger toward the door. This time she looked Kinsolving straight inthe eye, but it was not a look that gave delight.The two men went down Varick Street. Kenwitz, letting all his pessimismand rancor and hatred of the Octopus come to the surface, gibed at themoneyed side of his friend in an acrid torrent of words. Dan appeared tobe listening, and then turned to Kenwitz and shook hands with himwarmly."I'm obliged to you, Ken, old man," he said, vaguely--"a thousand timesobliged.""Mein Gott! you are crazy!" cried the watchmaker, dropping hisspectacles for the first time in years.Two months afterward Kenwitz went into a large bakery on lower Broadwaywith a pair of gold-rimmed eyeglasses that he had mended for theproprietor.A lady was giving an order to a clerk as Kenwitz passed her."These loaves are ten cents," said the clerk."I always get them at eight cents uptown," said the lady. "You need notfill the order. I will drive by there on my way home."The voice was familiar. The watchmaker paused."Mr. Kenwitz!" cried the lady, heartily. "How do you do?"Kenwitz was trying to train his socialistic and economic comprehensionon her wonderful fur boa and the carriage waiting outside."Why, Miss Boyne!" he began."Mrs. Kinsolving," she corrected. "Dan and I were married a month ago."

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