Nine Short Stories | Page 7

his horse to be returned to the ranch, and entrusted a
comrade with the following note to the foreman:
Dear Fraser:
I won the big prize all right. I'm going to take a month off for a little
trip to New York. I've never been there. Yours truly,
R. Duggett
Even from Rick, that was amazing. Denver or K. C., yes. People did go
to those places, and sometimes even to St. Louis. Indeed, it was
understandable that a man might conceivably undertake, for pleasure, a
journey to Chicago.
But New York!
Absurd.
You might as well say Constantinople and be done with it. However, it
was just like Rick Duggett. Having decided to visit a big city, you
might know he would choose the biggest. He never did anything by
halves.
Thus it was that Rick arrived in New York, with a roll of bills
amounting to eight hundred and eighteen dollars in his pocket, about
two o'clock of a sunny October afternoon.
Having stopped off in Chicago to buy a suit of clothes, his outward
appearance, as he emerged from the Grand Central Station onto
Forty-second Street, was not as startling as you might have expected of
the champion roper of Arizona. But he had not thought of discarding
the floppy broad-brimmed Stetson, and the ruggedness of his brown
countenance and the flashing clearness of his eye were patently not of
Broadway.
So it was that before he had even reached Times Square, threading his
way through the throng westward on Forty-second Street, he was

accosted by a dapper white-faced person in a blue serge suit who
murmured something, without preamble, concerning "the third race at
Latonia," and a "sure thing," and "just around the corner."
"Listen, sonny," said Rick, not unkindly. "I don't bet on horses unless I
can see 'em. Besides, if I'd wanted to gamble I'd of stayed in Honeville.
I came to New York to see the sights, and I guess you're one of 'em.
Much obliged. Here's two bits "
And he thrust a quarter into the hand of the astonished "runner."
After he had tramped around for a couple of hours and got his eyes full
he took a taxicab to the Hotel Croyville, which had been recommended
to him by some one on the train.
It is too bad that I can't describe his timidity on entering the cab and his
novel sensations as the engine started and the thing shot forward. The
trouble is that the owner of the ranch on which he worked was also the
owner of two automobiles, and Rick was a pretty good hand at driving
a car himself. Yet he was indeed impressed by the chauffeur's
marvellous dexterity in threading his way through the maze of whirling
traffic down Fifth Avenue.
Rick ate dinner, or supper, as he called it, at the Croyville, and a little
later sallied forth for a look at the town by electric light. He had a sort
of an idea that he might go to a show, but, having perused the
amusement columns of an evening newspaper, found himself
embarrassed by the superabundance of material. His final decision
rested between a performance of Macbeth and a Broadway dancing
revue, and about half-past seven he dropped into a cafe to consider the
matter over a little of something wet.
It was there that he met a person named Henderson. One thing Rick
must admit, it was he himself who addressed the first words to the
stranger. But then it is also a fact that the stranger, who was standing
next to Rick at the bar, started things by observing to the bartender and
whoever else might care to hear:

"We don't use those nonrefillable bottles out West, where I come from.
We don't have to. We know the men that sell us our drinks, and by --,
they know us. But that's the way it is in New York. You got to watch
everybody, or you'll get your insides all filled up with water."
Rick turned and asked the stranger--a ruddy-faced, middleaged man in
a gray sack suit and soft hat--what part of the West he came from. That
was enough. Ten minutes later they were having their second drink
together.
Mr. Henderson, it appeared, was from Kansas, where he owned an
immense wheat farm. He was much interested in what Rick had to say
about Arizona. They discussed the metropolis, and Rick, by way of
comment on Mr. Henderson's observation that "you got to watch
everybody in New York," told of his encounter with the poolroom
runner on Forty-second Street. Then, as it was nearing eight o'clock, he
remarked that he was intending to see the revue up at the Stuyvesant
Theater, and guessed he would have to trot along.
"That's a