At sixty I look back with envy on that decade which followed my issuing forth4 from Trinity College, when, hopeless, careless, purposeless beyond the moment, I wandered the face of the earth and fed or starved at the hands of chance-born opportunity. I was up or down or rich or poor, and, with an existence which ran from wine to ditch water and back again to wine, was happy. I recall how in those days of checkered5 fortune, wherein there came a proportion of one hour of shadow to one moment of sun, I was wont6 to think on riches and their possession. I would say to myself: “And should it so befall that I make my millions, I’ll have none about me but broken folk: I’ll refuse to so much as permit the acquaintance of a rich man.” I’ve been ever deeply controlled by the sentiment therein expressed. Sure it is, I’ve been incapable7 of the example of the Levite, and could never keep to the other side of the way when distress8 appealed.
My youth was wild, and staid folk called it “vicious.” I squandered9 my fortune; melted it, as August melteth ice, while still at Trinity. It was my misfortune to reach my majority before I reached my graduation, and those two college years which ensued after I might legally write myself “man” and the wild days that filled them up, brought me to face the world with no more shillings than might take me to Australia. However, they were gay though graceless times—those college years; and Dublin, from Smock Alley10 to Sackville Street, may still remember them.
Those ten years after quitting Dublin were years of hit or miss. I did everything but preach or steal. Yes, I even fought three prize-fights; and there were warped11, distorted moments when, bloody12 but victorious13, I believed it better to be a fighter than to be a bishop14.
But for the main, I drifted to the theaters and lived by the drama. Doubtless I was a wretched actor—albeit I felt myself a Kemble—but the stage was so far good to me it finally brought me—as an underling of much inconsequence—to the fair city of New York. I did but little for the drama, but it did much for me; it led me to America. And now that I’ve come to New York in this story, I’ve come to Connelly.
Mayhap I had been in New York three weeks. It was a chill night in April, and I was going down Broadway and thinking on bed; for, having done nothing all day save run about, I was very tired. It was under the lamps at the corner of Twenty-ninth Street, that I first beheld15 Connelly. Thin of face as of coat, he stood shivering in the keen air. There was something so beaten in the pose of the sorrowful figure that I was brought to a full stop.
As strange to the land and its courtesies as I was to Connelly, I hesitated for a moment to speak. I was loth to be looked upon as one who, from a motive16 of curiosity, would insult another in bad luck. But I took courage from my virtue17 and at last made bold to accost18 him:
“Why do you stand shivering here?” I said. “Why don’t you go home?”
“It’s a boarding-house,” said Connelly. “I owe the old lady thirty dollars and if I go back she’ll hold me prisoner for it.”
Then he told me his name, and that the trouble with him came from too much rum. Connelly had a Dublin accent and it won on me; moreover, I also had had troubles traceable to rum.
“Come home,” I said; “you can’t stand here all night. Come home; I’ll go with you and have a talk with the old lady myself. Perhaps I’ll find a way to soften19 her or make her see reason.”
“She’s incapable of seeing reason,” said Connelly; “incapable of seeing anything save money. She understands nothing but gold. She’ll hold me captive a week; then if I don’t pay, she’ll have me arrested. You don’t know the ‘old lady:’ she’s a demon20 unless she’s paid.”
However, I led Connelly over to Sixth Avenue and restored his optimism with strong drink. Then I bought a quart of whiskey; thus sustained, Connelly summoned courage and together we sought his quarters. In his little room we sat all night, discussing the whiskey and Dublin and Connelly’s hard fate.
With the morning I was presented to the “old lady,”—an honor to make one quake. When I reviewed her acrid21 features, I knew that Connelly was right. Nothing could move that stony22 heart but money. I put off, therefore, those gallantries and blandishments I might otherwise have introduced, and came at once to the question.
“How much does Connelly owe?”
“Thirty dollars!”
The words were emphasized with a click of teeth that would have done credit to a rat-trap.
There was a baleful gleam, too, in the jadestone eye. Clearly, Connelly had read the signs aright. He might regard himself as a prisoner until the “old lady” was paid.
That iron landlady23 went away to her duties and I counted my fortunes. They assembled but twenty-four dollars—a slim force and not one wherewith to storm the citadel24 of Connelly’s troubles. How should I augment25 my capital? I knew of but one quick method and that flowed with risks—it was the races.
I turned naturally to the horses, for it was those continuous efforts which I put forth to name winners that had so dissipated my patrimony26. About the time I might have selected a victor now and then, my wealth was departed away. It is always thus. Sinister27 yet satirical paradox28! the best judges of racing29 have ever the least money!
There was no new way open to me, however, in this instance of Connelly. I must pay his debt that day if I would redeem30 him from this Bastile of a boarding-house, and the races were my single chance. I explained to Connelly; obtained him the consolation31 of a second quart wherewith to cure the sharper cares of his bondage32, and started for the race-course. I knew nothing of American horses and less of American tracks, but I held not back for that. In the transaction of a work of virtue I would trust to lucky stars.
As I approached the race-course gates, my eyes were pleased with the vision of that excellent pugilist, Joe Coburn. I had known this unworthy in Melbourne; he had graced the ringside on those bustling33 occasions when I pulled shirt over head and held up my hands for the stakes and the honor of old Ireland. Grown too fat for fisticuffs, Coburn struggled with the races for his daily bread. As he was very wise of horses, and likewise very crooked34, I bethought me that Coburn’s advice might do me good. If there were a trap set, Coburn should know; and he might aid a former fellow-gladiator to have advantage thereof and show the road to riches.
Are races ever crooked? Man! I whiles wonder at the age’s ignorance! Crooked? Indubitably crooked. There was never rascal35 like your rascal of sport; there’s that in the word to disintegrate36 integrity. I make no doubt it was thus in every time and clime and that even the Olympian games themselves were honeycombed with fraud, and the sacred Altis wherein they were celebrated37 a mere38 hotbed of robbery. However, to regather with the doubtful though sapient39 Coburn.
“Who’s to win the first race?” I asked.
“Play Blue Bells!” and Coburn looked at me hard and as one who held mysterious knowledge.
Blue Bells!—I put a cautious five-dollar piece on Blue Bells. I saw her at the start. Vilest40 of beasts, she never finished—never met my eye again. I asked someone what had become of her. He said that, taking advantage of sundry41 missing boards over on the back-stretch, Blue Bells had bolted and gone out through the fence. This may have been fact or it may have been sarcasmal fiction; the truth important is, I lost my wager42.
Still true to a first impression—though I confess to confidence a trifle shaken—I again sought Coburn.
“That was a great tip you gave me!” I said. “That suggestion of Blue Bells was a marvel43! What do you pick for the next?”
“Get Tambourine44!” retorted Coburn. “It’s a sure thing.”
Another five I placed on Tambourine; not without misgivings45. But what might I do better? My judgment46 was worthless where I did not know one horse from another. I might as well take Coburn’s advice; the more since he went often wrong and might name a winner by mistake. Five, therefore, on Tambourine; and when he started my hopes and Connelly—whose consoling quart must be a pint47 by now—went with him.
At the worst I may so far compliment Tambourine as to say that I saw him again. He finished far in the rear; but at least he had the honesty to go around the course. Yet it was five dollars lost. When Tambourine went back to his stable, my capital was reduced by half, and Connelly and liberty as far apart as when we started.
Following the disaster of Tambourine I sought no more the Coburn. Clearly it was not that philosopher’s afternoon for naming winners. Or if it were, he was keeping their names a secret.
Thus ruminating48, I sat reading the race card, when of a blinking sudden my eye was caught by the words “Bill Breen.” The title seemed a suggestion. Bill Breen had been my roommate—my best friend in the days of old Trinity. I pondered the coincidence.
“If this Bill Breen,” I reflected, “is half as fast as my Bill Breen, he’s fit to carry C?sar and his fortunes.”
The more I considered, the more I was impressed. It was like sinking in a quicksand. In the end I was caught. I waxed reckless and placed ten dollars—fairly my residue49 of riches—on Bill Breen in one of those old-fashioned French Mutual50 pools common of that hour; having done so, I crept away to a lonesome seat in the grandstand and trembled. It was now or never, and Bill Breen would race freighted with the fate of Connelly.
About two seats to my right, and with no one between, sat a round, bloated body of a man. He looked so much like a pig that, had he been put in a sty, you would have had nothing save the fact that he wore a hat to distinguish him from the other inmates51. And yet I could tell by the mien52 of him, and his airs of lofty isolation53 and superiority, that he knew all about a horse—knew so much more than common folk that he despised them and withdrew from their society. It was like tempting54 the skies to speak to him, so wrapped was he in the dignity of his vast knowledge, but my quaking solicitude55 over Bill Breen and the awful stakes he ran for in poor Connelly’s evil case, emboldened56 me. With a look, deprecatory at once and apologetic, I turned to this oracle57:
“Do you know a horse named Bill Breen?” I asked.
“I do,” he replied coldly. Then ungrammatically: “That’s him walking down the track to the scales for the ‘jock’ to weigh in,” and he pointed58 to a greyhound-shaped chestnut59.
“Can he race?” I said, with a gingerly air of merest curiosity.
“He can race, but he won’t,” and the swinish man twined the huge gold chain about his right fore-hoof. “I lost fifty dollars on him Choosday. The horse can race, but he won’t; he’s crazy.”
“He looks well,” I observed timidly.
“Sure! he looks well,” assented60 the swinish one; “but never mind his looks; he won’t win.”
Then came the start and the horses got away on the first trial. They went off in a bunch, and it gave me some color of satisfaction to note Bill Breen well to the front.
“He has a good start,” I ventured.
“Hang the start!” derided61 the swinish one.
“He won’t win, I tell you; he’ll go and jump over the fence and never come back.”
As the horses went from the quarter to the half mile post, Bill Breen, running easily, was strongly in the lead and increasing. My blood began to tingle62.
“He’s ahead at the half mile.”
“And what of it?” retorted the swinish one, disgustedly. “Now keep your eye on him. In ten seconds he’ll fly up in the air and stay there. He won’t win; the horse is crazy.”
As the field swung into the homestretch and each jockey picked his route for the run to the wire, Bill Breen was going like a bird, twenty yards to the good if a foot. The swinish one placed the heavy member that had been caressing63 the watch-chain on my shoulder. He did not wait for any comment from me.
“Sit still,” he howled; “sit still. He won’t win. If he can’t lose any other way, he’ll stop back beyant on the stretch and bite the boy off his back. That’s what he’ll do; he’ll bite the jockey off his back.”
To this last assurance, delivered with a roar, I made no answer. The horses were coming like a whirlwind; riders lashing64, nostrils65 straining. The roll of the hoofs66 put my heart to a sympathetic gallop67. I could not have said a word if I had tried. With the grandstand in a tumult68, the horses flashed under the wire, Bill Breen winner with a flourish by a dozen lengths.
Connelly was saved.
As the horses were being dismissed, and “Bill Breen” was hung from the judges’ stand as “first,” the swinish one contemplated69 me gravely and in silence.
“Have you a ticket on him?”
“I have,” I replied.
“Then you’ll win a million dollars.” This with a toss as he arose to go. “You’ll win a million dollars. You’re the only fool who has.”
It’s like the stories you read. The swinish one was so nearly correct in his last remark that I found but two tickets besides my own on Bill Breen. It has the ring of fable70, but I was richer by eleven hundred and thirty-two dollars when that race was over. Blue Bells and Tambourine were forgotten; Bill Breen had redeemed71 the day! It was pleasant when I had cashed my ticket to observe me go about recovering the lost Connelly.
“Now, there,” cried the Jolly Doctor, “there is a story which tells of a joy your rich man never knows—the joy of being rescued from a money difficulty.”
“And do you think a rich man is for that unlucky?” asked the Sour Gentleman.
“Verily, do I,” returned the Jolly Doctor, earnestly. “I can conceive of nothing more dreary72 than endless riches—the wealth that is by the cradle—that from birth to death is as easy to one’s hand as water. How should he know the sweet who has not known the bitter? Man! the thorn is ever the charm of the rose.”
It was discovered in the chat which followed the Red Nosed Gentleman’s tale that Sioux Sam might properly be regarded as the one who should next take up the burden of the company’s entertainment. It stood a gratifying characteristic of our comrade from the Yellowstone that he was not once found to dispute the common wish. He never proffered73 a story; but he promptly74 told one when asked to do so. He was taciturn, but he was no less ready for that, and the moment his name was called he proceeded with the fable of “Moh-Kwa and the Three Gifts.”
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1
premise
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| n.前提；v.提论，预述 | |
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exigency
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| n.紧急；迫切需要 | |
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begets
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| v.为…之生父( beget的第三人称单数 )；产生，引起 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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checkered
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| adj.有方格图案的 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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squandered
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| v.（指钱，财产等）浪费，乱花( squander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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warped
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| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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accost
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| v.向人搭话，打招呼 | |
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soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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acrid
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| adj.辛辣的，尖刻的，刻薄的 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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augment
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| vt.(使)增大，增加，增长，扩张 | |
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patrimony
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| n.世袭财产，继承物 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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paradox
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| n.似乎矛盾却正确的说法；自相矛盾的人(物) | |
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racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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redeem
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| v.买回，赎回，挽回，恢复，履行（诺言等） | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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disintegrate
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| v.瓦解，解体，（使）碎裂，（使）粉碎 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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sapient
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| adj.有见识的，有智慧的 | |
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vilest
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| adj.卑鄙的( vile的最高级 )；可耻的；极坏的；非常讨厌的 | |
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sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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tambourine
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| n.铃鼓，手鼓 | |
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misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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ruminating
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| v.沉思( ruminate的现在分词 )；反复考虑；反刍；倒嚼 | |
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residue
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| n.残余，剩余，残渣 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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56
emboldened
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| v.鼓励，使有胆量( embolden的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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derided
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| v.取笑，嘲笑( deride的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tingle
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| vi.感到刺痛，感到激动；n.刺痛，激动 | |
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caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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lashing
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| n.鞭打；痛斥；大量；许多v.鞭打( lash的现在分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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73
proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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74
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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