A Bird Of Bagdad
Without a doubt much of the spirit and genius of the Caliph Harun
Al Rashid descended to the Margrave August Michael von Paulsen
Quigg.
Quigg's restaurant is in Fourth Avenue--that street that the city
seems to have forgotten in its growth. Fourth Avenue--born and
bred in the Bowery--staggers northward full of good resolutions.
Where it crosses Fourteenth Street it struts for a brief moment
proudly in the glare of the museums and cheap theatres. It may yet
become a fit mate for its high-born sister boulevard to the west, or
its roaring, polyglot, broad-waisted cousin to the east. It passes
Union Square; and here the hoofs of the dray horses seem to thunder
in unison, recalling the tread of marching hosts--Hooray! But now
come the silent and terrible mountains--buildings square as forts,
high as the clouds, shutting out the sky, where thousands of slaves
bend over desks all day. On the ground floors are only little fruit
shops and laundries and book shops, where you see copies of
"Littell's Living Age" and G. W. M. Reynold's novels in the windows.
And next--poor Fourth Avenue!--the street glides into a mediaeval
solitude. On each side are shops devoted to "Antiques."
Let us say it is night. Men in rusty armor stand in the windows
and menace the hurrying cars with raised, rusty iron gauntlets.
Hauberks and helms, blunderbusses, Cromwellian breastplates,
matchlocks, creeses, and the swords and daggers of an army of
dead-and-gone gallants gleam dully in the ghostly light. Here
and there from a corner saloon (lit with Jack-o'-lanterns or
phosphorus), stagger forth shuddering, home-bound citizens,
nerved by the tankards within to their fearsome journey adown
that eldrich avenue lined with the bloodstained weapons of the
fighting dead. What street could live inclosed by these mortuary
relics, and trod by these spectral citizens in whose sunken hearts
scarce one good whoop or tra-la-la remained?
Not Fourth Avenue. Not after the tinsel but enlivening glories of
the Little Rialto--not after the echoing drum-beats of Union Square.
There need be no tears, ladies and gentlemen; 'tis but the suicide
of a street. With a shriek and a crash Fourth Avenue dives headlong
into the tunnel at Thirty-fourth and is never seen again.
Near the sad scene of the thoroughfare's dissolution stood the
modest restaurant of Quigg. It stands there yet if you care to view
its crumbling red-brick front, its show window heaped with oranges,
tomatoes, layer cakes, pies, canned asparagus--its papier-m^ach'e
lobster and two Maltese kittens asleep on a bunch of lettuce--if you
care to sit at one of the little tables upon whose cloth has been
traced in the yellowest of coffee stains the trail of the Japanese
advance--to sit there with one eye on your umbrella and the other
upon the bogus bottle from which you drop the counterfeit sauce
foisted upon us by the cursed charlatan who assumes to be our dear
old lord and friend, the "Nobleman in India."
Quigg's title came through his mother. One of her ancestors was a
Margravine of Saxony. His father was a Tammany brave. On account
of the dilution of his heredity he found that he could neither
become a reigning potentate nor get a job in the City Hall. So he
opened a restaurant. He was a man full of thought and reading.
The business gave him a living, though he gave it little attention.
One side of his house bequeathed to him a poetic and romantic
adventure. The other have him the restless spirit that made him
seek adventure. By day he was Quigg, the restaurateur. By night
he was the Margrave--the Caliph--the Prince of Bohemia--going about
the city in search of the odd, the mysterious, the inexplicable,
the recondite.
One night at 9, at which hour the restaurant closed, Quigg set forth
upon his quest. There was a mingling of the foreign, the military
and the artistic in his appearance as he buttoned his coat high up
under his short-trimmed brown and gray beard and turned westward
toward the more central life conduits of the city. In his pocket
he had stored an assortment of cards, written upon, without which
he never stirred out of doors. Each of those cards was good at
his own restaurant for its face value. Some called simply for a
bowl of soup or sandwiches and coffee; others entitled their bearer
to one, two, three or more days of full meals; a few were for single
regular meals; a very few were, in effect, meal tickets good for a
week.
Of riches and power Margrave Quigg had none; but he had a Caliph's
heart--it may be forgiven him if his head fell short of the
measure of Harun Al Rashid's. Perhaps some of the gold pieces in
Bagdad had put less warmth and hope into the complainants among
the bazaars than had Quigg's beef stew among the fishermen and
one-eyed calenders of Manhattan.
Continuing his progress in search of romance to divert him, or
of distress that he might aid, Quigg became aware of a fast-
gathering crowd that whooped and fought and eddied at a corner
of Broadway and the crosstown street that he was traversing.
Hurrying to the spot he beheld a young man of an exceedingly
melancholy and preoccupied demeanor engaged in the pastime of
casting silver money from his pockets in the middle of the
street. With each motion of the generous one's hand the crowd
huddled upon the falling largesse with yells of joy. Traffic
was suspended. A policman in the centre of the mob stooped
often to the ground as he urged the blockaders to move on.
The Margrave saw at a glance that here was food for his hunger
after knowledge concerning abnormal working of the human heart.
He made his way swiftly to the young man's side and took his arm.
"Come with me at once," he said, in the low but commanding voice
that his waiters had learned to fear.
"Pinched," remarked the young man, looking up at him with
expressionless eyes. "Pinched by a painless dentist. Take me
away, flatty, and give me gas. Some lay eggs and some lay none.
When is a hen?"
Still deeply seized by some inward grief, but tractable, he allowed
Quigg to lead him away and down the street to a little park.
There, seated on a bench, he upon whom a corner of the great
Caliph's mantle has descended, spake with kindness and discretion,
seeking to know what evil had come upon the other, disturbing
his soul and driving him to such ill-considered and ruinous waste
of his substance and stores.
"I was doing the Monte Cristo act as adapted by Pompton, N. J.,
wasn't I?" asked the young man.
"You were throwing small coins into the street for the people to
scramble after," said the Margrave.
"That's it. You buy all the beer you can hold, and then you throw
chicken feed to-- Oh, curse that word chicken, and hens, feathers,
roosters, eggs, and everything connected with it!"
"Young sir," said the Margrave kindly, but with dignity, "though I
do not ask your confidence, I invite it. I know the world and I
know humanity. Man is my study, though I do not eye him as the
scientist eyes a beetle or as the philanthropist gazes at the objects
of his bounty--through a veil of theory and ignorance. It is my
pleasure and distraction to interest myself in the peculiar and
complicated misfortunes that life in a great city visits upon my
fellow-men. You may be familiar with the history of that glorious
and immortal ruler, the Caliph Harun Al Rashid, whose wise and
beneficent excursions among his people in the city of Bagdad
secured him the privilege of relieving so much of their distress.
In my humble way I walk in his footsteps. I seek for romance and
adventure in city streets--not in ruined castles or in crumbling
palaces. To me the greatest marvels of magic are those that take
place in men's hearts when acted upon by the furious and diverse
forces of a crowded population. In your strange behavior this
evening I fancy a story lurks. I read in your act something deeper
than the wanton wastefulness of a spendthrift. I observe in your
countenance the certain traces of consuming grief or despair. I
repeat--I invite your confidence. I am not without some power to
alleviate and advise. Will you not trust me?"
"Gee, how you talk!" exclaimed the young man, a gleam of admiration
supplanting for a moment the dull sadness of his eyes. "You've got
the Astor Library skinned to a synopsis of preceding chapters.
I mind that old Turk you speak of. I read 'The Arabian Nights'
when I was a kid. He was a kind of Bill Devery and Charlie
Schwab rolled into one. But, say, you might wave enchanted
dishrags and make copper bottles smoke up coon giants all night
without ever touching me. My case won't yield to that kind
of treatment."
"If I could hear your story," said the Margrave, with his lofty,
serious smile.
"I'll spiel it in about nine words," said the young man, with a
deep sigh, "but I don't think you can help me any. Unless you're
a peach at guessing it's back to the Bosphorous for you on your
magic linoleum."
THE STORY OF THE YOUNG MAN AND THE HARNESS MAKER'S RIDDLE
"I work in Hildebrant's saddle and harness shop down in Grant
Street. I've worked there five years. I get $18 a week. That's
enough to marry on, ain't it? Well, I'm not going to get married.
Old Hildebrant is one of these funny Dutchmen--you know the
kind--always getting off bum jokes. He's got about a million
riddles and things that he faked from Rogers Brothers' great-
grandfather. Bill Watson works there, too. Me and Bill have to
stand for them chestnuts day after day. Why do we do it? Well,
jobs ain't to be picked off every Anheuser bush-- And then there's
Laura.
"What? The old man's daughter. Comes in the shop every day.
About nineteen, and the picture of the blonde that sits on the
palisades of the Rhine and charms the clam-diggers into the surf.
Hair the color of straw matting, and eyes as black and shiny as the
best harness blacking--think of that!
"Me? well, it's either me or Bill Watson. She treats us both equal.
Bill is all to the psychopathic about her; and me?--well, you saw
me plating the roadbed of the Great Maroon Way with silver to-
night. That was on account of Laura. I was spiflicated, Your
Highness, and I wot not of what I wouldst.
"How? Why, old Hildebrandt say to me and Bill this afternoon:
'Boys, one riddle have I for you gehabt haben. A young man who
cannot riddles antworten, he is not so good by business for ein
family to provide--is not that--hein?' And he hands us a riddle--
a conundrum, some calls it--and he chuckles interiorly and gives
both of us till to-morrow morning to work out the answer to it.
And he says whichever of us guesses the repartee end of it goes to
his house o' Wednesday night to his daughter's birthday party.
And it means Laura for whichever of us goes, for she's naturally
aching for a husband, and it's either me or Bill Watson, for old
Hildebrant likes us both, and wants her to marry somebody that'll
carry on the business after he's stitched his last pair of traces.
"The riddle? Why, it was this: 'What kind of a hen lays the
longest? Think of that! What kind of a hen lays the longest?
Ain't it like a Dutchman to risk a man's happiness on a fool
proposition like that? Now, what's the use? What I don't know
about hens would fill several incubators. You say you're giving
imitations of the old Arab guy that gave away--libraries in Bagdad.
Well, now, can you whistle up a fairy that'll solve this hen query,
or not?"
When the young man ceased the Margrave arose and paced to and
fro by the park bench for several minutes. Finally he sat again,
and said, in grave and impressive tones:
"I must confess, sir, that during the eight years that I have spent
in search of adventure and in relieving distress I have never
encountered a more interesting or a more perplexing case. I fear
that I have overlooked hens in my researches and observations. As
to their habits, their times and manner of laying, their many
varieties and cross-breedings, their span of life, their--"
"Oh, don't make an Ibsen drama of it!" interrupted the young man,
flippantly. "Riddles--especially old Hildebrant's riddles--don't
have to be worked out seriously. They are light themes such as
Sim Ford and Harry Thurston Peck like to handle. But, somehow,
I can't strike just the answer. Bill Watson may, and he may not.
To-morrow will tell. Well, Your Majesty, I'm glad anyhow that
you butted in and whiled the time away. I guess Mr. Al Rashid
himself would have bounced back if one of his constituents had
conducted him up against this riddle. I'll say good night. Peace
fo' yours, and what-you-may-call-its of Allah."
The Margrave, still with a gloomy air, held out his hand.
"I cannot exppress my regret," he said, sadly. "Never before have
I found myself unable to assist in some way. 'What kind of a hen
lays the longest? It is a baffling problem. There is a hen, I
believe, called the Plymouth Rock that--"
"Cut it out," said the young man. "The Caliph trade is a mighty
serious one. I don't suppose you'd even see anything funny in a
preacher's defense of John D. Rockefeller. Well, good night, Your
Nibs."
From habit the Margrave began to fumble in his pockets. He drew
forth a card and handed it to the young man.
"Do me the favor to accept this, anyhow," he said. "The time may
come when it might be of use to you."
"Thanks!" said the young man, pocketing it carelessly. "My name
is Simmons."
* * * * * *
Shame to him who would hint that the reader's interest shall
altogether pursue the Margrave August Michael von Paulsen
Quigg. I am indeed astray if my hand fail in keeping the way
where my peruser's heart would follow. Then let us, on the
morrow, peep quickly in at the door of Hildebrant, harness maker.
Hildebrant's 200 pounds reposed on a bench, silverbuckling a raw
leather martingale.
Bill Watson came in first.
"Vell," said Hildebrant, shaking all over with the vile conceit of
the joke-maker, "haf you guessed him? 'Vat kind of a hen lays der
longest?'"
"Er--why, I think so," said Bill, rubbing a servile chin. "I think so,
Mr. Hildebrant--the one that lives the longest-- Is that right?"
"Nein!" said Hildebrant, shaking his head violently. "You haf not
guessed der answer."
Bill passed on and donned a bed-tick apron and bachelorhood.
In came the young man of the Arabian Night's fiasco--pale,
melancholy, hopeless.
"Vell," said Hildebrant, "haf you guessed him? 'Vat kind of a hen
lays der longest?'"
Simmons regarded him with dull savagery in his eye. Should he
curse this mountain of pernicious humor--curse him and die?
Why should-- But there was Laura.
Dogged, speechless, he thrust his hands into his coat pockets and
stood. His hand encountered the strange touch of the Margrave's
card. He drew it out and looked at it, as men about to be hanged
look at a crawling fly. There was written on it in Quigg's bold,
round hand: "Good for one roast chicken to bearer."
Simmons looked up with a flashing eye.
"A dead one!" said he.
"Goot!" roared Hildebrant, rocking the table with giant glee. "Dot
is right! You gome at mine house at 8 o'clock to der party."
-THE END-
William Sidney Porter] O Henry's short story: A Bird Of Bagdad
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