F. Scott Fitzgerald: Complete Works. F. Scott Fitzgerald
came to an end. We were in a room magnificently hung with oriental draperies, the walls covered with medieval armor and ancient swords, shields and battle axes. A red lamp on the table threw a lurid glare over all and cast a red glow on a body which lay at the foot of a Turkish divan. It was the Confederate officer, shot through the heart, for the life blood was fast staining his grey uniform red. The governor was standing near the body, a smoking revolver in his hand.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “let me present to you John Wilkes Booth, the slayer of Abraham Lincoln.”
III.
“Mr. Carmatle, you will explain this I hope.”
“Certainly,” and drawing up a chair the governor began:
“My son and I served in Forrest’s cavalry during the Civil War, and being on a scouting expedition did not hear of Lee’s surrender at Appomattox until about three months afterwards. As we were riding southward along the Cumberland Pike we met a man riding down the road. Having struck up an acquaintance, as travelers do, we camped together. The next morning the man was gone, together with my son’s old horse and my son’s old uniform, leaving his new horse and new civilian suit instead. We did not know what to make of this, but never suspected who this man was. My son and I separated and I never saw him again. He was bound for his aunt’s in western Maryland and one morning he was shot by some Union soldiers in a barn where he had tried to snatch a minute’s rest on the way. The story was given out to the public that it was Booth that was shot but I knew and the government knew that my innocent son had been shot by mistake and that John Wilkes Booth, the man who had taken his horse and clothes, had escaped. For four years I hunted Booth, but until I heard you mention the initials J. W. B. I had heard no word of him. As it was, when I found him he shot first. I think that his visit to the hall in the Confederate uniform was simply to frighten you away. The fact that your grandfather was a Southern sympathizer probably had protected him all these years. So now, gentlemen, you have heard my story. It rests with you whether this gets no farther than us three here and the government, or whether I shall be proclaimed a murderer and brought to trial.”
“You are as innocent as Booth is guilty,” said I. “My lips shall be forever sealed.”
And we both pressed forward and took him by the hand.
A Luckless Santa Claus.
Newman News (Christmas 1912)
Miss Harmon was responsible for the whole thing. If it had not been for her foolish whim, Talbot would not have made a fool of himself, and—but I am getting ahead of my story.
It was Christmas Eve. Salvation Army Santa Clauses with highly colored noses proclaimed it as they beat upon rickety paper chimneys with tin spoons. Package-laden old bachelors forgot to worry about how many slippers and dressing gowns they would have to thank people for next day, and joined in the general air of excitement that pervaded busy Manhattan.
In the parlor of a house situated on a dimly lighted residence street, somewhere east of Broadway, sat the lady who, as I have said before, started the whole business. She was holding a conversation half frivolous, half sentimental, with a faultlessly dressed young man who sat with her on the sofa. All of this was quite right and proper, however, for they were engaged to be married in June.
“Harry Talbot,” said Dorothy Harmon, as she rose and stood laughing at the merry young gentleman beside her, “if you aren’t the most ridiculous boy I ever met, I’ll eat that terrible box of candy you brought me last week!”
“Dorothy,” reproved the young man, “you should receive gifts in the spirit in which they are given. That box of candy cost me much of my hard-earned money.”
“Your hard-earned money, indeed!” scoffed Dorothy. “You know very well that you never earned a cent in your life. Golf and dancing—that is the sum total of your occupations. Why you can’t even spend money, much less earn it!”
“My dear Dorothy, I succeeded in running up some very choice bills last month, as you will find if you consult my father.”
“That’s not spending your money. That’s wasting it. Why, I don’t think you could give away twenty-five dollars in the right way to save your life.”
“But why on earth,” remonstrated Harry, “should I want to give away twenty-five dollars?”
“Because,” explained Dorothy, “that would be real charity. It’s nothing to charge a desk to your father and have it sent to me, but to give money to people you don’t know is something.”
“Why, any old fellow can give away money,” protested Harry.
“Then,” exclaimed Dorothy, “we’ll see if you can! I don’t believe that you could give twenty-five dollars in the course of an evening if you tried.”
“Indeed, I could.”
“Then try it!” And Dorothy, dashing into the hall, took down his coat and hat and placed them in his reluctant hands. “It is now half-past eight. You be here by ten o’clock.”
“But, but,” gasped Harry.
Dorothy was edging him towards the door.
“How much money have you?” she demanded.
Harry gloomily put his hand in his pocket and counted out a handful of bills.
“Exactly twenty-five dollars and five cents.”
“Very well! Now listen! These are the conditions. You go out and give this money to anybody you care to whom you have never seen before. Don’t give more than two dollars to any one person. And be back here by ten o’clock with no more than five cents in your pocket.”
“But,” declared Harry, still backing toward the door, “I want my twenty-five dollars.”
“Harry,” said Dorothy sweetly, “I am surprised !” And with that, she slammed the door in his face.
“I insist,” muttered Harry, “that this is a most unusual proceeding.”
He walked down the steps and hesitated.
“Now,” he thought, “where shall I go?”
He considered a moment and finally started off toward Broadway. He had gone about half a block when he saw a gentleman in a top hat approaching. Harry hesitated. Then he made up his mind, and, stepping toward the man, emitted what he intended for a pleasant laugh but what sounded more like a gurgle, and loudly vociferated, “Merry Christmas, friend!”
“The same to you,” answered he of the top hat, and would have passed on, but Harry was not to be denied.
“My good fellow—” he cleared his throat. “Would you like me to give you a little money?”
“What?” yelled the man.
“You might need some money, don’t you know, to—er—buy the children—a—a rag doll,” he finished brilliantly.
The next moment his hat went sailing into the gutter, and when he picked it up the man was far away.
“There’s five minutes wasted,” muttered Harry, as, full of wrath toward Dorothy, he strode along his way. He decided to try a different method with the next people he met. He would express himself more politely.
A couple approached him,—a young lady and her escort. Harry halted directly in their path and, taking off his hat, addressed them.
“As it is Christmas, you know, and everybody gives away—er—articles, why—”
“Give him a dollar, Billy, and let’s go on,” said the young lady.
Billy obediently thrust a dollar into Harry’s hand, and at that moment the girl gave a cry of surprise.
“Why, it’s Harry Talbot,” she exclaimed, “begging!”
But Harry heard no more. When he realized that he knew the girl he turned and sped like an