A Municipal Report


Written Text

The cities are full of pride,

Challenging each to each—

This from her mountainside,

That from her burthened beach.

Rudyard Kipling

Fancy a novel about Chicago or Buffalo, let us say, or Nashville,

Tennessee! There are just three big cities in the United States

that are “story cities”—New York, of course, New Orleans, and,

best of the lot, San Francisco.

Frank Norris

East is East, and West is San Francisco, according to Californians.

Californians are a race of people; they are not merely inhabitants of a

State. They are the Southerners of the West. Now, Chicagoans are no less

loyal to their city; but when you ask them why, they stammer and speak

of lake fish and the new Odd Fellows Building. But Californians go into

detail.

Of course they have, in the climate, an argument that is good for half

an hour while you are thinking of your coal bills and heavy underwear.

But as soon as they come to mistake your silence for conviction, madness

comes upon them, and they picture the city of the Golden Gate as the

Bagdad of the New World. So far, as a matter of opinion, no refutation

is necessary. But, dear cousins all (from Adam and Eve descended), it

is a rash one who will lay his finger on the map and say: “In this town

there can be no romance—what could happen here?” Yes, it is a bold and

a rash deed to challenge in one sentence history, romance, and Rand and

McNally.

NASHVILLE—A city, port of delivery, and the capital of the

State of Tennessee, is on the Cumberland River and on the

N. C. & St. L. and the L. & N. railroads. This city is regarded

as the most important educational centre in the South.

I stepped off the train at 8 P.M. Having searched the thesaurus in vain

for adjectives, I must, as a substitution, hie me to comparison in the

form of a recipe.

Take a London fog 30 parts; malaria 10 parts; gas leaks 20 parts;

dewdrops gathered in a brick yard at sunrise, 25 parts; odor of

honeysuckle 15 parts. Mix.

The mixture will give you an approximate conception of a Nashville

drizzle. It is not so fragrant as a moth-ball nor as thick as pea-soup;

but ‘tis enough—’twill serve.

I went to a hotel in a tumbril. It required strong self-suppression for

me to keep from climbing to the top of it and giving an imitation of

Sidney Carton. The vehicle was drawn by beasts of a bygone era and

driven by something dark and emancipated.

I was sleepy and tired, so when I got to the hotel I hurriedly paid it

the fifty cents it demanded (with approximate lagniappe, I assure you).

I knew its habits; and I did not want to hear it prate about its old

“marster” or anything that happened “befo’ de wah.”

The hotel was one of the kind described as “renovated.” That means

$20,000 worth of new marble pillars, tiling, electric lights and brass

cuspidors in the lobby, and a new L. & N. time table and a lithograph of

Lookout Mountain in each one of the great rooms above. The management

was without reproach, the attention full of exquisite Southern courtesy,

the service as slow as the progress of a snail and as good-humored as

Rip Van Winkle. The food was worth traveling a thousand miles for. There

is no other hotel in the world where you can get such chicken livers en

brochette.

At dinner I asked a Negro waiter if there was anything doing in town. He

pondered gravely for a minute, and then replied: “Well, boss, I don’t

really reckon there’s anything at all doin’ after sundown.”

Sundown had been accomplished; it had been drowned in the drizzle long

before. So that spectacle was denied me. But I went forth upon the

streets in the drizzle to see what might be there.

It is built on undulating grounds; and the streets are lighted

by electricity at a cost of $32,470 per annum.

As I left the hotel there was a race riot. Down upon me charged a

company of freedmen, or Arabs, or Zulus, armed with—no, I saw with

relief that they were not rifles, but whips. And I saw dimly a caravan

of black, clumsy vehicles; and at the reassuring shouts, “Kyar you

anywhere in the town, boss, fuh fifty cents,” I reasoned that I was

merely a “fare” instead of a victim.

I walked through long streets, all leading uphill. I wondered how those

streets ever came down again. Perhaps they didn’t until they were

“graded.” On a few of the “main streets” I saw lights in stores here and

there; saw street cars go by conveying worthy burghers hither and yon;

saw people pass engaged in the art of conversation, and heard a burst of

semi-lively laughter issuing from a soda-water and ice-cream parlor.

The streets other than “main” seemed to have enticed upon their borders

houses consecrated to peace and domesticity. In many of them lights

shone behind discreetly drawn window shades; in a few pianos tinkled

orderly and irreproachable music. There was, indeed, little “doing.”

I wished I had come before sundown. So I returned to my hotel.

In November, 1864, the Confederate General Hood advanced against

Nashville, where he shut up a National force under General Thomas.

The latter then sallied forth and defeated the Confederates in a

terrible conflict.

All my life I have heard of, admired, and witnessed the fine

marksmanship of the South in its peaceful conflicts in the

tobacco-chewing regions. But in my hotel a surprise awaited me. There

were twelve bright, new, imposing, capacious brass cuspidors in the

great lobby, tall enough to be called urns and so wide-mouthed that the

crack pitcher of a lady baseball team should have been able to throw a

ball into one of them at five paces distant. But, although a terrible

battle had raged and was still raging, the enemy had not suffered.

Bright, new, imposing, capacious, untouched, they stood. But, shades of

Jefferson Brick! the tile floor—the beautiful tile floor! I could not

avoid thinking of the battle of Nashville, and trying to draw, as is my

foolish habit, some deductions about hereditary marksmanship.

Here I first saw Major (by misplaced courtesy) Wentworth Caswell. I knew

him for a type the moment my eyes suffered from the sight of him. A rat

has no geographical habitat. My old friend, A. Tennyson, said, as he so

well said almost everything:

Prophet, curse me the blabbing lip,

And curse me the British vermin, the rat.

Let us regard the word “British” as interchangeable ad lib. A rat

is a rat.

This man was hunting about the hotel lobby like a starved dog that had

forgotten where he had buried a bone. He had a face of great acreage,

red, pulpy, and with a kind of sleepy massiveness like that of Buddha.

He possessed one single virtue—he was very smoothly shaven. The mark

of the beast is not indelible upon a man until he goes about with a

stubble. I think that if he had not used his razor that day I would have

repulsed his advances, and the criminal calendar of the world would have

been spared the addition of one murder.

I happened to be standing within five feet of a cuspidor when Major

Caswell opened fire upon it. I had been observant enough to perceive

that the attacking force was using Gatlings instead of squirrel rifles;

so I side-stepped so promptly that the major seized the opportunity to

apologize to a noncombatant. He had the blabbing lip. In four minutes he

had become my friend and had dragged me to the bar.

I desire to interpolate here that I am a Southerner. But I am not one by

profession or trade. I eschew the string tie, the slouch hat, the Prince

Albert, the number of bales of cotton destroyed by Sherman, and plug

chewing. When the orchestra plays Dixie I do not cheer. I slide a little

lower on the leather-cornered seat and, well, order another Würzburger

and wish that Longstreet had—but what’s the use?

Major Caswell banged the bar with his fist, and the first gun at Fort

Sumter re-echoed. When he fired the last one at Appomattox I began to

hope. But then he began on family trees, and demonstrated that Adam

was only a third cousin of a collateral branch of the Caswell family.

Genealogy disposed of, he took up, to my distaste, his private family

matters. He spoke of his wife, traced her descent back to Eve, and

profanely denied any possible rumor that she may have had relations in

the land of Nod.

By this time I was beginning to suspect that he was trying to obscure

by noise the fact that he had ordered the drinks, on the chance that

I would be bewildered into paying for them. But when they were down he

crashed a silver dollar loudly upon the bar. Then, of course, another

serving was obligatory. And when I had paid for that I took leave of him

brusquely; for I wanted no more of him. But before I had obtained my

release he had prated loudly of an income that his wife received, and

showed a handful of silver money.

When I got my key at the desk the clerk said to me courteously: “If that

man Caswell has annoyed you, and if you would like to make a complaint,

we will have him ejected. He is a nuisance, a loafer, and without any

known means of support, although he seems to have some money most the

time. But we don’t seem to be able to hit upon any means of throwing him

out legally.”

“Why, no,” said I, after some reflection; “I don’t see my way clear

to making a complaint. But I would like to place myself on record as

asserting that I do not care for his company. Your town,” I continued,

“seems to be a quiet one. What manner of entertainment, adventure, or

excitement have you to offer to the stranger within your gates?”

“Well, sir,” said the clerk, “there will be a show here next Thursday.

It is—I’ll look it up and have the announcement sent up to your room

with the ice water. Good night.”

After I went up to my room I looked out the window. It was only about

ten o’clock, but I looked upon a silent town. The drizzle continued,

spangled with dim lights, as far apart as currants in a cake sold at the

Ladies’ Exchange.

“A quiet place,” I said to myself, as my first shoe struck the ceiling

of the occupant of the room beneath mine. “Nothing of the life here that

gives color and variety to the cities in the East and West. Just a good,

ordinary, humdrum, business town.”

Nashville occupies a foremost place among the manufacturing

centres of the country. It is the fifth boot and shoe market

in the United States, the largest candy and cracker manufacturing

city in the South, and does an enormous wholesale drygoods,

grocery, and drug business.

I must tell you how I came to be in Nashville, and I assure you the

digression brings as much tedium to me as it does to you. I was

traveling elsewhere on my own business, but I had a commission from a

Northern literary magazine to stop over there and establish a personal

connection between the publication and one of its contributors, Azalea

Adair.

Adair (there was no clue to the personality except the handwriting) had

sent in some essays (lost art!) and poems that had made the editors

swear approvingly over their one o’clock luncheon. So they had

commissioned me to round up said Adair and corner by contract his or her

output at two cents a word before some other publisher offered her ten

or twenty.

At nine o’clock the next morning, after my chicken livers en brochette

(try them if you can find that hotel), I strayed out into the drizzle,

which was still on for an unlimited run. At the first corner I came

upon Uncle Cæsar. He was a stalwart Negro, older than the pyramids,

with gray wool and a face that reminded me of Brutus, and a second

afterwards of the late King Cettiwayo. He wore the most remarkable coat

that I ever had seen or expect to see. It reached to his ankles and had

once been a Confederate gray in colors. But rain and sun and age had so

variegated it that Joseph’s coat, beside it, would have faded to a pale

monochrome. I must linger with that coat, for it has to do with the

story—the story that is so long in coming, because you can hardly

expect anything to happen in Nashville.

Once it must have been the military coat of an officer. The cape of it

had vanished, but all adown its front it had been frogged and tasseled

magnificently. But now the frogs and tassles were gone. In their stead

had been patiently stitched (I surmised by some surviving “black mammy”)

new frogs made of cunningly twisted common hempen twine. This twine

was frayed and disheveled. It must have been added to the coat as a

substitute for vanished splendors, with tasteless but painstaking

devotion, for it followed faithfully the curves of the long-missing

frogs. And, to complete the comedy and pathos of the garment, all

its buttons were gone save one. The second button from the top alone

remained. The coat was fastened by other twine strings tied through the

buttonholes and other holes rudely pierced in the opposite side. There

was never such a weird garment so fantastically bedecked and of so many

mottled hues. The lone button was the size of a half-dollar, made of

yellow horn and sewed on with coarse twine.

This Negro stood by a carriage so old that Ham himself might have

started a hack line with it after he left the ark with the two animals

hitched to it. As I approached he threw open the door, drew out a

feather duster, waved it without using it, and said in deep, rumbling

tones: “Step right in, suh; ain’t a speck of dust in it—jus’ got back from a

funeral, suh.”

I inferred that on such gala occasions carriages were given an extra

cleaning. I looked up and down the street and perceived that there was

little choice among the vehicles for hire that lined the curb. I looked

in my memorandum book for the address of Azalea Adair.

“I want to go to 861 Jessamine Street,” I said, and was about to step

into the hack. But for an instant the thick, long, gorilla-like arm of

the old Negro barred me. On his massive and saturnine face a look of

sudden suspicion and enmity flashed for a moment. Then, with quickly

returning conviction, he asked blandishingly: “What are you gwine there

for, boss?”

“What is it to you?” I asked, a little sharply.

“Nothin’, suh, jus’ nothin’. Only it’s a lonesome kind of part of town

and few folks ever has business out there. Step right in. The seats is

clean—jes’ got back from a funeral, suh.”

A mile and a half it must have been to our journey’s end. I could hear

nothing but the fearful rattle of the ancient hack over the uneven brick

paving; I could smell nothing but the drizzle, now further flavored with

coal smoke and something like a mixture of tar and oleander blossoms.

All I could see through the streaming windows were two rows of dim

houses.

The city has an area of 10 square miles; 181 miles of streets,

of which 137 miles are paved; a system of water-works that cost

$2,000,000, with 77 miles of mains.

Eight-sixty-one Jessamine Street was a decayed mansion. Thirty yards

back from the street it stood, outmerged in a splendid grove of trees

and untrimmed shrubbery. A row of box bushes overflowed and almost hid

the paling fence from sight; the gate was kept closed by a rope noose

that encircled the gate post and the first paling of the gate. But when

you got inside you saw that 861 was a shell, a shadow, a ghost of former

grandeur and excellence. But in the story, I have not yet got inside.

When the hack had ceased from rattling and the weary quadrupeds came

to a rest I handed my jehu his fifty cents with an additional quarter,

feeling a glow of conscious generosity, as I did so. He refused it.

“It’s two dollars, suh,” he said.

“How’s that?” I asked. “I plainly heard you call out at the hotel:

‘Fifty cents to any part of the town.’“

“It’s two dollars, suh,” he repeated obstinately. “It’s a long ways from

the hotel.”

“It is within the city limits and well within them.” I argued. “Don’t

think that you have picked up a greenhorn Yankee. Do you see those hills

over there?” I went on, pointing toward the east (I could not see them,

myself, for the drizzle); “well, I was born and raised on their other

side. You old fool darky, can’t you tell people from other people when

you see ‘em?”

The grim face of King Cettiwayo softened. “Is you from the South, suh?

I reckon it was them shoes of yourn fooled me. They is somethin’ sharp

in the toes for a Southern gen’l’man to wear.”

“Then the charge is fifty cents, I suppose?” said I inexorably.

His former expression, a mingling of cupidity and hostility, returned,

remained ten seconds, and vanished.

“Boss,” he said, “fifty cents is right; but I needs two dollars, suh;

I’m obleeged to have two dollars. I ain’t demandin’ it now, suh;

after I know whar you’s from; I’m jus’ sayin’ that I has to have two

dollars to-night, and business is mighty po’.”

Peace and confidence settled upon his heavy features. He had been

luckier than he had hoped. Instead of having picked up a greenhorn,

ignorant of rates, he had come upon an inheritance.

“You confounded old rascal,” I said, reaching down to my pocket, “you

ought to be turned over to the police.”

For the first time I saw him smile. He knew; he knew. HE KNEW.

I gave him two one-dollar bills. As I handed them over I noticed that

one of them had seen parlous times. Its upper right-hand corner was

missing, and it had been torn through the middle, but joined again. A

strip of blue tissue paper, pasted over the split, preserved its

negotiability.

Enough of the African bandit for the present: I left him happy, lifted

the rope and opened a creaky gate.

The house, as I said, was a shell. A paint brush had not touched it in

twenty years. I could not see why a strong wind should not have bowled

it over like a house of cards until I looked again at the trees that

hugged it close—the trees that saw the battle of Nashville and still

drew their protecting branches around it against storm and enemy and

cold.

Azalea Adair, fifty years old, white-haired, a descendant of the

cavaliers, as thin and frail as the house she lived in, robed in the

cheapest and cleanest dress I ever saw, with an air as simple as a

queen’s, received me.

The reception room seemed a mile square, because there was nothing in

it except some rows of books, on unpainted white-pine bookshelves, a

cracked marble-top table, a rag rug, a hairless horsehair sofa and two

or three chairs. Yes, there was a picture on the wall, a colored crayon

drawing of a cluster of pansies. I looked around for the portrait of

Andrew Jackson and the pinecone hanging basket but they were not there.

Azalea Adair and I had conversation, a little of which will be repeated

to you. She was a product of the old South, gently nurtured in the

sheltered life. Her learning was not broad, but was deep and of splendid

originality in its somewhat narrow scope. She had been educated at

home, and her knowledge of the world was derived from inference and

by inspiration. Of such is the precious, small group of essayists

made. While she talked to me I kept brushing my fingers, trying,

unconsciously, to rid them guiltily of the absent dust from the

half-calf backs of Lamb, Chaucer, Hazlitt, Marcus Aurelius, Montaigne

and Hood. She was exquisite, she was a valuable discovery. Nearly

everybody nowadays knows too much—oh, so much too much—of real life.

I could perceive clearly that Azalea Adair was very poor. A house and a

dress she had, not much else, I fancied. So, divided between my duty to

the magazine and my loyalty to the poets and essayists who fought Thomas

in the valley of the Cumberland, I listened to her voice, which was like

a harpsichord’s, and found that I could not speak of contracts. In the

presence of the nine Muses and the three Graces one hesitated to lower

the topic to two cents. There would have to be another colloquy after

I had regained my commercialism. But I spoke of my mission, and three

o’clock of the next afternoon was set for the discussion of the business

proposition.

“Your town,” I said, as I began to make ready to depart (which is the

time for smooth generalities), “seems to be a quiet, sedate place. A

home town, I should say, where few things out of the ordinary ever

happen.”

It carries on an extensive trade in stoves and hollow ware with

the West and South, and its flouring mills have a daily capacity

of more than 2,000 barrels.

Azalea Adair seemed to reflect.

“I have never thought of it that way,” she said, with a kind of sincere

intensity that seemed to belong to her. “Isn’t it in the still, quiet

places that things do happen? I fancy that when God began to create the

earth on the first Monday morning one could have leaned out one’s window

and heard the drops of mud splashing from His trowel as He built up the

everlasting hills. What did the noisiest project in the world—I mean

the building of the Tower of Babel—result in finally? A page and a half

of Esperanto in the North American Review.”

“Of course,” said I platitudinously, “human nature is the same

everywhere; but there is more color—er—more drama and movement

and—er—romance in some cities than in others.”

“On the surface,” said Azalea Adair. “I have traveled many times around

the world in a golden airship wafted on two wings—print and dreams. I

have seen (on one of my imaginary tours) the Sultan of Turkey bowstring

with his own hands one of his wives who had uncovered her face in

public. I have seen a man in Nashville tear up his theatre tickets

because his wife was going out with her face covered—with rice powder.

In San Francisco’s Chinatown I saw the slave girl Sing Yee dipped

slowly, inch by inch, in boiling almond oil to make her swear she would

never see her American lover again. She gave in when the boiling oil had

reached three inches above her knee. At a euchre party in East Nashville

the other night I saw Kitty Morgan cut dead by seven of her schoolmates

and lifelong friends because she had married a house painter. The

boiling oil was sizzling as high as her heart; but I wish you could have

seen the fine little smile that she carried from table to table. Oh,

yes, it is a humdrum town. Just a few miles of red brick houses and mud

and lumber yards.”

Some one knocked hollowly at the back of the house. Azalea Adair

breathed a soft apology and went to investigate the sound. She came back

in three minutes with brightened eyes, a faint flush on her cheeks, and

ten years lifted from her shoulders.

“You must have a cup of tea before you go,” she said, “and a sugar

cake.”

She reached and shook a little iron bell. In shuffled a small Negro girl

about twelve, barefoot, not very tidy, glowering at me with thumb in

mouth and bulging eyes.

Azalea Adair opened a tiny, worn purse and drew out a dollar bill,

a dollar bill with the upper right-hand corner missing, torn in two

pieces, and pasted together again with a strip of blue tissue paper. It

was one of the bills I had given the piratical Negro—there was no doubt

about it.

“Go up to Mr. Baker’s store on the corner, Impy,” she said, handing the

girl the dollar bill, “and get a quarter of a pound of tea—the kind he

always sends me—and ten cents worth of sugar cakes. Now, hurry. The

supply of tea in the house happens to be exhausted,” she explained to

me.

Impy left by the back way. Before the scrape of her hard, bare feet

had died away on the back porch, a wild shriek—I was sure it was

hers—filled the hollow house. Then the deep, gruff tones of an angry

man’s voice mingled with the girl’s further squeals and unintelligible

words.

Azalea Adair rose without surprise or emotion and disappeared. For two

minutes I heard the hoarse rumble of the man’s voice; then something

like an oath and a slight scuffle, and she returned calmly to her chair.

“This is a roomy house,” she said, “and I have a tenant for part of it.

I am sorry to have to rescind my invitation to tea. It was impossible

to get the kind I always use at the store. Perhaps to-morrow, Mr. Baker

will be able to supply me.”

I was sure that Impy had not had time to leave the house. I inquired

concerning street-car lines and took my leave. After I was well on

my way I remembered that I had not learned Azalea Adair’s name. But

to-morrow would do.

That same day I started in on the course of iniquity that this

uneventful city forced upon me. I was in the town only two days, but

in that time I managed to lie shamelessly by telegraph, and to be an

accomplice—after the fact, if that is the correct legal term—to a

murder.

As I rounded the corner nearest my hotel the Afrite coachman of the

polychromatic, nonpareil coat seized me, swung open the dungeony door of

his peripatetic sarcophagus, flirted his feather duster and began his

ritual: “Step right in, boss. Carriage is clean—jus’ got back from a

funeral. Fifty cents to any—”

And then he knew me and grinned broadly. “‘Scuse me, boss; you is de

gen’l’man what rid out with me dis mawnin’. Thank you kindly, suh.”

“I am going out to 861 again to-morrow afternoon at three,” said I,

“and if you will be here, I’ll let you drive me. So you know Miss

Adair?” I concluded, thinking of my dollar bill.

“I belonged to her father, Judge Adair, suh,” he replied.

“I judge that she is pretty poor,” I said. “She hasn’t much money to

speak of, has she?”

For an instant I looked again at the fierce countenance of King

Cettiwayo, and then he changed back to an extortionate old Negro hack

driver.

“She ain’t gwine to starve, suh,” he said slowly. “She has reso’ces,

suh; she has reso’ces.”

“I shall pay you fifty cents for the trip,” said I.

“Dat is puffeckly correct, suh,” he answered humbly. “I jus’ _had_ to

have dat two dollars dis mawnin’, boss.”

I went to the hotel and lied by electricity. I wired the magazine: “A.

Adair holds out for eight cents a word.”

The answer that came back was: “Give it to her quick you duffer.”

Just before dinner “Major” Wentworth Caswell bore down upon me with the

greetings of a long-lost friend. I have seen few men whom I have so

instantaneously hated, and of whom it was so difficult to be rid. I was

standing at the bar when he invaded me; therefore I could not wave the

white ribbon in his face. I would have paid gladly for the drinks,

hoping, thereby, to escape another; but he was one of those despicable,

roaring, advertising bibbers who must have brass bands and fireworks

attend upon every cent that they waste in their follies.

With an air of producing millions he drew two one-dollar bills from a

pocket and dashed one of them upon the bar. I looked once more at the

dollar bill with the upper right-hand corner missing, torn through the

middle, and patched with a strip of blue tissue paper. It was my dollar

bill again. It could have been no other.

I went up to my room. The drizzle and the monotony of a dreary,

eventless Southern town had made me tired and listless. I remember that

just before I went to bed I mentally disposed of the mysterious dollar

bill (which might have formed the clew to a tremendously fine detective

story of San Francisco) by saying to myself sleepily: “Seems as if a

lot of people here own stock in the Hack-Driver’s Trust. Pays dividends

promptly, too. Wonder if—” Then I fell asleep.

King Cettiwayo was at his post the next day, and rattled my bones over

the stones out to 861. He was to wait and rattle me back again when I

was ready.

Azalea Adair looked paler and cleaner and frailer than she had looked

on the day before. After she had signed the contract at eight cents per

word she grew still paler and began to slip out of her chair. Without

much trouble I managed to get her up on the antediluvian horsehair sofa

and then I ran out to the sidewalk and yelled to the coffee-colored

Pirate to bring a doctor. With a wisdom that I had not expected in him,

he abandoned his team and struck off up the street afoot,

realizing the value of speed. In ten minutes he returned with a grave, gray-haired

and capable man of medicine. In a few words (worth much less than eight

cents each) I explained to him my presence in the hollow house of

mystery. He bowed with stately understanding, and turned to the old

Negro.

“Uncle Cæsar,” he said calmly, “Run up to my house and ask Miss Lucy to

give you a cream pitcher full of fresh milk and half a tumbler of port

wine. And hurry back. Don’t drive—run. I want you to get back sometime

this week.”

It occurred to me that Dr. Merriman also felt a distrust as to the

speeding powers of the land-pirate’s steeds. After Uncle Cæsar was

gone, lumberingly, but swiftly, up the street, the doctor looked me

over with great politeness and as much careful calculation until he

had decided that I might do.

“It is only a case of insufficient nutrition,” he said. “In other words,

the result of poverty, pride, and starvation. Mrs. Caswell has many

devoted friends who would be glad to aid her, but she will accept

nothing except from that old Negro, Uncle Cæsar, who was once owned by

her family.”

“Mrs. Caswell!” said I, in surprise. And then I looked at the contract

and saw that she had signed it “Azalea Adair Caswell.”

“I thought she was Miss Adair,” I said.

“Married to a drunken, worthless loafer, sir,” said the doctor. “It

is said that he robs her even of the small sums that her old servant

contributes toward her support.”

When the milk and wine had been brought the doctor soon revived Azalea

Adair. She sat up and talked of the beauty of the autumn leaves that

were then in season, and their height of color. She referred lightly to

her fainting seizure as the outcome of an old palpitation of the heart.

Impy fanned her as she lay on the sofa. The doctor was due elsewhere,

and I followed him to the door. I told him that it was within my power

and intentions to make a reasonable advance of money to Azalea Adair on

future contributions to the magazine, and he seemed pleased.

“By the way,” he said, “perhaps you would like to know that you have had

royalty for a coachman. Old Cæsar’s grandfather was a king in Congo.

Cæsar himself has royal ways, as you may have observed.”

As the doctor was moving off I heard Uncle Cæsar’s voice inside: “Did

he get bofe of dem two dollars from you, Mis’ Zalea?”

“Yes, Cæsar,” I heard Azalea Adair answer weakly. And then I went in

and concluded business negotiations with our contributor. I assumed the

responsibility of advancing fifty dollars, putting it as a necessary

formality in binding our bargain. And then Uncle Cæsar drove me back

to the hotel.

Here ends all of the story as far as I can testify as a witness. The

rest must be only bare statements of facts.

At about six o’clock I went out for a stroll. Uncle Cæsar was at his

corner. He threw open the door of his carriage, flourished his duster

and began his depressing formula: “Step right in, suh. Fifty cents to

anywhere in the city—hack’s puffickly clean, suh—jus’ got back from a

funeral—”

And then he recognized me. I think his eyesight was getting bad. His

coat had taken on a few more faded shades of color, the twine strings

were more frayed and ragged, the last remaining button—the button of

yellow horn—was gone. A motley descendant of kings was Uncle Cæsar!

About two hours later I saw an excited crowd besieging the front of

a drug store. In a desert where nothing happens this was manna; so I

wedged my way inside. On an extemporized couch of empty boxes and chairs

was stretched the mortal corporeality of Major Wentworth Caswell. A

doctor was testing him for the immortal ingredient. His decision was

that it was conspicuous by its absence.

The erstwhile Major had been found dead on a dark street and brought by

curious and ennuied citizens to the drug store. The late human being had

been engaged in terrific battle—the details showed that. Loafer and

reprobate though he had been, he had been also a warrior. But he had

lost. His hands were yet clinched so tightly that his fingers would not

be opened. The gentle citizens who had know him stood about and searched

their vocabularies to find some good words, if it were possible, to

speak of him. One kind-looking man said, after much thought: “When ‘Cas’

was about fo’teen he was one of the best spellers in school.”

While I stood there the fingers of the right hand of “the man that was”

which hung down the side of a white pine box, relaxed, and dropped

something at my feet. I covered it with one foot quietly, and a little

later on I picked it up and pocketed it. I reasoned that in his last

struggle his hand must have seized that object unwittingly and held it

in a death grip.

At the hotel that night the main topic of conversation, with the

possible exceptions of politics and prohibition, was the demise of Major

Caswell. I heard one man say to a group of listeners:

“In my opinion, gentlemen, Caswell was murdered by some of these

no-account darkies for his money. He had fifty dollars this afternoon

which he showed to several gentlemen in the hotel. When he was found

the money was not on his person.”

I left the city the next morning at nine, and as the train was crossing

the bridge over the Cumberland River I took out of my pocket a yellow

horn overcoat button the size of a fifty-cent piece, with frayed ends

of coarse twine hanging from it, and cast it out of the window into the

slow, muddy waters below.

I wonder what’s doing in Buffalo!

………………………….

“A Municipal Report”

by O. Henry (William Sydney Porter)

Read by Bob Rollins

Audio engineer Jared Bell

Directed by Walter Evans

Copyright Georgia Regents University 2012 All Rights Reserved