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THE DEVIL AND THE BROKER.
A MEDIÆVAL LEGEND.
The church clocks in San Francisco were striking
ten. The Devil, who had been flying over the city
that evening, just then alighted on the roof of a
church near the corner of Bush and Montgomery
streets. It will be perceived that the popular belief
that the Devil avoids holy edifices, and vanishes at
the sound of a Credo or Paternoster, is long since exploded.
Indeed, modern skepticism asserts that he
is not averse to these orthodox discourses, which particularly
bear reference to himself, and in a measure
recognize his power and importance.
I am inclined to think, however, that his choice of
a resting-place was a good deal influenced by its
contiguity to a populous thoroughfare. When he
was comfortably seated he began pulling out the
joints of a small rod which he held in his hand, and
which presently proved to be an extraordinary fishing-pole,
with a telescopic adjustment that permitted
its protraction to a marvelous extent. Affixing a
from a small box which he carried with him, and,
making a skillful cast, threw his line into the very
centre of that living stream which ebbed and flowed
through Montgomery Street.
Either the people were very virtuous that evening
or the bait was not a taking one. In vain the Devil
whipped the stream at an eddy in front of the Occidental,
or trolled his line into the shadows of the
Cosmopolitan; five minutes passed without even a
nibble. “Dear me!” quoth the Devil, “that's very
singular; one of my most popular flies, too! Why,
they'd have risen by shoals in Broadway or Beacon
street, for that. Well, here goes another,” and,
fitting a new fly from his well filled box, he gracefully
recast his line.
For a few moments there was every prospect of
sport. The line was continually bobbing and the
nibbles were distinct and gratifying. Once or twice
the bait was apparently gorged and carried off in the
upper stories of the hotels to be digested at leisure.
At such times the professional manner in which the
Devil played out his line would have thrilled the
heart of Izaak Walton. But his efforts were unsuccessful;
the bait was invariably carried off without
hooking the victim, and the Devil finally lost his
temper. “I've heard of these San Franciscans before,”
he muttered; “wait till I get hold of one—
that's all!” he added malevolently, as he re-baited his
hook. A sharp tug and a wriggle folled his next
trial, and finally, with considerable effort, he landed
a portly 200-lb. broker upon the church roof.
As the victim lay there gasping, it was evident
that the Devil was in no hurry to remove the hook
from his gills; nor did he exhibit in this delicate
operation that courtesy of manner and graceful
manipulation which usually distinguished him.
“Come,” he said gruffly, as he grasped the broker
by the waistband, “quit that whining and grunting.
Don't flatter yourself that you're a prize, either. I
was certain to have had you. It was only a question
of time.”
“It is not that, my lord, which troubles me,”
whined the unfortunate wretch, as he painfully
wriggled his head, “but that I should have been
fooled by such a paltry bait. What will they say
of me down there? To have let `bigger things' go
by, and to be taken in by this cheap trick,” he
added, as he groaned and glanced at the fly which
the Devil was carefully re-arranging, “is what—pardon
me, my lord—is what gets me!”
“Yes,” said the Devil, philosophically, “I never
caught anybody yet who didn't say that; but tell
me, ain't you getting somewhat fastidious down
there? Here is one of my most popular flies, the
greenback,” he continued, exhibiting an emerald
looking insect, which he drew from his box.
“This, so generally considered excellent in election
season, has not even been nibbled at. Perhaps your
sagacity, which, in spite of this unfortunate contretemps,
no one can doubt,” added the Devil, with a
graceful return to his usual courtesy, “may explain
the reason or suggest a substitute.”
The broker glanced at the contents of the box
with a supercilious smile. “Too old-fashioned, my
lord—long ago played out.” “Yet,” he added, with
a gleam of interest, “for a consideration I might
offer something—ahem!—that would make a taking
substitute for these trifles. Give me,” he continued,
in a brisk, business-like way, “a slight percentage
and a bonus down, and I'm your man.”
“Name your terms,” said the Devil earnestly.
“My liberty and a percentage on all you take, and
the thing's done.”
The Devil caressed his tail thoughtfully, for a few
moments. He was certain of the broker any way—
and the risk was slight. “Done!” he said.
“Stay a moment,” said the artful broker. “There
are certain contingencies. Give me your fishing rod
and let me apply the bait myself. It requires a
skillful hand, my lord; even your well-known experience
might fail. Leave me alone for half an
hour, and if you have reason to complain of my
success I will forfeit my deposit—I mean my
liberty.”
The Devil acceded to his request, bowed and withdrew.
Alighting gracefully in Montgomery Street, he
dropped into Meade & Co.'s clothing store, where, having
completely equipped himself à la mode, he sallied
forth intent on his personal enjoyment. Determining
to sink his professional character, he mingled with the
current of human life, and enjoyed, with that immense
capacity for excitement peculiar to his nature, the
whirl, bustle and feverishness of the people, as a
of business. What he did that evening does not belong
to our story. We return to the broker, whom
we left on the roof.
When he made sure that the Devil had retired, he
carefully drew from his pocket-book a slip of paper
and affixed it on the hook. The line had scarcely
reached the current before he felt a bite. The hook
was swallowed. To bring up his victim rapidly,
disengage him from the hook and re-set his line was
the work of a moment. Another bite and the same
result. Another, and another. In a very few minutes
the roof was covered with his panting spoil. The
broker could himself distinguish that many of them
were personal friends—nay, some of them were familiar
frequenters of the building on which they were
now miserably stranded. That the broker felt a certain
satisfaction in being instrumental in thus misleading
his fellow-brokers no one acquainted with
human nature will for a moment doubt. But a stronger
pull on his line caused him to put forth all his
strength and skill. The magic pole bent like a coach-whip.
The broker held firm, assisted by the battlements
of the church. Again and again it was almost
wrested from his hand, and again again he slowly
reeled in a portion of the tightening line. At last,
with one mighty effort, he lifted to the level of the
roof a struggling object. A howl like Pandemonium
rang through the air as the broker successfully landed
at his feet—the Devil himself!
The two glared fiercely at each other. The broker,
haste to remove the hook from his antagonist's jaw.
When it was finally accomplished, he asked quietly
if the Devil was satisfied. That gentleman seemed
absorbed in the contemplation of the bait which he
had just taken from his mouth. “I am,” he said,
finally, “and forgive you—but what do you call this?”
“Bend low,” replied the Broker, as he buttomed
up his coat ready to depart. The Devil inclined his
ear. “I call it Wild Cat?”
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