 | A POOR MAN. Saratoga in 1901 |  |
A POOR MAN.
Last night, between the sets, I strayed out into the hotel
corridors and ran upon an old silver-haired friend from Washington
Heights. He was in great distress. He
would puff his cigar a moment with great
energy—then he would settle himself back in his
chair and soliloquise. He seemed like one on
the verge of committing some heinous crime. I
looked him square in the face, but he was so
busy with his mutterings that he did not notice
me. I jogged against him, but he only pulled his hat lower over
his eyes and clenched his teeth more securely upon his stump of
a cigar. Not knowing but what his seeming remorse of conscience
was about to betray him into a confession of some terrible
crime, I listened to his mutterings. This is just what he said:
“Horace, you are a fool. You don't know when you are well
off. You ought to be kicked. There you were in the nicest,
cosiest house on Washington Heights—away from dust and
cinders—a big yard, splendid flower garden, and a cool breeze
blowing all day long around
you. You were the happiest
man in New York. You sat
on your own cool porch—you
enjoyed your fragrant partaga
—your friends dropped in—
the servants made the nicest
ices and cobblers, and Oh!”
he moaned, “how happy we
all were!” Then he leaned
forward on his hands, groaned
—and was silent. A moment,
and his mutterings commenced
again. “Horace, you
High hat, black coat, kid gloves! Ugh! Wife dancing up-stairs,
and Horace here melting with the heat.
“O dear,” he moaned, “my dear wife will kill me. I didn't
want to come; we haven't any girls to bring out. She said, `O,
dear Horace, it will be so nice:' and I turned my back on the
happiest home, the loveliest garden, to come and sit on these
infernal, dusty, scorching, crowded balconies! O Horace, you
are a darned old idiot!” and then he started up with a wild stare
in his eye, and strided toward the ball-room—a miserable, unhappy
victim of too much love and confidence—in his wife!
| A POOR MAN. Saratoga in 1901 | |