 | Mrs. Skaggs's husbands, and other sketches |  |
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
Pater-noster, is long since exploded. Indeed, modern
scepticism 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 marvellous extent.
Affixing a line thereto, he selected a fly of a particular
pattern from a small box which he carried
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 rebaited his hook. A sharp
tug and a wriggle foiled his next trial, and
two-hundred-pound 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 rearranging, “is
what, — pardon me, my lord, — is what gets me!”
“Yes,” said the Devil, philosophically, “I never
caught anybody yet who did n'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
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 skilful 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
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 purely æsthetic
gratification unalloyed by the cares 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 reset 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.
held firm, assisted by the battlements of the
church. Again and again it was almost wrested
from his hand, and again and 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, perhaps mindful of his former treatment,
evinced no 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 buttoned
up his coat ready to depart. The Devil inclined
his ear. “I call it Wild Cat!”
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