The Complete Short Stories of Mark Twain (48 page)

“Oh, well, all right; it’s but a little thing to ask, take her along.”

Happy, we two? There are not words enough in the unabridged to describe it. And when London got the whole history, a day or two later, of my month’s adventures with that bank-note, and how they ended, did London talk, and have a good time? Yes.

My Portia’s papa took that friendly and hospitable bill back to the Bank of England and cashed it; then the Bank canceled it and made him a present of it, and he gave it to us at our wedding, and it has always hung in its frame in the sacredest place in our home ever since. For it gave me my Portia. But for it I could not have remained in London, would not have appeared at the minister’s, never should have met her. And so I always say, “Yes, it’s a million-pounder, as you see; but it never made but one purchase in its life, and
then
got the article for only about a tenth part of its value.”

1893

CECIL RHODES AND THE SHARK
                                                                                                                                       

T
HE SHARK is the swiftest fish that swims. The speed of the fastest steamer afloat is poor compared to his. And he is a great gad-about, and roams far and wide in the oceans, and visits the shores of all of them, ultimately, in the course of his restless excursions. I have a tale to tell now, which has not as yet been in print. In 1870 a young stranger arrived in Sydney, and set about finding something to do; but he knew no one, and brought no recommendations, and the result was that he got no employment. He had aimed high, at first, but as time and his money wasted away he grew less and less exacting, until at last he was willing to serve in the humblest capacities if so he might get bread and shelter. But luck was still against him; he could find no opening of any sort. Finally his money was all gone. He walked the streets all day, thinking; he walked them all night, thinking, thinking, and growing hungrier and hungrier. At dawn he found himself well away from the town and drifting aimlessly along the harbor shore. As he was passing by a nodding shark-fisher the man looked up and said:

“Say, young fellow, take my line a spell, and change my luck for me.”

“How do you know I won’t make it worse?”

“Because you can’t. It has been at its worst all night. If you can’t change it, no harm’s done; if you do change it, it’s for the better, of course. Come.”

“All right, what will you give?”

“I’ll give you the shark, if you catch one.”

“And I will eat it, bones and all. Give me the line.”

“Here you are. I will get away, now, for a while, so that my luck won’t spoil yours; for many and many a time I’ve noticed that if—there, pull in, pull in, man, you’ve got a bite!
I
knew how it would be. Why, I knew you for a born son of luck the minute I saw you. All right—he’s landed.”

It was an unusually large shark—“a full nineteen-footer,” the fisherman said, as he laid the creature open with his knife.

“Now you rob him, young man, while I step to my hamper for a fresh bait. There’s generally something in them worth going for. You’ve changed my luck, you see. But, my goodness, I hope you haven’t changed your own.”

“Oh, it wouldn’t matter; don’t worry about that. Get your bait. I’ll rob him.”

When the fisherman got back the young man had just finished washing his hands in the bay and was starting away.

“What! you are not going?”

“Yes. Good-by.”

“But what about your shark?”

“The shark? Why, what use is he to me?”

“What
use
is he? I like that. Don’t you know that we can go and report him to Government, and you’ll get a clean solid eighty shillings bounty? Hard cash, you know. What do you think about it
now?
”

“Oh, well, you can collect it.”

“And
keep
it? Is that what you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Well, this is odd. You’re one of those sort they call eccentrics, I judge. The saying is, you mustn’t judge a man by his clothes, and I’m believing it now. Why yours are looking just ratty, don’t you know; and yet you must be rich.”

“I am.”

The young man walked slowly back to the town, deeply musing as he went. He halted a moment in front of the best restaurant, then glanced at his clothes and passed on, and got his breakfast at a “stand-up.” There was a good deal of it, and it cost five shillings. He tendered a sovereign, got his change, glanced at his silver, muttered to himself, “There isn’t enough to buy clothes with,” and went his way.

At half past nine the richest wool-broker in Sydney was sitting in his morning-room at home, settling his breakfast with the morning paper. A servant put his head in and said:

“There’s a sundowner at the door wants to see you, sir.”

“What do you bring that kind of a message here for? Send him about his business.”

“He won’t go, sir. I’ve tried.”

“He won’t go? That’s—why, that’s unusual. He’s one of two things, then: he’s a remarkable person, or he’s crazy. Is he crazy?”

“No, sir. He don’t look it.”

“Then he’s remarkable. What does he say he wants?”

“He won’t tell, sir; only says it’s very important.”

“And won’t go. Does he
say
he won’t go?”

“Says he’ll stand there till he sees you, sir, if it’s all day.”

“And yet isn’t crazy. Show him up.”

The sundowner was shown in. The broker said to himself, “No, he’s not crazy; that is easy to see; so he must be the other thing.”

Then aloud, “Well, my good fellow, be quick about it; don’t waste any words; what is it you want?”

“I want to borrow a hundred thousand pounds.”

“Scott! (It’s a mistake; he
is
crazy. . . . No—he
can’t
be—not with that eye.) Why, you take my breath away. Come, who
are
you?”

“Nobody that you know.”

“What is your name?”

“Cecil Rhodes.”

“No, I don’t remember hearing the name before. Now then—just for curiosity’s sake—what has sent you to me on this extraordinary errand?”

“The intention to make a hundred thousand pounds for you and as much for myself within the next sixty days.”

“Well, well, well. It is the most extraordinary idea that I—sit
down
—you interest me. And somehow you—well, you fascinate me, I think that that is about the word. And it isn’t your proposition—no, that doesn’t fascinate me; it’s something else, I don’t quite know what; something that’s born in you and oozes out of you, I suppose. Now then—just for curiosity’s sake again, nothing more: as I understand it, it is your desire to bor—”

“I said
intention
.”

“Pardon, so you did. I thought it was an unheedful use of the word—an unheedful valuing of its strength, you know.”

“I knew its strength.”

“Well, I must say—but look here, let me walk the floor a little, my mind is getting into a sort of whirl, though
you
don’t seem disturbed any. (Plainly this young fellow isn’t crazy; but as to his being remarkable—well, really he amounts to that, and something over.) Now then, I believe I am beyond the reach of further astonishment. Strike, and spare not. What is your scheme?”

“To buy the wool crop—deliverable in sixty days.”

“What, the
whole
of it?”

“The whole of it.”

“No, I was not quite out of the reach of surprises, after all. Why, how you talk. Do you know what our crop is going to foot up?”

“Two and a half million sterling—maybe a little more.”

“Well, you’ve got your statistics right, anyway. Now then, do you know what the margins would foot up, to buy it at sixty days?”

“The hundred thousand pounds I came here to get.”

“Right, once more. Well, dear me, just to see what would happen, I wish you had the money. And if you had it, what would you do with it?”

“I shall make two hundred thousand pounds out of it in sixty days.”

“You mean, of course, that you
might
make it if—”

“I said, ‘shall.’”

“Yes, by George, you
did
say ‘shall’! You are the most definite devil I ever saw, in the matter of language. Dear, dear, dear, look here! Definite speech means clarity of mind. Upon my word I believe you’ve got what you believe to be a rational
reason
for venturing into this house, an entire stranger, on this wild scheme of buying the wool crop of an entire colony on speculation. Bring it out—I am prepared—acclimatized, if I may use the word.
Why
would you buy the crop, and
why
would you make that sum out of it? That is to say, what makes you think you—”

“I don’t think—I know.”

“Definite again.
How
do you know?”

“Because France has declared war against Germany, and wool has gone up fourteen per cent. in London and is still rising.”

“Oh, in-deed?
Now
then, I’ve
got
you! Such a thunderbolt as you have just let fly ought to have made me jump out of my chair, but it didn’t stir me the least little bit, you see. And for a very simple reason: I have read the morning paper. You can look at it if you want to. The fastest ship in the service arrived at eleven o’clock last night, fifty days out from London. All her news is printed here. There are no war-clouds anywhere; and as for wool, why, it is the low-spiritedest commodity in the English market. It is your turn to jump, now. . . . Well, why don’t you jump? Why do you sit there in that placid fashion, when—”

“Because I have later news.”

“Later news? Oh, come—later news than fifty days, brought steaming hot from London by the—”

“My news is only ten days old.”

“Oh, Mun-
chausen
, hear the maniac talk! Where did you get it?”

“Got it out of a shark.”

“Oh, oh, oh, this is
too
much! Front! call the police—bring the gun—raise the town! All the asylums in Christendom have broken loose in the single person of—”

“Sit down! And collect yourself. Where is the use in getting excited? Am I excited? There is nothing to get excited
about
. When I make a statement which I cannot prove, it will be time enough for you to begin to offer hospitality to damaging fancies about me and my sanity.”

“Oh, a thousand thousand pardons! I ought to be ashamed of myself, and I
am
ashamed of myself for thinking that a little bit of a circumstance like sending a shark to England to fetch back a market report—”

“What does your middle initial stand for, sir?”

“Andrew. What are you writing?”

“Wait a moment. Proof about the shark—and another matter. Only ten lines. There—now it is done. Sign it.”

“Many thanks—many. Let me see; it says—it says—oh, come, this is
interesting!
Why—why—look here! prove what you say here, and I’ll put up the money, and double as much, if necessary, and divide the winnings with you, half and half. There, now—I’ve signed; make your promise good if you can. Show me a copy of the London
Times
only ten days old.”

“Here it is—and with it these buttons and a memorandum-book that belonged to the man the shark swallowed. Swallowed him in the Thames, without a doubt; for you will notice that the last entry in the book is dated ‘London,’ and is of the same date as the
Times
, and says ‘
Ber confequentz ber Ariegeserflärung, reife ich heute nach Deutfchland ab, auf dak ich mein Leben auf dem ultar meines Landes Iegen mag’
—as clean native German as anybody can put upon paper, and means that in consequence of the declaration of war, this loyal soul is leaving for home
to-day
, to fight. And he did leave, too, but the shark had him before the day was done, poor fellow.”

“And a pity, too. But there are times for mourning, and we will attend to this case further on; other matters are pressing, now. I will go down and set the machinery in motion in a quiet way and buy the crop. It will cheer the drooping spirits of the boys, in a transitory way. Everything is transitory in this world. Sixty days hence, when they are called to deliver the goods, they will think they’ve been struck by lightning. But there is a time for mourning, and we will attend to that case along with the other one. Come along, I’ll take you to my tailor. What did you say your name is?”

“Cecil Rhodes.”

“It is hard to remember. However, I think you will make it easier by and by, if you live. There are three kinds of people—Commonplace Men, Remarkable Men, and Lunatics. I’ll classify you with the Remarkables, and take the chances.”

The deal went through, and secured to the young stranger the first fortune he ever pocketed.

From
FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR,
1897

THE JOKE THAT MADE ED’S FORTUNE
                                                                                                                                       

Let us be thankful for the fools. But for them the rest of us could not succeed.

—Pudd’nhead Wilson’s New Calendar

A
FEW YEARS before the outbreak of the Civil War it began to appear that Memphis, Tennessee, was going to be a great tobacco
entrepôt
—the wise could see the signs of it. At that time Memphis had a wharfboat, of course. There was a paved sloping wharf, for the accommodation of freight, but the steamers landed on the outside of the wharfboat, and all loading and unloading was done across it, between steamer and shore. A number of wharfboat clerks were needed, and part of the time, every day, they were very busy, and part of the time tediously idle. They were boiling over with youth and spirits, and they had to make the intervals of idleness endurable in some way; and as a rule, they did it by contriving practical jokes and playing them upon each other.

The favorite butt for the jokes was Ed Jackson, because he played none himself, and was easy game for other people’s—for he always believed whatever was told him.

One day he told the others his scheme for his holiday. He was not going fishing or hunting this time—no, he had thought out a better plan. Out of his forty dollars a month he had saved enough for his purpose, in an economical way, and he was going to have a look at New York.

It was a great and surprising idea. It meant travel—immense travel—in those days it meant seeing the world; it was the equivalent of a voyage around it in ours. At first the other youths thought his mind was affected, but when they found that he was in earnest, the next thing to be thought of was, what sort of opportunity this venture might afford for a practical joke.

The young men studied over the matter, then held a secret consultation and made a plan. The idea was, that one of the conspirators should offer Ed a letter of introduction to Commodore Vanderbilt, and trick him into delivering it. It would be easy to do this. But what would Ed do when he got back to Memphis? That was a serious matter. He was good-hearted, and had always taken the jokes patiently; but they had been jokes which did not humiliate him, did not bring him to shame; whereas, this would be a cruel one in that way, and to play it was to meddle with fire; for with all his good nature, Ed was a Southerner—and the English of that was, that when he came back he would kill as many of the conspirators as he could before falling himself. However, the chances must be taken—it wouldn’t do to waste such a joke as that.

So the letter was prepared with great care and elaboration. It was signed Alfred Fairchild, and was written in an easy and friendly spirit. It stated that the bearer was the bosom friend of the writer’s son, and was of good parts and sterling character, and it begged the Commodore to be kind to the young stranger for the writer’s sake. It went on to say, “You may have forgotten me, in this long stretch of time, but you will easily call me back out of your boyhood memories when I remind you of how we robbed old Stevenson’s orchard that night; and how, while he was chasing down the road after us, we cut across the field and doubled back and sold his own apples to his own cook for a hatful of doughnuts; and the time that we—” and so forth and so on, bringing in names of imaginary comrades, and detailing all sorts of wild and absurd and, of course, wholly imaginary school-boy pranks and adventures, but putting them into lively and telling shape.

With all gravity Ed was asked if he would like to have a letter to Commodore Vanderbilt, the great millionaire. It was expected that the question would astonish Ed, and it did.

“What? Do
you
know that extraordinary man?”

“No; but my father does. They were schoolboys together. And if you like, I’ll write and ask father. I know he’ll be glad to give it to you for my sake.”

Ed could not find words capable of expressing his gratitude and delight. The three days passed, and the letter was put into his hands. He started on his trip, still pouring out his thanks while he shook good-by all around. And when he was out of sight his comrades let fly their laughter in a storm of happy satisfaction—and then quieted down, and were less happy, less satisfied. For the old doubts as to the wisdom of this deception began to intrude again.

Arrived in New York, Ed found his way to Commodore Vanderbilt’s business quarters, and was ushered into a large anteroom, where a score of people were patiently awaiting their turn for a two-minute interview with the millionaire in his private office. A servant asked for Ed’s card, and got the letter instead. Ed was sent for a moment later, and found Mr. Vanderbilt alone, with the letter—open—in his hand.

“Pray sit down, Mr.—er—”

“Jackson.”

“Ah—sit down, Mr. Jackson. By the opening sentences it seems to be a letter from an old friend. Allow me—I will run my eye through it. He says—he says—why, who
is
it?” He turned the sheet and found the signature. “Alfred Fairchild—h’m—Fairchild—I don’t recall the name. But that is nothing—a thousand names have gone from me. He says—he says—h’m—h’m—oh, dear, but it’s good! Oh, it’s rare! I don’t
quite
remember it, but I
seem
to—it’ll all come back to me presently. He says—he says—h’m—h’m—oh, but that was a game! Oh, spl-endid! How it carries me back! It’s all dim, of course—it’s a long time ago—and the names—
some
of the names are wavery and indistinct—but sho’, I know it happened—I can
feel
it! and lord, how it warms my heart, and brings back my lost youth! Well, well, well, I’ve got to come back into this workaday world now—business presses and people are waiting—I’ll keep the rest for bed to-night, and live my youth over again. And you’ll thank Fairchild for me when you see him—I used to call him Alf, I think—and you’ll give him my gratitude for what this letter has done for the tired spirit of a hard-worked man; and tell him there isn’t anything that I can do for him or any friend of his that I won’t do. And as for you, my lad, you are my guest; you can’t stop at any hotel in New York. Sit where you are a little while, till I get through with these people, then we’ll go home, I’ll take care of
you
, my boy—make yourself easy as to that.”

Ed stayed a week, and had an immense time—and never suspected that the Commodore’s shrewd eyes were on him, and that he was daily being weighed and measured and analyzed and tried and tested.

Yes, he had an immense time; and never wrote home, but saved it all up to tell when he should get back. Twice, with proper modesty and decency, he proposed to end his visit, but the Commodore said, “No—wait; leave it to me; I’ll tell you when to go.”

In those days the Commodore was making some of those vast combinations of his—consolidations of warring odds and ends of railroads into harmonious systems, and concentrations of floating and rudderless commerce in effective centers—and among other things his far-seeing eye had detected the convergence of that huge tobacco-commerce, already spoken of, toward Memphis, and he had resolved to set his grasp upon it and make it his own.

The week came to an end. Then the Commodore said:

“Now you can start home. But first we will have some more talk about that tobacco matter. I know you now. I know your abilities as well as you know them yourself—perhaps better. You understand that tobacco matter; you understand that I am going to take possession of it, and you also understand the plans which I have matured for doing it. What I want is a man who knows my mind, and is qualified to represent me in Memphis, and be in supreme command of that important business—and I appoint you.”

“Me!”

“Yes. Your salary will be high—of course—for you are representing me. Later you will earn increases of it, and will get them. You will need a small army of assistants; choose them yourself—and carefully. Take no man for friendship’s sake; but, all things being equal, take the man you know, take your friend, in preference to the stranger.”

After some further talk under this head, the Commodore said: “Good-by, my boy, and thank Alf for me, for sending you to me.”

When Ed reached Memphis he rushed down to the wharf in a fever to tell his great news and thank the boys over and over again for thinking to give him the letter to Mr. Vanderbilt. It happened to be one of those idle times. Blazing hot noonday, and no sign of life on the wharf. But as Ed threaded his way among the freight-piles, he saw a white linen figure stretched in slumber upon a pile of grain-sacks under an awning, and said to himself, “That’s one of them,” and hastened his step; next, he said, “It’s Charley—it’s Fairchild—good”; and the next moment laid an affectionate hand on the sleeper’s shoulder. The eyes opened lazily, took one glance, the face blanched, the form whirled itself from the sack-pile, and in an instant Ed was alone and Fairchild was flying for the wharfboat like the wind!

Ed was dazed, stupefied. Was Fairchild crazy? What could be the meaning of this? He started slow and dreamily down toward the wharfboat; turned the corner of a freightpile and came suddenly upon two of the boys. They were lightly laughing over some pleasant matter; they heard his step, and glanced up just as he discovered them; the laugh died abruptly; and before Ed could speak they were off, and sailing over barrels and bales like hunted deer. Again Ed was paralyzed. Had the boys all gone mad? What
could
be the explanation of this extraordinary conduct? And so, dreaming along, he reached the wharfboat, and stepped aboard—nothing but silence there, and vacancy. He crossed the deck, turned the corner to go down the outer guard, heard a fervent—

“O Lord!” and saw a white linen form plunge overboard.

The youth came up coughing and strangling, and cried out:

“Go ’way from here! You let me alone.
I
didn’t do it, I swear I didn’t!”

“Didn’t do
what?
”

“Give you the—”

“Never mind what you didn’t do—come out of that! What makes you all act so? What have
I
done?”

“You? Why,
you
haven’t done anything. But—”

“Well, then, what have you got against me? What do you all treat me so for?”

“I—er—but haven’t you got anything against
us?
”

“Of course not. What put such a thing into your head?”

“Honor bright—you haven’t?”

“Honor bright.”

“Swear it!”

“I don’t know what in the
world
you mean, but I swear it, anyway.”

“And you’ll shake hands with me?”

“Goodness knows I’ll be
glad
to! Why, I’m just starving to shake hands with
somebody!
”

The swimmer muttered, “Hang him, he smelt a rat and never delivered the letter!—but it’s all right, I’m not going to fetch up the subject.” And he crawled out and came dripping and draining to shake hands. First one and then another of the conspirators showed up cautiously—armed to the teeth—took in the amicable situation, then ventured warily forward and joined the love-feast.

And to Ed’s eager inquiry as to what made them act as they had been acting, they answered evasively and pretended that they had put it up as a joke, to see what he would do. It was the best explanation they could invent at such short notice. And each said to himself, “He never delivered that letter, and the joke is on
us
, if he only knew it or we were dull enough to come out and tell.”

Then, of course, they wanted to know all about the trip; and he said:

“Come right up on the boiler deck and order the drinks—it’s my treat. I’m going to tell you all about it. And to-night it’s my treat again—and we’ll have oysters and a time!”

When the drinks were brought and cigars lighted, Ed said:

“Well, when I delivered the letter to Mr. Vanderbilt—”

“Great Scott!”

“Gracious, how you scared me. What’s the matter?”

“Oh—er—nothing. Nothing—it was a tack in the chair-seat,” said one.

“But you
all
said it. However, no matter. When I delivered the letter—”

“
Did
you deliver it?” And they looked at each other as people might who thought that maybe they were dreaming.

Then they settled to listening; and as the story deepened and its marvels grew, the amazement of it made them dumb, and the interest of it took their breath. They hardly uttered a whisper during two hours, but sat like petrifactions and drank in the immortal romance. At last the tale was ended, and Ed said:

“And it’s all owing to
you
, boys, and you’ll never find
me
ungrateful—bless your hearts, the best friends a fellow ever had! You’ll all have places; I want every one of you. I
know
you—I know you ‘by the
back
,’ as the gamblers say. You’re jokers, and all that, but you’re
sterling
, with the hallmark
on
. And Charley Fairchild, you shall be my first assistant and right hand, because of your first-class ability, and because you got me the letter, and for your father’s sake who wrote it for me, and to please Mr. Vanderbilt, who
said
it would! And here’s to that great man—drink hearty!”

Yes, when the Moment comes, the Man appears—even if he is a thousand miles away, and has to be discovered by a practical joke.

From
FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR,
1897