PROJECT ASHABI
African Stories. Limitless Worlds.
PROJECT ASHABI
African Stories. Limitless Worlds.
Project Gutenberg Archive
Complete unabridged public-domain literary work from the Project Gutenberg archive.
Project Ashabi is being built as the home of original African comics, webtoons, graphic novels, and fiction.
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CHAPTER I THE WORLD AND THE DOOR CHAPTER II THE THEORY AND THE HOUND CHAPTER III THE HYPOTHESES OF FAILURE CHAPTER IV CALLOWAY’S CODE CHAPTER V A MATTER OF MEAN ELEVATION CHAPTER VI “GIRL” CHAPTER VII SOCIOLOGY IN SERGE AND STRAW CHAPTER VIII THE RANSOM OF RED CHIEF CHAPTER IX THE MARRY MONTH OF MAY CHAPTER X A TECHNICAL ERROR CHAPTER XI SUITE HOMES AND THEIR ROMANCE CHAPTER XII THE WHIRLIGIG OF LIFE CHAPTER XIII A SACRIFICE HIT CHAPTER XIV THE ROADS WE TAKE CHAPTER XV A BLACKJACK BARGAINER CHAPTER XVI THE SONG AND THE SERGEANT CHAPTER XVII ONE DOLLAR’S WORTH CHAPTER XVIII A NEWSPAPER STORY CHAPTER XIX TOMMY’S BURGLAR CHAPTER XX A CHAPARRAL CHRISTMAS GIFT CHAPTER XXI A LITTLE LOCAL COLOUR CHAPTER XXII GEORGIA’S RULING CHAPTER XXIII BLIND MAN’S HOLIDAY CHAPTER XXIV MADAME BO-PEEP, OF THE RANCHES
A favourite dodge to get your story read by the public is to assert that it is true, and then add that Truth is stranger than Fiction. I do not know if the yarn I am anxious for you to read is true; but the Spanish purser of the fruit steamer _El Carrero_ swore to me by the shrine of Santa Guadalupe that he had the facts from the U. S. vice-consul at La Paz—a person who could not possibly have been cognizant of half of them.
As for the adage quoted above, I take pleasure in puncturing it by affirming that I read in a purely fictional story the other day the line: “‘Be it so,’ said the policeman.” Nothing so strange has yet cropped out in Truth.
When H. Ferguson Hedges, millionaire promoter, investor and man-about-New-York, turned his thoughts upon matters convivial, and word of it went “down the line,” bouncers took a precautionary turn at the Indian clubs, waiters put ironstone china on his favourite tables, cab drivers crowded close to the curbstone in front of all-night cafés, and careful cashiers in his regular haunts charged up a few bottles to his account by way of preface and introduction.
As a money power a one-millionaire is of small account in a city where the man who cuts your slice of beef behind the free-lunch counter rides to work in his own automobile. But Hedges spent his money as lavishly, loudly and showily as though he were only a clerk squandering a week’s wages. And, after all, the bartender takes no interest in your reserve fund. He would rather look you up on his cash register than in Bradstreet.
On the evening that the material allegation of facts begins, Hedges was bidding dull care begone in the company of five or six good fellows—acquaintances and friends who had gathered in his wake.
Among them were two younger men—Ralph Merriam, a broker, and Wade, his friend.
Two deep-sea cabmen were chartered. At Columbus Circle they hove to long enough to revile the statue of the great navigator, unpatriotically rebuking him for having voyaged in search of land instead of liquids. Midnight overtook the party marooned in the rear of a cheap café far uptown.
Arthur Conan Doyle
