41 Stories by O. Henry Page B

reduced by “fines” that go to swell the store’s profits; of time lost through illness; and then of lost positions, lost hope, and—the knock of the adventurer upon the green door.
    But to Rudolf the history sounded as big as the Iliad or the crisis in “Junie’s Love Test.”
    â€œTo think of you going through all that,” he exclaimed.
    â€œIt was something fierce,” said the girl, solemnly.
    â€œAnd you have no relatives or friends in the city?”
    â€œNone whatever.”
    â€œI am all alone in the world, too,” said Rudolf, after a pause.
    â€œI am glad of that,” said the girl, promptly; and somehow it pleased the young man to hear that she approved of his bereft condition.
    Very suddenly her eyelids dropped and she sighed deeply.
    â€œI’m awfully sleepy,” she said, “and I feel so good.”
    Rudolf rose and took his hat.
    â€œThen I’ll say good-night. A long night’s sleep will be fine for you.”
    He held out his hand, and she took it and said “good-night.” But her eyes asked a question so eloquently, so frankly and pathetically that he answered it with words.
    â€œOh, I’m coming back to-morrow to see how you are getting along. You can’t get rid of me so easily.”
    Then, at the door, as though the way of his coming had been so much less important than the fact that he had come, she asked: “How did you come to knock at my door?”
    He looked at her for a moment, remembering the cards, and felt a sudden jealous pain. What if they had fallen into other hands as adventurous as his? Quickly he decided that she must never know the truth. He would never let her know that he was aware of the strange expedient to which she had been driven by her great distress.
    â€œOne of our piano tuners lives in this house,” he said. “I knocked at your door by mistake.”
    The last thing he saw in the room before the green door closed was her smile.
    At the head of the stairway he paused and looked curiously about him. And then he went along the hallway to its other end; and, coming back, ascended to the floor above and continued his puzzled explorations. Every door that he found in the house was painted green.
    Wondering, he descended to the sidewalk. The fantastic African was still there. Rudolf confronted him with his two cards in his hand.
    â€œWill you tell me why you gave me these cards and what they mean?” he asked.
    In a broad, good-natured grin the negro exhibited a splendid advertisement of his master’s profession.
    â€œDar it is, boss,” he said, pointing down the street. “But I ’spect you is a little late for de fust act.”
    Looking the way he pointed Rudolf saw above the entrance to a theatre the blazing electric sign of its new play, “The Green Door.”
    â€œI’m informed dat it’s a fust-rate show, sah,” said the negro. “De agent what represents it pussented me with a dollar, sah, to distribute a few of his cards along with de doctah’s. May I offer you one of de doctah’s cards, suh?”
    At the corner of the block in which he lived Rudolf stopped for a glass of beer and a cigar. When he had come out with his lighted weed he buttoned his coat, pushed back his hat and said, stoutly, to the lamp post on the comer:
    â€œAll the same, I believe it was the hand of Fate that doped out the way for me to find her.”
    Which conclusion, under the circumstances, certainly admits Rudolf Steiner to the ranks of the true followers of Romance and Adventure.

Transients in Arcadia
    There is a hotel on Broadway that has escaped discovery by the summer-resort promoters. It is deep and wide and cool. Its rooms are finished in dark oak of a low temperature. Home-made breezes and deep-green shrubbery give it the delights without the inconveniences of the Adirondacks. One can mount its broad staircases or glide dreamily upward in its