The Fascinating Stranger, and Other StoriesTarkington, Booth
General
The Fascinating Stranger, and Other Stories
Tarkington, Booth
Short stories, American; United States -- Social life and customs -- 20th century -- Fiction
An employed man he was, indeed; a lawyer without much hope of ever
seeing his name on the door or on the letters of the firm that employed
him, and his most important work was the collection of small debts. This
one-hundred-dollar bill now in his pocket was such a collection, small
to the firm and the client, though of a noble size to himself and the
long-pursued debtor from whom he had just collected it.
The banks were closed; so was the office, for it was six o’clock, and
Collinson was on his way home when by chance he encountered the debtor:
there was nothing to do but to keep the bill over night. This was no
hardship, however, as he had a faint pleasure in the unfamiliar
experience of walking home with such a thing in his pocket; and he felt
a little important by proxy when he thought of it.
Upon the city the November evening had come down dark and moist, holding
the smoke nearer the ground and enveloping the buildings in a soiling
black mist. Lighted windows and street lamps appeared and disappeared in
the altering thicknesses of fog, but at intervals, as Collinson walked
on northward, he passed a small shop, or a cluster of shops, where the
light was close to him and bright, and at one of these oases of
illumination he lingered a moment, with a thought to buy a toy in the
window for his three-year-old little girl. The toy was a gaily coloured
acrobatic monkey that willingly climbed up and down a string, and he
knew that the “baby,” as he and his wife still called their child, would
scream with delight at the sight of it. He hesitated, staring into the
window rather longingly, and wondering if he ought to make such a
purchase. He had twelve dollars of his own in his pocket, but the toy
was marked “35 cents” and he decided he could not afford it. So he
sighed and went on, turning presently into a darker street.
Here the air was like that of a busy freight-yard, thick with coal-dust
and at times almost unbreathable so that Collinson was glad to get out
of it even though the exchange was for the early-evening smells of the
cheap apartment house where he lived.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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