O. Henry Memorial Award Prize Stories of 1920. Various

his club window with two or three Iron Men and the White Pine Man and the Brass Man they look very much as you and I do, only more so, if you know what I mean.

      Meet the camel's back—or no—don't meet the camel's back yet. Meet the story.

      During the Christmas holidays of 1919, the first real Christmas holidays since the war, there took place in Toledo, counting only the people with the italicized the, forty-one dinner parties, sixteen dances, six luncheons male and female, eleven luncheons female, twelve teas, four stag dinners, two weddings and thirteen bridge parties. It was the cumulative effect of all this that moved Perry Parkhurst on the twenty-ninth day of December to a desperate decision.

      Betty Medill would marry him and she wouldn't marry him. She was having such a good time that she hated to take such a definite step. Meanwhile, their secret engagement had got so long that it seemed as if any day it might break off of its own weight. A little man named Warburton, who knew it all, persuaded Perry to superman her, to get a marriage license and go up to the Medill house and tell her she'd have to marry him at once or call it off forever. This is some stunt—but Perry tried it on December the twenty-ninth. He presented self, heart, license, and ultimatum, and within five minutes they were in the midst of a violent quarrel, a burst of sporadic open fighting such as occurs near the end of all long wars and engagements. It brought about one of those ghastly lapses in which two people who are in love pull up sharp, look at each other coolly and think it's all been a mistake. Afterward they usually kiss wholesomely and assure the other person it was all their fault. Say it all was my fault! Say it was! I want to hear you say it!

      But while reconciliation was trembling in the air, while each was, in a measure, stalling it off, so that they might the more voluptuously and sentimentally enjoy it when it came, they were permanently interrupted by a twenty-minute phone call for Betty from a garrulous aunt who lived in the country. At the end of eighteen minutes Perry Parkhurst, torn by pride and suspicion and urged on by injured dignity, put on his long fur coat, picked up his light brown soft hat and stalked out the door.

      "It's all over," he muttered brokenly as he tried to jam his car into first. "It's all over—if I have to choke you for an hour, darn you!" This last to the car, which had been standing some time and was quite cold.

      He drove downtown—that is, he got into a snow rut that led him downtown.

      He sat slouched down very low in his seat, much too dispirited to care where he went. He was living over the next twenty years without Betty.

      In front of the Clarendon Hotel he was hailed from the sidewalk by a bad man named Baily, who had big huge teeth and lived at the hotel and had never been in love.

      "Perry," said the bad man softly when the roadster drew up beside him at the curb, "I've got six quarts of the dog-gonedest champagne you ever tasted. A third of it's yours, Perry, if you'll come upstairs and help Martin Macy and me drink it."

      "Baily," said Perry tensely. "I'll drink your champagne. I'll drink every drop of it. I don't care if it kills me. I don't care if it's fifty-proof wood alcohol."

      "Shut up, you nut!" said the bad man gently. "They don't put wood alcohol in champagne. This is the stuff that proves the world is more than six thousand years old. It's so ancient that the cork is petrified. You have to pull it with a stone drill."

      "Take me upstairs," said Perry moodily. "If that cork sees my heart it'll fall out from pure mortification."

      The room upstairs was full of those innocent hotel pictures of little girls eating apples and sitting in swings and talking to dogs. The other decorations were neckties and a pink man reading a pink paper devoted to ladies in pink tights.

      "When you have to go into the highways and byways—" said the pink man, looking reproachfully at Baily and Perry.

      "Hello, Martin Macy," said Perry shortly, "where's this stone-age champagne?"

      "What's the rush? This isn't an operation, understand. This is a party."

      Perry sat down dully and looked disapprovingly at all the neckties.

      Baily leisurely opened the door of a wardrobe and brought out six wicked-looking bottles and three glasses.

      "Take off that darn fur coat!" said Martin Macy to Perry. "Or maybe you'd like to have us open all the windows." "Give me champagne," said Perry.

      "Going to the Townsends' circus ball to-night?"

      "Am not!"

      "'Vited?"

      "Uh-huh."

      "Why not go?"

      "Oh, I'm sick of parties," exclaimed Perry, "I'm sick of 'em. I've been to so many that I'm sick of 'em."

      "Maybe you're going to the Howard Tates' party?"

      "No, I tell you; I'm sick of 'em."

      "Well," said Macy consolingly, "the Tates' is just for college kids anyway."

      "I tell you—"

      "I thought you'd be going to one of 'em anyways. I see by the papers you haven't missed a one this Christmas."

      "Hm," grunted Perry morosely.

      He would never go to any more parties. Classical phrases played in his mind—that side of his life was closed, closed. Now when a man says "closed, closed" like that, you can be pretty sure that some woman has double-closed him, so to speak. Perry was also thinking that other classical thought, about how cowardly suicide is. A noble thought that one—warm and uplifting. Think of all the fine men we should lose if suicide were not so cowardly!

      An hour later was six o'clock, and Perry had lost all resemblance to the young man in the liniment advertisement. He looked like a rough draft fur a riotous cartoon. They were singing—an impromptu song of Baily's improvisation:

      One Lump Perry, the parlour snake, Famous through the city for the way he drinks his tea; Plays with it, toys with it, Makes no noise with it, Balanced on a napkin on his well-trained knee.

      "Trouble is," said Perry, who had just banged his hair with Bailey's comb and was tying an orange tie round it to get the effect of Julius Caesar, "that you fellas can't sing worth a damn. Soon's I leave th' air an' start singin' tenor you start singin' tenor too."

      "'M a natural tenor," said Macy gravely. "Voice lacks cultivation, tha's all. Gotta natural voice, m'aunt used say. Naturally good singer."

      "Singers, singers, all good singers," remarked Baily, who was at the telephone. "No, not the cabaret; I want night clerk. I mean refreshment clerk or some dog-gone clerk 'at's got food—food! I want——"

      "Julius Caesar," announced Perry, turning round from the mirror.

       "Man of iron will and stern 'termination."

      "Shut up!" yelled Baily. "Say, iss Mr. Baily. Sen' up enormous supper.

       Use y'own judgment. Right away."

      He connected the receiver and the hook with some difficulty and then with his lips closed and an air of solemn intensity in his eyes went to the lower drawer of his dresser and pulled it open.

      "Lookit!" he commanded. In his hands he held a truncated garment of pink gingham.

      "Pants," he explained gravely. "Lookit!" This was a pink blouse, a red tie and a Buster Brown collar.

      "Lookit!" he repeated. "Costume for the Townsends' circus ball. I'm li'l' boy carries water for the elephants."

      Perry was impressed in spite of himself.

      "I'm going to be Julius Caesar," he announced after a moment of concentration.

      "Thought you weren't going!" said Macy.

      "Me? Sure, I'm goin'. Never miss a party. Good for the nerves—like celery."

      "Caesar!" scoffed Baily. "Can't be Caesar! He's not about a circus.

       Caesar's Shakespeare.