It was many years ago. Hadleyburg was the most honest and upright
town in all the region round about. It had kept that reputation
unsmirched during three generations, and was prouder of it than of
any other of its possessions. It was so proud of it, and so anxious
to insure its perpetuation, that it began to teach the principles of
honest dealing to its babies in the cradle, and made the like
teachings the staple of their culture thenceforward through all the
years devoted to their education. Also, throughout the formative
years temptations were kept out of the way of the young people, so
that their honesty could have every chance to harden and solidify,
and become a part of their very bone. The neighbouring towns were
jealous of this honourable supremacy, and affected to sneer at
Hadleyburg's pride in it and call it vanity; but all the same they
were obliged to acknowledge that Hadleyburg was in reality an
incorruptible town; and if pressed they would also acknowledge that
the mere fact that a young man hailed from Hadleyburg was all the
recommendation he needed when he went forth from his natal town to
seek for responsible employment.
But at last, in the drift of time, Hadleyburg had the ill luck to
offend a passing stranger--possibly without knowing it, certainly
without caring, for Hadleyburg was sufficient unto itself, and cared
not a rap for strangers or their opinions. Still, it would have
been well to make an exception in this one's case, for he was a
bitter man, and revengeful. All through his wanderings during a
whole year he kept his injury in mind, and gave all his leisure
moments to trying to invent a compensating satisfaction for it. He
contrived many plans, and all of them were good, but none of them
was quite sweeping enough; the poorest of them would hurt a great
many individuals, but what he wanted was a plan which would
comprehend the entire town, and not let so much as one person escape
unhurt. At last he had a fortunate idea, and when it fell into his
brain it lit up his whole head with an evil joy. He began to form a
plan at once, saying to himself, "That is the thing to do--I will
corrupt the town."
Six months later he went to Hadleyburg, and arrived in a buggy at
the house of the old cashier of the bank about ten at night. He got
a sack out of the buggy, shouldered it, and staggered with it
through the cottage yard, and knocked at the door. A woman's voice
said "Come in," and he entered, and set his sack behind the stove in
the parlour, saying politely to the old lady who sat reading the
"Missionary Herald" by the lamp:
"Pray keep your seat, madam, I will not disturb you. There--now it
is pretty well concealed; one would hardly know it was there. Can I
see your husband a moment, madam?"
No, he was gone to Brixton, and might not return before morning.
"Very well, madam, it is no matter. I merely wanted to leave that
sack in his care, to be delivered to the rightful owner when he
shall be found. I am a stranger; he does not know me; I am merely
passing through the town to-night to discharge a matter which has
been long in my mind. My errand is now completed, and I go pleased
and a little proud, and you will never see me again. There is a
paper attached to the sack which will explain everything. Goodnight,
madam."
The old lady was afraid of the mysterious big stranger, and was glad
to see him go. But her curiosity was roused, and she went straight
to the sack and brought away the paper. It began as follows:
"TO BE PUBLISHED, or, the right man sought out by private inquiry--either
will answer. This sack contains gold coin weighing a hundred
and sixty pounds four ounces--"
"Mercy on us, and the door not locked!"
Mrs. Richards flew to it all in a tremble and locked it, then pulled
down the window-shades and stood frightened, worried, and wondering
if there was anything else she could do toward making herself and
the money more safe. She listened awhile for burglars, then
surrendered to curiosity, and went back to the lamp and finished
reading the paper:
"I am a foreigner, and am presently going back to my own country, to
remain there permanently. I am grateful to America for what I have
received at her hands during my long stay under her flag; and to one
of her citizens--a citizen of Hadleyburg--I am especially grateful
for a great kindness done me a year or two ago. Two great
kindnesses in fact. I will explain. I was a gambler. I say I WAS.
I was a ruined gambler. I arrived in this village at night, hungry
and without a penny. I asked for help--in the dark; I was ashamed
to beg in the light. I begged of the right man. He gave me twenty
dollars--that is to say, he gave me life, as I considered it. He
also gave me fortune; for out of that money I have made myself rich
at the gaming-table. And finally, a remark which he made to me has
remained with me to this day, and has at last conquered me; and in
conquering has saved the remnant of my morals: I shall gamble no
more. Now I have no idea who that man was, but I want him found,
and I want him to have this money, to give away, throw away, or
keep, as he pleases. It is merely my way of testifying my gratitude
to him. If I could stay, I would find him myself; but no matter, he
will be found. This is an honest town, an incorruptible town, and I
know I can trust it without fear. This man can be identified by the
remark which he made to me; I feel persuaded that he will remember
it.
"And now my plan is this: If you prefer to conduct the inquiry
privately, do so. Tell the contents of this present writing to any
one who is likely to be the right man. If he shall answer, 'I am
the man; the remark I made was so-and-so,' apply the test--to wit:
open the sack, and in it you will find a sealed envelope containing
that remark. If the remark mentioned by the candidate tallies with
it, give him the money, and ask no further questions, for he is
certainly the right man.
"But if you shall prefer a public inquiry, then publish this present
writing in the local paper--with these instructions added, to wit:
Thirty days from now, let the candidate appear at the town-hall at
eight in the evening (Friday), and hand his remark, in a sealed
envelope, to the Rev. Mr. Burgess (if he will be kind enough to
act); and let Mr. Burgess there and then destroy the seals of the
sack, open it, and see if the remark is correct: if correct, let
the money be delivered, with my sincere gratitude, to my benefactor
thus identified."
Mrs. Richards sat down, gently quivering with excitement, and was
soon lost in thinkings--after this pattern: "What a strange thing
it is! . . . And what a fortune for that kind man who set his bread
afloat upon the waters! . . . If it had only been my husband that
did it!--for we are so poor, so old and poor! . . ." Then, with a
sigh--"But it was not my Edward; no, it was not he that gave a
stranger twenty dollars. It is a pity too; I see it now. . . "
Then, with a shudder--"But it is GAMBLERS' money! the wages of sin;
we couldn't take it; we couldn't touch it. I don't like to be near
it; it seems a defilement." She moved to a farther chair. . . "I
wish Edward would come, and take it to the bank; a burglar might
come at any moment; it is dreadful to be here all alone with it."
At eleven Mr. Richards arrived, and while his wife was saying "I am
SO glad you've come!" he was saying, "I am so tired--tired clear
out; it is dreadful to be poor, and have to make these dismal
journeys at my time of life. Always at the grind, grind, grind, on
a salary--another man's slave, and he sitting at home in his
slippers, rich and comfortable."
"I am so sorry for you, Edward, you know that; but be comforted; we
have our livelihood; we have our good name--"
"Yes, Mary, and that is everything. Don't mind my talk--it's just a
moment's irritation and doesn't mean anything. Kiss me--there, it's
all gone now, and I am not complaining any more. What have you been
getting? What's in the sack?"
Then his wife told him the great secret. It dazed him for a moment;
then he said:
"It weighs a hundred and sixty pounds? Why, Mary, it's for-ty thousand
dollars--think of it--a whole fortune! Not ten men in this
village are worth that much. Give me the paper."
He skimmed through it and said:
"Isn't it an adventure! Why, it's a romance; it's like the
impossible things one reads about in books, and never sees in life."
He was well stirred up now; cheerful, even gleeful. He tapped his
old wife on the cheek, and said humorously, "Why, we're rich, Mary,
rich; all we've got to do is to bury the money and burn the papers.
If the gambler ever comes to inquire, we'll merely look coldly upon
him and say: 'What is this nonsense you are talking? We have never
heard of you and your sack of gold before;' and then he would look
foolish, and--"
"And in the meantime, while you are running on with your jokes, the
money is still here, and it is fast getting along toward burglartime."
"True. Very well, what shall we do--make the inquiry private? No,
not that; it would spoil the romance. The public method is better.
Think what a noise it will make! And it will make all the other
towns jealous; for no stranger would trust such a thing to any town
but Hadleyburg, and they know it. It's a great card for us. I must
get to the printing-office now, or I shall be too late."
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