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After Twenty Years
The policeman on the beat moved up the avenue impressively. The impressiveness was habitual and not for show, for spectators were few. The chilly gusts of wind, with a taste of rain, had depeopled the streets.
The offi cer made a fi ne picture of a guardian of the peace. Th e vicinity was one that kept early hours. About midway along a certain block, the policeman suddenly slowed his walk. In the doorway of a hardware store, a man leaned with an unlighted cigar in his mouth. “It’s all right, officer”, he said. “I am waiting for a friend. It’s an appointment made twenty years ago. Sounds a little funny, doesn’t it?” The man lit his cigar. The light showed a pale, square-jawed face
with keen eyes, and a little white scar near his right eyebrow.
“Twenty years ago tonight”, said the man, “I dined here at “Big Joe”
Brady’s with Jimmy Wells, my best chum and the fi nest chap in the world.
We were raised here in New York like two brothers. I was eighteen
and Jimmy was twenty. The next morning I was to start to the West to
make a fortune. You couldn’t have dragged Jimmy out of New York;
he thought it was the only place on earth. Well, we agreed that night
that we would meet here again exactly twenty years from that date and
time, no matter what our conditions might be or from what distance we
might have come. In twenty years each of us ought to have our destiny
worked out and our fortunes made, whatever they were going to be”.
“It sounds pretty interesting. Haven’t you heard from your friend
since you left ?” the policeman asked. “Well, the West is a pretty big proposition. But I know Jimmy will meet me here, if he’s alive, for he always was the truest, staunchest old chap in the world. He’ll never forget although we had lost track of each other long ago.” “Did pretty well out West, didn’t you?” “I hope Jimmy has done half as well. I have had to compete with some of the sharpest wits going to get my pile.” “I’ll be on my way. Hope your friend comes around soon”, said the policeman and left . He waited about twenty minutes before a tall man in a long overcoat, with collar turned up to his ears, approached him. “Is that you, Bob?” he asked doubtfully. “I was sure I’d fi nd you here.” “You’ve changed lots, Jimmy. I never thought you were so tall by two or three inches. Doing well in New
York, Jimmy?” “Moderately. I have a position in one of the city departments. Come on, we’ll go around to a place and have a good chat, Bob.”
The two men started up the street, arm in arm. The man from the West, his egotism enlarged by success, was beginning to outline the history of his career. The other, submerged in his overcoat, listened with interest. When they came into the glare of some electric lights the man from the West stopped suddenly and released his arm. “You’re not Jimmy Wells,” he snapped. “Twenty years is a long time, but not long enough to change a man’s nose from a Roman to a pug.”
“It sometimes changes a good man into a bad one”, said the tall man. “You are under arrest, Silky Bob. Chicago thinks you may have dropped over our way and wires she wants to have a chat with you. Before we go on to the station here’s a note I was asked to hand you. It’s from patrolman Wells. You may read it here”.
The man from the West unfolded the little piece of paper. His hand had begun to tremble by the time he had finished reading. The note was rather short…