A Little Talk About Mobs

"A Little Talk About Mobs" is a witty and insightful short story by O. Henry that explores the dynamics of mob behavior and individual identity. Through his characteristic blend of humor and irony, O. Henry examines how ordinary people can be swept away by collective emotions in moments of crisis. The narrative showcases the tension between personal conviction and the pressures of the crowd, ultimately highlighting the fragility of free will in the face of societal influence. With sharp observations and engaging dialogue, O. Henry crafts a tale that is both entertaining and thought-provoking, inviting readers to reflect on the nature of conformity and individuality.

• Short story

								
“I see,” remarked the tall gentleman in the frock coat and black slouch
hat, “that another street car motorman in your city has narrowly
excaped lynching at the hands of an infuriated mob by lighting a cigar
and walking a couple of blocks down the street.”

“Do you think they would have lynched him?” asked the New Yorker, in
the next seat of the ferry station, who was also waiting for the boat.

“Not until after the election,” said the tall man, cutting a corner off
his plug of tobacco. “I’ve been in your city long enough to know
something about your mobs. The motorman’s mob is about the least
dangerous of them all, except the National Guard and the Dressmakers’
Convention.

“You see, when little Willie Goldstein is sent by his mother for pigs’
knuckles, with a nickel tightly grasped in his chubby fist, he always
crosses the street car track safely twenty feet ahead of the car; and
then suddenly turns back to ask his mother whether it was pale ale or a
spool of 80 white cotton that she wanted. The motorman yells and throws
himself on the brakes like a football player. There is a horrible
grinding and then a ripping sound, and a piercing shriek, and Willie is
sitting, with part of his trousers torn away by the fender, screaming
for his lost nickel.

“In ten seconds the car is surrounded by 600 infuriated citizens,
crying, ‘Lynch the motorman! Lynch the motorman!’ at the top of their
voices. Some of them run to the nearest cigar store to get a rope; but
they find the last one has just been cut up and labelled. Hundreds of
the excited mob press close to the cowering motorman, whose hand is
observed to tremble perceptibly as he transfers a stick of pepsin gum
from his pocket to his mouth.

“When the bloodthirsty mob of maddened citizens has closed in on the
motorman, some bringing camp stools and sitting quite close to him, and
all shouting, ‘Lynch him!’ Policeman Fogarty forces his way through
them to the side of their prospective victim.

“‘Hello, Mike,’ says the motorman in a low voice, ‘nice day. Shall I
sneak off a block or so, or would you like to rescue me?’

“‘Well, Jerry, if you don’t mind,’ says the policeman, ‘I’d like to
disperse the infuriated mob singlehanded. I haven’t defeated a lynching
mob since last Tuesday; and that was a small one of only 300, that
wanted to string up a Dago boy for selling wormy pears. It would boost
me some down at the station.’

“‘All right, Mike,’ says the motorman, ‘anything to oblige. I’ll turn
pale and tremble.’

“And he does so; and Policeman Fogarty draws his club and says, ‘G’wan
wid yez!’ and in eight seconds the desperate mob has scattered and gone
about its business, except about a hundred who remain to search for
Willie’s nickel.”

“I never heard of a mob in our city doing violence to a motorman
because of an accident,” said the New Yorker.

“You are not liable to,” said the tall man. “They know the motorman’s
all right, and that he wouldn’t even run over a stray dog if he could
help it. And they know that not a man among ’em would tie the knot to
hang even a Thomas cat that had been tried and condemned and sentenced
according to law.”

“Then why do they become infuriated and make threats of lynching?”
asked the New Yorker.

“To assure the motorman,” answered the tall man, “that he is safe. If
they really wanted to do him up they would go into the houses and drop
bricks on him from the third-story windows.”

“New Yorkers are not cowards,” said the other man, a little stiffly.

“Not one at a time,” agreed the tall man, promptly. “You’ve got a fine
lot of single-handed scrappers in your town. I’d rather fight three of
you than one; and I’d go up against all the Gas Trust’s victims in a
bunch before I’d pass two citizens on a dark corner, with my watch
chain showing. When you get rounded up in a bunch you lose your nerve.
Get you in crowds and you’re easy. Ask the ‘L’ road guards and George
B. Cortelyou and the tintype booths at Coney Island. Divided you stand,
united you fall. E pluribus nihil. Whenever one of your mobs
surrounds a man and begins to holler, ‘Lynch him!’ he says to himself,
“Oh, dear, I suppose I must look pale to please the boys, but I will,
forsooth, let my life insurance premium lapse to-morrow. This is a sure
tip for me to play Methuselah straight across the board in the next
handicap.’

“I can imagine the tortured feelings of a prisoner in the hands of New
York policemen when an infuriated mob demands that he be turned over to
them for lynching. ‘For God’s sake, officers,’ cries the distracted
wretch, ‘have ye hearts of stone, that ye will not let them wrest me
from ye?’

“‘Sorry, Jimmy,’ says one of the policemen, ‘but it won’t do. There’s
three of us—me and Darrel and the plain-clothes man; and there’s only
sivin thousand of the mob. How’d we explain it at the office if they
took ye? Jist chase the infuriated aggregation around the corner,
Darrel, and we’ll be movin’ along to the station.’”

“Some of our gatherings of excited citizens have not been so harmless,”
said the New Yorker, with a faint note of civic pride.

“I’ll admit that,” said the tall man. “A cousin of mine who was on a
visit here once had an arm broken and lost an ear in one of them.”

“That must have been during the Cooper Union riots,” remarked the New
Yorker.

“Not the Cooper Union,” explained the tall man—“but it was a union
riot—at the Vanastor wedding.”

“You seem to be in favor of lynch law,” said the New Yorker, severely.

“No, sir, I am not. No intelligent man is. But, sir, there are certain
cases when people rise in their just majesty and take a righteous
vengeance for crimes that the law is slow in punishing. I am an
advocate of law and order, but I will say to you that less than six
months ago I myself assisted at the lynching of one of that race that
is creating a wide chasm between your section of country and mine,
sir.”

“It is a deplorable condition,” said the New Yorker, “that exists in
the South, but—”

“I am from Indiana, sir,” said the tall man, taking another chew; “and
I don’t think you will condemn my course when I tell you that the
colored man in question had stolen $9.60 in cash, sir, from my own
brother.”
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