Dick Boyle's Business Card Page #2

"Dick Boyle's Business Card" is a short story by Bret Harte, an author known for his depictions of life in the American West. The narrative centers around a humorous and satirical exploration of social status and identity through the lens of a business card that represents the ambitions and pretensions of its titular character, Dick Boyle. Set against the backdrop of a mining town, the story highlights the clash between appearances and reality, showcasing Harte's trademark wit and keen observations of human nature. With its clever commentary on commerce and social interaction, the tale reflects the broader themes of aspiration and self-presentation in the rapidly changing landscape of 19th-century America.

• Short story

								

reached a fringe of rocks and low bushes hitherto invisible through the
irregularities of the apparently level plain, into which he plunged and
disappeared. The dust cloud which indicated the coach--probably owing
to these same irregularities--had long since been lost on the visible
horizon.

The fringe which received him was really the rim of a depression quite
concealed from the surface of the plain,--which it followed for
some miles through a tangled trough-like bottom of low trees and
underbrush,--and was a natural cover for wolves, coyotes, and
occasionally bears, whose half-human footprint might have deceived a
stranger. This did not, however, divert the Indian, who, trotting
still doggedly on, paused only to examine another footprint--much more
frequent--the smooth, inward-toed track of moccasins. The thicket grew
more dense and difficult as he went on, yet he seemed to glide through
its density and darkness--an obscurity that now seemed to be stirred
by other moving objects, dimly seen, and as uncertain and intangible as
sunlit leaves thrilled by the wind, yet bearing a strange resemblance to
human figures! Pressing a few yards further, he himself presently became
a part of this shadowy procession, which on closer scrutiny revealed
itself as a single file of Indians, following each other in the same
tireless trot. The woods and underbrush were full of them; all moving
on, as he had moved, in a line parallel with the vanishing coach.
Sometimes through the openings a bared painted limb, a crest of
feathers, or a strip of gaudy blanket was visible, but nothing more.
And yet only a few hundred yards away stretched the dusky, silent
plain--vacant of sound or motion!

Meanwhile the Sage Wood and Pine Barren stage coach, profoundly
oblivious--after the manner of all human invention--of everything but
its regular function, toiled dustily out of the higher plain and
began the grateful descent of a wooded canyon, which was, in fact, the
culminating point of the depression, just described, along which the
shadowy procession was slowly advancing, hardly a mile in the rear and
flank of the vehicle. Miss Julia Cantire, who had faced the dust volleys
of the plain unflinchingly, as became a soldier's daughter, here stood
upright and shook herself--her pretty head and figure emerging like a
goddess from the enveloping silver cloud. At least Mr. Boyle, relegated
to the back seat, thought so--although her conversation and attentions
had been chiefly directed to the driver and mail agent. Once, when he
had light-heartedly addressed a remark to her, it had been received
with a distinct but unpromising politeness that had made him desist
from further attempts, yet without abatement of his cheerfulness, or
resentment of the evident amusement his two male companions got out
of his "snub." Indeed, it is to be feared that Miss Julia had certain
prejudices of position, and may have thought that a "drummer"--or
commercial traveler--was no more fitting company for the daughter of
a major than an ordinary peddler. But it was more probable that Mr.
Boyle's reputation as a humorist--a teller of funny stories and a boon
companion of men--was inconsistent with the feminine ideal of high and
exalted manhood. The man who "sets the table in a roar" is apt to
be secretly detested by the sex, to say nothing of the other obvious
reasons why Juliets do not like Mercutios!

For some such cause as this Dick Boyle was obliged to amuse himself
silently, alone on the back seat, with those liberal powers of
observation which nature had given him. On entering the canyon he had
noticed the devious route the coach had taken to reach it, and had
already invented an improved route which should enter the depression at
the point where the Indians had already (unknown to him) plunged into
it, and had conceived a road through the tangled brush that would
shorten the distance by some miles. He had figured it out, and believed
that it "would pay." But by this time they were beginning the somewhat
steep and difficult ascent of the canyon on the other side. The vehicle
had not crawled many yards before it stopped. Dick Boyle glanced around.
Miss Cantire was getting down. She had expressed a wish to walk the rest
of the ascent, and the coach was to wait for her at the top. Foster had
effusively begged her to take her own time--"there was no hurry!" Boyle
glanced a little longingly after her graceful figure, released from her
cramped position on the box, as it flitted youthfully in and out of the
wayside trees; he would like to have joined her in the woodland ramble,
but even his good nature was not proof against her indifference. At a
turn in the road they lost sight of her, and, as the driver and mail
agent were deep in a discussion about the indistinct track, Boyle lapsed
into his silent study of the country. Suddenly he uttered a slight
exclamation, and quietly slipped from the back of the toiling coach to
the ground. The action was, however, quickly noted by the driver, who
promptly put his foot on the brake and pulled up. "Wot's up now?" he
growled.

Boyle did not reply, but ran back a few steps and began searching
eagerly on the ground.

"Lost suthin?" asked Foster.

"Found something," said Boyle, picking up a small object. "Look at that!
D----d if it isn't the card I gave that Indian four hours ago at the
station!" He held up the card.

"Look yer, sonny," retorted Foster gravely, "ef yer wantin' to get out
and hang round Miss Cantire, why don't yer say so at oncet? That story
won't wash!"

"Fact!" continued Boyle eagerly. "It's the same card I stuck in his
hat--there's the greasy mark in the corner. How the devil did it--how
did HE get here?"

"Better ax him," said Foster grimly, "ef he's anywhere round."

"But I say, Foster, I don't like the look of this at all! Miss Cantire
is alone, and"--

But a burst of laughter from Foster and the mail agent interrupted him.
"That's so," said Foster. "That's your best holt! Keep it up! You
jest tell her that! Say thar's another Injin skeer on; that that thar
bloodthirsty ole 'Fleas in His Blanket' is on the warpath, and you're
goin' to shed the last drop o' your blood defendin' her! That'll fetch
her, and she ain't bin treatin' you well! G'lang!"

The horses started forward under Foster's whip, leaving Boyle standing
there, half inclined to join in the laugh against himself, and yet
impelled by some strange instinct to take a more serious view of his
discovery. There was no doubt it was the same card he had given to the
Indian. True, that Indian might have given it to another--yet by what
agency had it been brought there faster than the coach traveled on the
same road, and yet invisibly to them? For an instant the humorous
idea of literally accepting Foster's challenge, and communicating his
discovery to Miss Cantire, occurred to him; he could have made a funny

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