Dick Boyle's Business Card Page #8

"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

								

and shoulder, its perfume in his nostrils, and the contour of her lithe
and perfect figure against his own. He helped her back into the coach,
with the aid of the cushions and shawl arranged a reclining couch for
her on the back seat, and then resumed his old place patiently. By
degrees the color came back to her face--as much of it as was not hidden
by her handkerchief.

Then a tremulous voice behind it began a half-smothered apology. "I
am SO ashamed, Mr. Boyle--I really could not help it! But it was so
sudden--and so horrible--I shouldn't have been afraid of it had it been
really an Indian with a scalping knife--instead of that beast! I don't
know why I did it--but I was alone--and seemed to be dead--and you were
dead too and they were coming to eat me! They do, you know--you said so
just now! Perhaps I was dreaming. I don't know what you must think of
me--I had no idea I was such a coward!"

But Boyle protested indignantly. He was sure if HE had been asleep
and had not known what wolves were before, he would have been equally
frightened. She must try to go to sleep again--he was sure she
could--and he would not stir from the coach until she waked, or her
friends came.

She grew quieter presently, and took away the handkerchief from a mouth
that smiled though it still quivered; then reaction began, and her tired
nerves brought her languor and finally repose. Boyle watched the shadows
thicken around her long lashes until they lay softly on the faint flush
that sleep was bringing to her cheek; her delicate lips parted, and her
quick breath at last came with the regularity of slumber.

So she slept, and he, sitting silently opposite her, dreamed--the old
dream that comes to most good men and true once in their lives. He
scarcely moved until the dawn lightened with opal the dreary plain,
bringing back the horizon and day, when he woke from his dream with a
sigh, and then a laugh. Then he listened for the sound of distant hoofs,
and hearing them, crept noiselessly from the coach. A compact body of
horsemen were bearing down upon it. He rose quickly to meet them, and
throwing up his hand, brought them to a halt at some distance from the
coach. They spread out, resolving themselves into a dozen troopers and a
smart young cadet-like officer.

"If you are seeking Miss Cantire," he said in a quiet, businesslike
tone, "she is quite safe in the coach and asleep. She knows nothing yet
of what has happened, and believes it is you who have taken everything
away for security against an Indian attack. She has had a pretty rough
night--what with her fatigue and her alarm at the wolves--and I thought
it best to keep the truth from her as long as possible, and I would
advise you to break it to her gently." He then briefly told the story
of their experiences, omitting only his own personal encounter with
the Indian. A new pride, which was perhaps the result of his vigil,
prevented him.

The young officer glanced at him with as much courtesy as might be
afforded to a civilian intruding upon active military operations. "I am
sure Major Cantire will be greatly obliged to you when he knows it," he
said politely, "and as we intend to harness up and take the coach
back to Sage Wood Station immediately, you will have an opportunity of
telling him."

"I am not going back by the coach to Sage Wood," said Boyle quietly. "I
have already lost twelve hours of my time--as well as my trunk--on this
picnic, and I reckon the least Major Cantire can do is to let me take
one of your horses to the next station in time to catch the down coach.
I can do it, if I set out at once."

Boyle heard his name, with the familiar prefix of "Dicky," given to the
officer by a commissary sergeant, whom he recognized as having met at
the Agency, and the words "Chicago drummer" added, while a perceptible
smile went throughout the group. "Very well, sir," said the officer,
with a familiarity a shade less respectful than his previous formal
manner. "You can take the horse, as I believe the Indians have already
made free with your samples. Give him a mount, sergeant."

The two men walked towards the coach. Boyle lingered a moment at
the window to show him the figure of Miss Cantire still peacefully
slumbering among her pile of cushions, and then turned quietly away. A
moment later he was galloping on one of the troopers' horses across the
empty plain.

Miss Cantire awoke presently to the sound of a familiar voice and the
sight of figures that she knew. But the young officer's first words of
explanation--a guarded account of the pursuit of the Indians and the
recapture of the arms, suppressing the killing of Foster and the mail
agent--brought a change to her brightened face and a wrinkle to her
pretty brow.

"But Mr. Boyle said nothing of this to me," she said, sitting up. "Where
is he?"

"Already on his way to the next station on one of our horses! Wanted
to catch the down stage and get a new box of samples, I fancy, as the
braves had rigged themselves out with his laces and ribbons. Said he'd
lost time enough on this picnic," returned the young officer, with a
laugh. "Smart business chap; but I hope he didn't bore you?"

Miss Cantire felt her cheek flush, and bit her lip. "I found him most
kind and considerate, Mr. Ashford," she said coldly. "He may have
thought the escort could have joined the coach a little earlier, and
saved all this; but he was too much of a gentleman to say anything about
it to ME," she added dryly, with a slight elevation of her aquiline
nose.

Nevertheless Boyle's last words stung her deeply. To hurry off, too,
without saying "good-by," or even asking how she slept! No doubt he
HAD lost time, and was tired of her company, and thought more of his
precious samples than of her! After all, it was like him to rush off for
an order!

She was half inclined to call the young officer back and tell him how
Boyle had criticised her costume on the road. But Mr. Ashford was at
that time entirely preoccupied with his men around a ledge of rock and
bushes some yards from the coach, yet not so far away but that she could
hear what they said. "I'll swear there was no dead Injin here when we
came yesterday! We searched the whole place--by daylight, too--for any
sign. The Injin was killed in his tracks by some one last night. It's
like Dick Boyle, lieutenant, to have done it, and like him to have said
nothin' to frighten the young lady. He knows when to keep his mouth
shut--and when to open it."

Miss Cantire sank back in her corner as the officer turned and
approached the coach. The incident of the past night flashed back upon
her--Mr. Boyle's long absence, his flushed face, twisted necktie,
and enforced cheerfulness. She was shocked, amazed, discomfited--and
admiring! And this hero had been sitting opposite to her, silent all the
rest of the night!

"Did Mr. Boyle say anything of an Indian attack last night?" asked

								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes