The Caliph and the Cad

"The Caliph and the Cad" is a short story by O. Henry that combines humor, romance, and social commentary. The narrative revolves around a wealthy and charismatic cad, who, in his quest for adventure and love, finds himself in a whimsical situation involving a beautiful woman and a series of misunderstandings. Set against the backdrop of a lavish party, the story cleverly explores themes of identity, deception, and the complexities of human relationships. O. Henry's trademark wit and unexpected twists make this tale both entertaining and thought-provoking.

• Short story

								
Surely there is no pastime more diverting than that of mingling,
incognito, with persons of wealth and station. Where else but in those
circles can one see life in its primitive, crude state unhampered by
the conventions that bind the dwellers in a lower sphere?

There was a certain Caliph of Bagdad who was accustomed to go down
among the poor and lowly for the solace obtained from the relation of
their tales and histories. Is it not strange that the humble and
poverty-stricken have not availed themselves of the pleasure they might
glean by donning diamonds and silks and playing Caliph among the haunts
of the upper world?

There was one who saw the possibilities of thus turning the tables on
Haroun al Raschid. His name was Corny Brannigan, and he was a truck
driver for a Canal Street importing firm. And if you read further you
will learn how he turned upper Broadway into Bagdad and learned
something about himself that he did not know before.

Many people would have called Corny a snob—preferably by means of a
telephone. His chief interest in life, his chosen amusement, and his
sole diversion after working hours, was to place himself in
juxtaposition—since he could not hope to mingle—with people of fashion
and means.

Every evening after Corny had put up his team and dined at a
lunch-counter that made immediateness a specialty, he would clothe
himself in evening raiment as correct as any you will see in the palm
rooms. Then he would betake himself to that ravishing, radiant roadway
devoted to Thespis, Thais, and Bacchus.

For a time he would stroll about the lobbies of the best hotels, his
soul steeped in blissful content. Beautiful women, cooing like doves,
but feathered like birds of Paradise, flicked him with their robes as
they passed. Courtly gentlemen attended them, gallant and assiduous.
And Corny’s heart within him swelled like Sir Lancelot’s, for the
mirror spoke to him as he passed and said: “Corny, lad, there’s not a
guy among ’em that looks a bit the sweller than yerself. And you
drivin’ of a truck and them swearin’ off their taxes and playin’ the
red in art galleries with the best in the land!”

And the mirrors spake the truth. Mr. Corny Brannigan had acquired the
outward polish, if nothing more. Long and keen observation of polite
society had gained for him its manner, its genteel air, and—most
difficult of acquirement—its repose and ease.

Now and then in the hotels Corny had managed conversation and temporary
acquaintance with substantial, if not distinguished, guests. With many
of these he had exchanged cards, and the ones he received he carefully
treasured for his own use later. Leaving the hotel lobbies, Corny would
stroll leisurely about, lingering at the theatre entrance, dropping
into the fashionable restaurants as if seeking some friend. He rarely
patronized any of these places; he was no bee come to suck honey, but a
butterfly flashing his wings among the flowers whose calyces held no
sweets for him. His wages were not large enough to furnish him with
more than the outside garb of the gentleman. To have been one of the
beings he so cunningly imitated, Corny Brannigan would have given his
right hand.

One night Corny had an adventure. After absorbing the delights of an
hour’s lounging in the principal hotels along Broadway, he passed up
into the stronghold of Thespis. Cab drivers hailed him as a likely
fare, to his prideful content. Languishing eyes were turned upon him as
a hopeful source of lobsters and the delectable, ascendant globules of
effervescence. These overtures and unconscious compliments Corny
swallowed as manna, and hoped Bill, the off horse, would be less lame
in the left forefoot in the morning.

Beneath a cluster of milky globes of electric light Corny paused to
admire the sheen of his low-cut patent leather shoes. The building
occupying the angle was a pretentious café. Out of this came a
couple, a lady in a white, cobwebby evening gown, with a lace wrap like
a wreath of mist thrown over it, and a man, tall, faultless,
assured—too assured. They moved to the edge of the sidewalk and halted.
Corny’s eye, ever alert for “pointers” in “swell” behaviour, took them
in with a sidelong glance.

“The carriage is not here,” said the lady. “You ordered it to wait?”

“I ordered it for nine-thirty,” said the man. “It should be here now.”

A familiar note in the lady’s voice drew a more especial attention from
Corny. It was pitched in a key well known to him. The soft electric
shone upon her face. Sisters of sorrow have no quarters fixed for them.
In the index to the book of breaking hearts you will find that Broadway
follows very soon after the Bowery. This lady’s face was sad, and her
voice was attuned with it. They waited, as if for the carriage. Corny
waited too, for it was out of doors, and he was never tired of
accumulating and profiting by knowledge of gentlemanly conduct.

“Jack,” said the lady, “don’t be angry. I’ve done everything I could to
please you this evening. Why do you act so?”

“Oh, you’re an angel,” said the man. “Depend upon woman to throw the
blame upon a man.”

“I’m not blaming you. I’m only trying to make you happy.”

“You go about it in a very peculiar way.”

“You have been cross with me all the evening without any cause.”

“Oh, there isn’t any cause except—you make me tired.”

Corny took out his card case and looked over his collection. He
selected one that read: “Mr. R. Lionel Whyte-Melville, Bloomsbury
Square, London.” This card he had inveigled from a tourist at the King
Edward Hotel. Corny stepped up to the man and presented it with a
correctly formal air.

“May I ask why I am selected for the honour?” asked the lady’s escort.

Now, Mr. Corny Brannigan had a very wise habit of saying little during
his imitations of the Caliph of Bagdad. The advice of Lord
Chesterfield: “Wear a black coat and hold your tongue,” he believed in
without having heard. But now speech was demanded and required of him.

“No gent,” said Corny, “would talk to a lady like you done. Fie upon
you, Willie! Even if she happens to be your wife you ought to have more
respect for your clothes than to chin her back that way. Maybe it ain’t
my butt-in, but it goes, anyhow—you strike me as bein’ a whole lot to
the wrong.”

The lady’s escort indulged in more elegantly expressed but fetching
repartee. Corny, eschewing his truck driver’s vocabulary, retorted as
nearly as he could in polite phrases. Then diplomatic relations were
severed; there was a brief but lively set-to with other than oral
weapons, from which Corny came forth easily victor.

A carriage dashed up, driven by a tardy and solicitous coachman.

“Will you kindly open the door for me?” asked the lady. Corny assisted
her to enter, and took off his hat. The escort was beginning to
scramble up from the sidewalk.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” said Corny, “if he’s your man.”

“He’s no man of mine,” said the lady. “Perhaps he—but there’s no chance
of his being now. Drive home, Michael. If you care to take this—with my

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