The Fifth Wheel Page #2

"The Fifth Wheel" by O. Henry is a charming short story that explores themes of love, sacrifice, and the complexities of human relationships. The narrative follows the life of a man who, feeling like an outsider in his social circle, navigates the intricacies of friendship and unrequited love. Through O. Henry's signature wit and twisty storytelling, the story unveils the idea that true connections often come from unexpected places, highlighting the nuances of emotional dependence and the importance of seeing beyond the surface in our interactions with others.

• Short story

								

Thomas.

“Sir, I thank you for your kind rescue of my tire. And I would ask you,
if I may, a question. Do you know the family of Van Smuythes living in
Washington Square North?”

“Oughtn’t I to?” replied Thomas. “I lived there. Wish I did yet.”

The sealskinned gentleman opened a door of the car.

“Step in please,” he said. “You have been expected.”

Thomas McQuade obeyed with surprise but without hesitation. A seat in a
motor car seemed better than standing room in the Bed Line. But after
the lap-robe had been tucked about him and the auto had sped on its
course, the peculiarity of the invitation lingered in his mind.

“Maybe the guy hasn’t got any change,” was his diagnosis. “Lots of
these swell rounders don’t lug about any ready money. Guess he’ll dump
me out when he gets to some joint where he can get cash on his mug.
Anyhow, it’s a cinch that I’ve got that open-air bed convention beat to
a finish.”

Submerged in his greatcoat, the mysterious automobilist seemed,
himself, to marvel at the surprises of life. “Wonderful! amazing!
strange!” he repeated to himself constantly.

When the car had well entered the crosstown Seventies it swung eastward
a half block and stopped before a row of high-stooped, brownstone-front
houses.

“Be kind enough to enter my house with me,” said the sealskinned
gentleman when they had alighted. “He’s going to dig up, sure,”
reflected Thomas, following him inside.

There was a dim light in the hall. His host conducted him through a
door to the left, closing it after him and leaving them in absolute
darkness. Suddenly a luminous globe, strangely decorated, shone faintly
in the centre of an immense room that seemed to Thomas more splendidly
appointed than any he had ever seen on the stage or read of in fairy
tales.

The walls were hidden by gorgeous red hangings embroidered with
fantastic gold figures. At the rear end of the room were draped
portières of dull gold spangled with silver crescents and stars. The
furniture was of the costliest and rarest styles. The ex-coachman’s
feet sank into rugs as fleecy and deep as snowdrifts. There were three
or four oddly shaped stands or tables covered with black velvet
drapery.

Thomas McQuade took in the splendors of this palatial apartment with
one eye. With the other he looked for his imposing conductor—to find
that he had disappeared.

“B’gee!” muttered Thomas, “this listens like a spook shop. Shouldn’t
wonder if it ain’t one of these Moravian Nights’ adventures that you
read about. Wonder what became of the furry guy.”

Suddenly a stuffed owl that stood on an ebony perch near the
illuminated globe slowly raised his wings and emitted from his eyes a
brilliant electric glow.

With a fright-born imprecation, Thomas seized a bronze statuette of
Hebe from a cabinet near by and hurled it with all his might at the
terrifying and impossible fowl. The owl and his perch went over with a
crash. With the sound there was a click, and the room was flooded with
light from a dozen frosted globes along the walls and ceiling. The gold
portières parted and closed, and the mysterious automobilist entered
the room. He was tall and wore evening dress of perfect cut and
accurate taste. A Vandyke beard of glossy, golden brown, rather long
and wavy hair, smoothly parted, and large, magnetic, orientally occult
eyes gave him a most impressive and striking appearance. If you can
conceive a Russian Grand Duke in a Rajah’s throne-room advancing to
greet a visiting Emperor, you will gather something of the majesty of
his manner. But Thomas McQuade was too near his d t’s to be mindful
of his p’s and q’s. When he viewed this silken, polished, and
somewhat terrifying host he thought vaguely of dentists.

“Say, doc,” said he resentfully, “that’s a hot bird you keep on tap. I
hope I didn’t break anything. But I’ve nearly got the williwalloos, and
when he threw them 32-candle-power lamps of his on me, I took a
snap-shot at him with that little brass Flatiron Girl that stood on the
sideboard.”

“That is merely a mechanical toy,” said the gentleman with a wave of
his hand. “May I ask you to be seated while I explain why I brought you
to my house. Perhaps you would not understand nor be in sympathy with
the psychological prompting that caused me to do so. So I will come to
the point at once by venturing to refer to your admission that you know
the Van Smuythe family, of Washington Square North.”

“Any silver missing?” asked Thomas tartly. “Any joolry displaced? Of
course I know ’em. Any of the old ladies’ sunshades disappeared? Well,
I know ’em. And then what?”

The Grand Duke rubbed his white hands together softly.

“Wonderful!” he murmured. “Wonderful! Shall I come to believe in the
Chaldean Chiroscope myself? Let me assure you,” he continued, “that
there is nothing for you to fear. Instead, I think I can promise you
that very good fortune awaits you. We will see.”

“Do they want me back?” asked Thomas, with something of his old
professional pride in his voice. “I’ll promise to cut out the booze and
do the right thing if they’ll try me again. But how did you get wise,
doc? B’gee, it’s the swellest employment agency I was ever in, with its
flashlight owls and so forth.”

With an indulgent smile the gracious host begged to be excused for two
minutes. He went out to the sidewalk and gave an order to the
chauffeur, who still waited with the car. Returning to the mysterious
apartment, he sat by his guest and began to entertain him so well by
his witty and genial converse that the poor Bed Liner almost forgot the
cold streets from which he had been so recently and so singularly
rescued. A servant brought some tender cold fowl and tea biscuits and a
glass of miraculous wine; and Thomas felt the glamour of Arabia envelop
him. Thus half an hour sped quickly; and then the honk of the returned
motor car at the door suddenly drew the Grand Duke to his feet, with
another soft petition for a brief absence.

Two women, well muffled against the cold, were admitted at the front
door and suavely conducted by the master of the house down the hall
through another door to the left and into a smaller room, which was
screened and segregated from the larger front room by heavy, double
portières. Here the furnishings were even more elegant and exquisitely
tasteful than in the other. On a gold-inlaid rosewood table were
scattered sheets of white paper and a queer, triangular instrument or
toy, apparently of gold, standing on little wheels.

The taller woman threw back her black veil and loosened her cloak. She
was fifty, with a wrinkled and sad face. The other, young and plump,
took a chair a little distance away and to the rear as a servant or an
attendant might have done.

“You sent for me, Professor Cherubusco,” said the elder woman, wearily.
“I hope you have something more definite than usual to say. I’ve about
lost the little faith I had in your art. I would not have responded to
your call this evening if my sister had not insisted upon it.”
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