The Girl and the Habit

"The Girl and the Habit" is a captivating short story by O. Henry that explores themes of love, addiction, and the complexities of human relationships. The narrative follows a young woman who finds herself torn between her feelings for a charming but irresponsible man and the societal expectations that bind her. Through O. Henry's signature wit and unexpected twists, the story delves into how habits can shape our lives and choices, ultimately leading to poignant revelations about self-discovery and the pursuit of genuine connection.

• Short story

								
HABIT—a tendency or aptitude acquired by custom or frequent repetition.


The critics have assailed every source of inspiration save one. To that
one we are driven for our moral theme. When we levied upon the masters
of old they gleefully dug up the parallels to our columns. When we
strove to set forth real life they reproached us for trying to imitate
Henry George, George Washington, Washington Irving, and Irving
Bacheller. We wrote of the West and the East, and they accused us of
both Jesse and Henry James. We wrote from our heart—and they said
something about a disordered liver. We took a text from Matthew
or—er—yes, Deuteronomy, but the preachers were hammering away at the
inspiration idea before we could get into type. So, driven to the wall,
we go for our subject-matter to the reliable, old, moral, unassailable
vade mecum—the unabridged dictionary.

Miss Merriam was cashier at Hinkle’s. Hinkle’s is one of the big
downtown restaurants. It is in what the papers call the “financial
district.” Each day from 12 o’clock to 2 Hinkle’s was full of hungry
customers—messenger boys, stenographers, brokers, owners of mining
stock, promoters, inventors with patents pending—and also people with
money.

The cashiership at Hinkle’s was no sinecure. Hinkle egged and toasted
and griddle-caked and coffeed a good many customers; and he lunched (as
good a word as “dined”) many more. It might be said that Hinkle’s
breakfast crowd was a contingent, but his luncheon patronage amounted
to a horde.

Miss Merriam sat on a stool at a desk inclosed on three sides by a
strong, high fencing of woven brass wire. Through an arched opening at
the bottom you thrust your waiter’s check and the money, while your
heart went pit-a-pat.

For Miss Merriam was lovely and capable. She could take 45 cents out of
a $2 bill and refuse an offer of marriage before you could—Next!—lost
your chance—please don’t shove. She could keep cool and collected while
she collected your check, give you the correct change, win your heart,
indicate the toothpick stand, and rate you to a quarter of a cent
better than Bradstreet could to a thousand in less time than it takes
to pepper an egg with one of Hinkle’s casters.

There is an old and dignified allusion to the “fierce light that beats
upon a throne.” The light that beats upon the young lady cashier’s cage
is also something fierce. The other fellow is responsible for the
slang.

Every male patron of Hinkle’s, from the A. D. T. boys up to the
curbstone brokers, adored Miss Merriam. When they paid their checks
they wooed her with every wile known to Cupid’s art. Between the meshes
of the brass railing went smiles, winks, compliments, tender vows,
invitations to dinner, sighs, languishing looks and merry banter that
was wafted pointedly back by the gifted Miss Merriam.

There is no coign of vantage more effective than the position of young
lady cashier. She sits there, easily queen of the court of commerce;
she is duchess of dollars and devoirs, countess of compliments and
coin, leading lady of love and luncheon. You take from her a smile and
a Canadian dime, and you go your way uncomplaining. You count the
cheery word or two that she tosses you as misers count their treasures;
and you pocket the change for a five uncomputed. Perhaps the
brass-bound inaccessibility multiplies her charms—anyhow, she is a
shirt-waisted angel, immaculate, trim, manicured, seductive,
bright-eyed, ready, alert—Psyche, Circe, and Ate in one, separating you
from your circulating medium after your sirloin medium.

The young men who broke bread at Hinkle’s never settled with the
cashier without an exchange of badinage and open compliment. Many of
them went to greater lengths and dropped promissory hints of theatre
tickets and chocolates. The older men spoke plainly of orange blossoms,
generally withering the tentative petals by after-allusions to Harlem
flats. One broker, who had been squeezed by copper proposed to Miss
Merriam more regularly than he ate.

During a brisk luncheon hour Miss Merriam’s conversation, while she
took money for checks, would run something like this:

“Good morning, Mr. Haskins—sir?—it’s natural, thank you—don’t be quite
so fresh . . . Hello, Johnny—ten, fifteen, twenty—chase along now or
they’ll take the letters off your cap . . . Beg pardon—count it again,
please—Oh, don’t mention it . . . Vaudeville?—thanks; not on your
moving picture—I was to see Carter in Hedda Gabler on Wednesday night
with Mr. Simmons . . . ’Scuse me, I thought that was a quarter . . .
Twenty-five and seventy-five’s a dollar—got that ham-and-cabbage habit
yet. I see, Billy . . . Who are you addressing?—say—you’ll get all
that’s coming to you in a minute . . . Oh, fudge! Mr. Bassett—you’re
always fooling—no—? Well, maybe I’ll marry you some day—three, four and
sixty-five is five . . . Kindly keep them remarks to yourself, if you
please . . . Ten cents?—’scuse me; the check calls for seventy—well,
maybe it is a one instead of a seven . . . Oh, do you like it that way,
Mr. Saunders?—some prefer a pomp; but they say this Cleo de Merody does
suit refined features . . . and ten is fifty . . . Hike along there,
buddy; don’t take this for a Coney Island ticket booth . . . Huh?—why,
Macy’s—don’t it fit nice? Oh, no, it isn’t too cool—these light-weight
fabrics is all the go this season . . . Come again, please—that’s the
third time you’ve tried to—what?—forget it—that lead quarter is an old
friend of mine . . . Sixty-five?—must have had your salary raised, Mr.
Wilson . . . I seen you on Sixth Avenue Tuesday afternoon, Mr. De
Forest—swell?—oh, my!—who is she? . . . What’s the matter with it?—why,
it ain’t money—what?—Columbian half?—well, this ain’t South America . .
. Yes, I like the mixed best—Friday?—awfully sorry, but I take my
jiu-jitsu lesson on Friday—Thursday, then . . . Thanks—that’s sixteen
times I’ve been told that this morning—I guess I must be beautiful . .
. Cut that out, please—who do you think I am? . . . Why, Mr.
Westbrook—do you really think so?—the idea!—one—eighty and twenty’s a
dollar—thank you ever so much, but I don’t ever go automobile riding
with gentlemen—your aunt?—well, that’s different—perhaps . . . Please
don’t get fresh—your check was fifteen cents, I believe—kindly step
aside and let . . . Hello, Ben—coming around Thursday evening?—there’s
a gentleman going to send around a box of chocolates, and . . . forty
and sixty is a dollar, and one is two . . .”

About the middle of one afternoon the dizzy goddess Vertigo—whose other
name is Fortune—suddenly smote an old, wealthy and eccentric banker
while he was walking past Hinkle’s, on his way to a street car. A
wealthy and eccentric banker who rides in street cars is—move up,
please; there are others.

A Samaritan, a Pharisee, a man and a policeman who were first on the
spot lifted Banker McRamsey and carried him into Hinkle’s restaurant.
When the aged but indestructible banker opened his eyes he saw a
beautiful vision bending over him with a pitiful, tender smile, bathing

								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes