The Unknown Quantity Page #2

"The Unknown Quantity" by O. Henry is a charming short story that explores themes of love, chance, and the unpredictability of life. It follows the humorous and poignant encounter between a young man named P. Johnson and a mysterious woman he meets by chance in a park. As they engage in a playful exchange filled with wit and intrigue, the narrative delves into the complexities of attraction and the quirks of human relationships. O. Henry's signature style shines through in the clever twists and heartfelt moments, showcasing the beauty of life’s uncertain possibilities.

• Short story

								

Boyne’s business failed and he lost his $1,000 capital—all he had in
the world.”

Dan Kinsolving struck the park bench a mighty blow with his fist.

“I accept the instance,” he cried. “Take me to Boyne. I will repay his
thousand dollars and buy him a new bakery.”

“Write your check,” said Kenwitz, without moving, “and then begin to
write checks in payment of the train of consequences. Draw the next one
for $50,000. Boyne went insane after his failure and set fire to the
building from which he was about to be evicted. The loss amounted to
that much. Boyne died in an asylum.”

“Stick to the instance,” said Dan. “I haven’t noticed any insurance
companies on my charity list.”

“Draw your next check for $100,000,” went on Kenwitz. “Boyne’s son fell
into bad ways after the bakery closed, and was accused of murder. He
was acquitted last week after a three years’ legal battle, and the
state draws upon taxpayers for that much expense.”

“Back to the bakery!” exclaimed Dan, impatiently. “The Government
doesn’t need to stand in the bread line.”

“The last item of the instance is—come and I will show you,” said
Kenwitz, rising.

The Socialistic watchmaker was happy. He was a millionaire-baiter by
nature and a pessimist by trade. Kenwitz would assure you in one breath
that money was but evil and corruption, and that your brand-new watch
needed cleaning and a new ratchet-wheel.

He conducted Kinsolving southward out of the square and into ragged,
poverty-haunted Varick Street. Up the narrow stairway of a squalid
brick tenement he led the penitent offspring of the Octopus. He knocked
on a door, and a clear voice called to them to enter.

In that almost bare room a young woman sat sewing at a machine. She
nodded to Kenwitz as to a familiar acquaintance. One little stream of
sunlight through the dingy window burnished her heavy hair to the color
of an ancient Tuscan’s shield. She flashed a rippling smile at Kenwitz
and a look of somewhat flustered inquiry.

Kinsolving stood regarding her clear and pathetic beauty in
heart-throbbing silence. Thus they came into the presence of the last
item of the Instance.

“How many this week, Miss Mary?” asked the watchmaker. A mountain of
coarse gray shirts lay upon the floor.

“Nearly thirty dozen,” said the young woman cheerfully. “I’ve made
almost $4. I’m improving, Mr. Kenwitz. I hardly know what to do with so
much money.” Her eyes turned, brightly soft, in the direction of Dan. A
little pink spot came out on her round, pale cheek.

Kenwitz chuckled like a diabolic raven.

“Miss Boyne,” he said, “let me present Mr. Kinsolving, the son of the
man who put bread up five years ago. He thinks he would like to do
something to aid those who where inconvenienced by that act.”

The smile left the young woman’s face. She rose and pointed her
forefinger toward the door. This time she looked Kinsolving straight in
the eye, but it was not a look that gave delight.

The two men went down Varick Street. Kenwitz, letting all his pessimism
and rancor and hatred of the Octopus come to the surface, gibed at the
moneyed side of his friend in an acrid torrent of words. Dan appeared
to be listening, and then turned to Kenwitz and shook hands with him
warmly.

“I’m obliged to you, Ken, old man,” he said, vaguely—“a thousand times
obliged.”

“Mein Gott! you are crazy!” cried the watchmaker, dropping his
spectacles for the first time in years.

Two months afterward Kenwitz went into a large bakery on lower Broadway
with a pair of gold-rimmed eyeglasses that he had mended for the
proprietor.

A lady was giving an order to a clerk as Kenwitz passed her.

“These loaves are ten cents,” said the clerk.

“I always get them at eight cents uptown,” said the lady. “You need not
fill the order. I will drive by there on my way home.”

The voice was familiar. The watchmaker paused.

“Mr. Kenwitz!” cried the lady, heartily. “How do you do?”

Kenwitz was trying to train his socialistic and economic comprehension
on her wonderful fur boa and the carriage waiting outside.

“Why, Miss Boyne!” he began.

“Mrs. Kinsolving,” she corrected. “Dan and I were married a month ago.”
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