Well, then, Mr. Hardy, who was of a prompt and energetic disposition, went immediately to his store and notified his two men of what he wanted done. Being fully engaged that morning, he could not go with them himself, but he told them expressly where the house was and by what means they were to enter, adding that he would be with them by noon when he hoped they would have the walls scraped and the blue wash on, ready for whatever final coloring he should decide upon employing.
“Remember,” said he, “the large double-house on the northeast corner of G-Street and Seventh Avenue. You cannot mistake it as there is but one house of that sort on the block.” And conscious of having displayed the efficiency of his character, he left the store to attend to the business more immediately demanding his attention.
The men started. Pushing before them their hand-cart with its long ladder, they proceeded slowly uptown, and arriving at G-Street, turned down toward the Seventh Avenue. Soon they came to a corner on which was a large double-house. Looking up, they saw it was closed, all but the one window on the second floor which they had expected to find open.
Stopping, they put up their ladder, entered the house, made their way unmolested to the parlor, carried out the furniture into the back room, tore up the carpet and laid it in a heap in the center. Then they scraped the walls and having put on the blue wash as had been ordered, went upstairs to look out of the window by which they had entered, in order to see if Mr. Hardy was coming. He was. He was just passing the corner. Without a glance in their direction, he was going quickly by, when one of the men whistled. That made him stop. Astonished, almost aghast, he looked up.
“What are you doing here?” cried he, coming hastily to the foot of the ladder.
“Scraping the walls as you ordered,” exclaimed the man, alarmed at the expression on the face that met his gaze from below.
“But this is not the house!” cried Mr. Hardy. “I told you the large double-house on the corner of Seventh Avenue. This is Sixth!”
It was true. The men, misled by the appearance of things, had failed to notice what avenue they were on and had stopped one block short of their real destination.
Shaking the ladder in his wrath, Mr. Hardy cried, “Have you scraped the walls?”
The man nodded.
“Good heavens! And put on the blue wash?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thunder and lightning! — and I don’t even know the name of the man who lives here. Is the house empty?”
“Yes, sir, empty, and ready to be swept,” said the workman. “Sweep it then, you idiots, and put things back in their place, while I go and see what can be done.”
He went to one of the neighbors, a man he knew, and told him of the mistake his men had made, and asked who lived in the house thus invaded. He was told:
“A Mr. Crippens, sir. The bitterest old curmudgeon and the worst man to irritate you ever saw. Once let him know that anyone has dared to invade his premises and do what you have done, and no amount of apology — no, nor damages either — would ever appease him. He would hound you and hinder you and get into your way all the rest of your life. Nothing is too mean for him to do, nothing too much trouble. You might as well rouse the Evil One himself.”
“But what is to be done, then?” exclaimed Mr. Hardy in dismay.
“Nothing. Take off your men, shut up the house, and keep quiet. The neighbors are all away but myself and you may be sure he will learn nothing from me. Let him stamp his feet and howl over the matter if he will. ’Twill ease his mind and do him just as much good as if he spent time and money in ruining the business of a respectable man.”
And Mr. Hardy partially followed this advice. He had the carpet put back and the furniture restored to its place, left a suitable sum of money on the mantel, but beyond that did nothing by way of explanation or remedy for the havoc he had caused.
And now what is the mystery? The mystery is this. What did that same old curmudgeon and his family think when they returned to their home and found the walls of their parlor denuded of every particle of paint? What explanation were they ever able to make to themselves of this startling occurrence? And if any of them are living yet, what do they think today when they remember the surprise of that moment and how the long years have passed without offering them any solution to the enigma?
75
The Candidate
Henry Slesar
A man’s worth can be judged by the calibre of his enemies. Burton Grunzer, encountering the phrase in a pocket-sized biography he had purchased at a newsstand, put the book in his lap and stared reflectively from the murky window of the commuter train. Darkness silvered the glass and gave him nothing to look at but his own image, but it seemed appropriate to his line of thought. How many people were enemies of that face, of the eyes narrowed by the myopic squint denied by vanity the correction of spectacles, of the nose he secretly called patrician, of the mouth that was soft in relaxation and hard when animated by speech or smiles or frowns? How many enemies? Grunzer mused. A few he could name, others he could guess. But it was their calibre that was important. Men like Whitman Hayes, for instance; there was a 24-carat opponent for you. Grunzer smiled, darting a sidelong glance at the seat-sharer beside him, not wanting to be caught indulging in a secret thought. Grunzer was thirty-four; Hayes was twice as old, his white hairs synonymous with experience, an enemy to be proud of. Hayes knew the food business, all right, knew it from every angle; he’d been a wagon jobber for six years, a broker for ten, a food company executive for twenty before the old man had brought him into the organization to sit on his right hand. Pinning Hayes to the mat wasn’t easy, and that made Grunzer’s small but increasing triumphs all the sweeter. He congratulated himself. He had twisted Hayes’s advantages into drawbacks, had made his long years seem tantamount to senility and outlived usefulness; in meetings, he had concentrated his questions on the new supermarket and suburbia phenomena to demonstrate to the old man that times had changed, that the past was dead, that new merchandising tactics were needed, and that only a younger man could supply them...
Suddenly, he was depressed. His enjoyment of remembered victories seemed tasteless. Yes, he’d won a minor battle or two in the company conference room; he’d made Hayes’s ruddy face go crimson, and seen the old man’s parchment skin wrinkle in a sly grin. But what had been accomplished? Hayes seemed more self-assured than ever, and the old man more dependent upon his advice...
When he arrived home, later than usual, his wife Jean didn’t ask questions. After eight years of a marriage in which, childless, she knew her husband almost too well, she wisely offered nothing more than a quiet greeting, a hot meal, and the day’s mail. Grunzer flipped though the bills and circulars, and found an unmarked letter. He slipped it into his hip pocket, reserving it for private perusal, and finished the meal in silence.
After dinner, Jean suggested a movie and he agreed; he had a passion for violent action movies. But first, he locked himself in the bathroom and opened the letter. Its heading was cryptic: Society for United Action. The return address was a post office box. It read:
Dear Mr. Grunzer:
Your name has been suggested to us by a mutual acquaintance. Our organization has an unusual mission which cannot be described in this letter, but which you may find of exceeding interest. We would be gratified by a private discussion at your earliest convenience. If I do not hear from you to the contrary in the next few days, I will take the liberty of calling you at your office.