O. Henry

                  The Badge of Policeman O'Roon

CANNOT BE DENIED that men and women have looked upon one another for 
the first time and become instantly enamoured. It a risky process, 
this love at first sight, before she has seen him in Bradstreet or he 
has seen her in curl papers. But these things do happen; and one 
instance must form a theme for this story -though not, thank Heaven, 
to the over-shadowing of more vital and important subjects, such as 
drink, policemen, horses, and earldoms.
   During a certain war a troop calling itself the Gentle Riders 
Riders rode into history and one or two ambuscades. The Gentle Riders 
were recruited from the aristocracy of the wild men of the West, and 
the wild men of the aristocracy of the East. In khaki there is little 
telling them one from another, so they became good friends and 
comrades all around.
   Ellsworth Remsen, whose old Knickerbocker descent atoned for his 
modest rating at only ten millions, ate his canned beef gaily by the 
camp-fires of the Gentle Riders. The war was a great lark to him, so 
that he scarcely regretted polo and planked shad.
   One of the troopers was a well-set-up, affable, cool young man, who 
called himself O'Roon. To this young man Remsen took an especial 
liking. The two rode side by side during the famous mooted up-hill 
charge that was disputed so hotly at the time by the Spaniards and 
afterwards by the Democrats.
   After the war Remsen came back to his polo and shad. One day a 
well-set-up, affable, cool young man disturbed him at his club, and he 
and O'Roon were soon pounding each other and exchanging opprobious 
epithets after the manner of long-lost friends. O'Roon looked seedy 
and out of luck and perfectly contented. But it seemed that his 
content was only apparent.
   `Get me a job, Remsen,' he said. `I've just handed a barber my last 
shilling.'
   `No trouble at all,' said Remsen. `I know a lot of men who have 
banks and stores and things down-town. Any particular line you fancy?'
   `Yes,' said O'Roon, with a look of interest. `I took a walk in your 
Central Park this morning. I'd like to be one of those bobbies on 
horseback. That would be about the ticket. Besides, it's the only 
thing I could do. I can ride a little and the fresh air suits me. 
Think you could land that for me?'
   Remsen was sure that he could. And in a very short time he did. And 
they who were not above looking at mounted policemen might have seen a 
well-set-up, affable, cool young man on a prancing chestnut steed 
attending to his duties along the driveways of the park.
   And now at the extreme risk of wearying old gentlemen who carry 
leather fob chains, and elder ladies who - but no! grand-mother 
herself yet thrills at foolish, immortal Romeo - there must be a hint 
of love at first sight.
   It came just as Remsen was strolling into Fifth Avenue from his 
club a few doors away.
   A motor-car was creeping along foot by foot impeded by a freshet of 
vehicles that filled the street. In the car was a chauffeur and an old 
gentleman with snowy side-whiskers and a Scotch plaid cap which could 
not be worn while automobiling except by a per-sonage. Not even a wine 
agent would dare to do it. But these two were of no consequence - 
except, perhaps, for the guiding of the machine and the paying for it. 
At the old gentleman's side sat a young lady more beautiful than 
pomegranate blossoms, more exquisite than the first quarter moon 
viewed at twilight through the tops of oleanders. Remsen saw her and 
knew his fate. He could have flung himself under the very wheels that 
conveyed her, but he knew that would be the last means of attracting 
the attention of those who ride in motor-cars. Slowly the auto passed, 
and, if we place the poets above the autoists, carried the heart of 
Remsen with it. Here was a large city of millions and many women who 
at a certain distance appear to resemble pomegranate blossoms. Yet he 
hoped to see her again; for each one fancies that his romance has its 
own tutelary guardian and divinity.
   Luckily for Remsen's peace of mind there came a diversion in the 
guise of a reunion of the Gentle Riders of the city. There were not 
many of them - perhaps a score - and there was wassail, and things to 
eat, and speeches and the Spaniard was bearded again in 
recapitulation. And when daylight threatened them the survivors 
prepared to depart. But some remained upon the battlefield. One of 
these was Trooper O'Roon, who was not seasoned to potent liquids. His 
legs declined to fulfil the obligations they had sworn to the police 
department.
   `I'm stewed, Remsen,' said O'Roon to his friend. `Why do they build 
hotels that go round and round like catherine wheels? They'll take 
away my shield and break me. I can think and talk con-con-consec-sec-
secutively, but I s-s-s-stammer with my feet. I've got to go on duty 
in three hours. The jig is up, Remsen. The jig is up, I tell you.'
   `Look at me,' said Remsen, who was his smiling self, pointing to 
his own face; `whom do you see here?'
   `Goo' fellow,' said O'Roon dizzily. `Goo' old Remsen.'
   `Not so,' said Remsen. `You see Mounted Policeman O'Roon. Look at 
your face - no; you can't do that without a glass - but look at mine, 
and think of yours. How much alike are we? As two French table d'hote 
dinners. With your badge, on your horse, in your uniform, will I charm 
nursemaids and prevent the grass from growing under people's feet in 
the Park this day. I will save your badge and your honour, besides 
having the jolliest lark I've been blessed with since we licked 
Spain.'
   Promptly on time the counterfeit presentment of Mounted Policeman 
O'Roon single-footed into the Park on his chestnut steed. In a uniform 
two men who are unlike will look like; two who somewhat resemble each 
other in feature and figure will appear as twin brothers. So Remsen 
trotted down the bridle-paths, enjoying himself hugely, so few real 
pleasures do ten-millionaires have.
   Along the driveway in the early morning spun a victoria drawn by a 
pair of fiery bays. There was something foreign about the affair, for 
the Park is rarely used in the morning except by unimportant people 
who love to be healthy, poor and wise. In the vehicle sat an old 
gentleman with snowy side-whiskers and Scotch plaid cap which could 
not be worth while driving except by a personage. At his side sat the 
lady of Remsen's heart - the lady who looked like pomegranate blossoms 
and the gibbous moon.
   Remsen met them coming. At the instant of their passing her eyes 
looked into his, and but for the ever-coward heart of a true lover he 
could have sworn that she flushed a faint pink. He trotted on for 
twenty yards, and then wheeled his horse at the sound of runaway 
hoofs. The bays had bolted.
   Remsen sent his chestnut after the victoria like a shot. There was 
work cut out for the impersonator of Policeman O'Roon. The chestnut. 
ranged alongside the off bay thirty seconds after the chase began, 
rolled his eye back at Remsen, and said in the only manner open to 
policemen's horses:
   `Well, you duffer, are you going to do your share? You're not 
O'Roon, but it seems to me if you'd lean to the right you could reach 
the reins of the foolish, slow-running bay - ah! you're all right; 
O'Roon couldn't have done it more neatly!'
   The runaway team was tagged to an inglorious halt by Remsen's tough 
muscles. The driver released his hands from the wrapped reins, jumped 
from his seat and stood at the heads of the team. The chestnut, 
approving his new rider, danced and pranced, reviling equinely the 
subdued bays. Remsen, lingering, was dimly conscious of a vague, 
impossible, unnecessary old gentleman in a Scotch cap who talked 
incessantly about something. And he was acutely conscious of a pair of 
violet eyes that would have drawn Saint Pyrites from his iron pillar - 
or whatever the illusion is - and of the lady's smile and look - a 
little frightened, but a look that, with the ever-coward heart of a 
true lover, he could not yet construe. They were asking his name and 
bestowing upon him well-bred thanks for his heroic deed, and the 
Scotch cap was especially babbling and insistent. But the eloquent 
appeal was in the eyes of the lady.
   A little thrill of satisfaction ran through Remsen because he had a 
name to give which, without undue pride, was worthy of being spoken in 
high places, and a small fortune which, with due pride, he could leave 
at his end without disgrace.
   He opened his lips to speak, and closed them again.
   Who was he? Mounted Policeman O'Roon. The badge and the honour of 
his comrade were in his hands. If Ellesworth Remsen, ten-millionaire 
and Knickerbocker, had just rescued pomegranate blossoms and Scotch 
cap from possible death, where was Police-man O'Roon? Off his beat, 
exposed, disgraced, discharged. Love had come, but before that there 
had been something that demanded precedence - the fellowship of men on 
battlefields fighting an alien foe.
   Remsen touched his cap, looked between the chestnut's ears, and 
took refuge in vernacularity.
   `Don't mention it,' he said stolidly. `We policemen are paid to do 
these things. It's our duty.'
   And he rode away - rode away cursing noblesse oblige, but knowing 
he could never have done anything else.
   At the end of the day Remsen sent the chestnut to his stable and 
went to O'Roon's room. The policeman was again a well-set-up, affable, 
cool young man who sat by the window smoking cigars.
   `I wish you and the rest of the police force and all badges horses, 
brass buttons and men who can't drink two glass of brut without 
getting upset were at the devil,' said Remsen feelingly.
   O'Roon smiled with evident satisfaction.
  `Good old Remsen,' he said affably, `I know all about it. They 
irailed me down and cornered me here two hours ago. There was a little 
row at home, you know, and I cut sticks just to show them. I don't 
believe I told you that my governor was the Earl of Ardsley. Funny you 
should bob against them in the Park. If you damaged that horse of mine 
I'll never forgive you. I'm going to buy him and take him back with 
me. Oh yes, and I think my sister - Lady Angela, you know - wants 
particularly for you to come up to the hotel with me this evening. 
Didn't lose my badge, did you, Remsen? I've got to turn that in at 
Headquarters when I resign.'