Rensselaer Journal, Volume 10, Number 50, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 23 May 1901 — THE MAN FROM OMAHA [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

THE MAN FROM OMAHA

The fact that a Tennessee cow stopped the President's train a little while ago, need not be accepted by the New England hens as an endorsement of their continued cackling against “The March of Imperialism.” MR. Cleveland, Mr. Olney, Mr. Gorman and several other erstwhile •*> democrats can be depended upon to stand by the Hill Bryan fight to the finish and to continually yell “Sic him, Bill,” “Go for him, Dave.” Some titled foreigner is reported engaged to Hetty Green’s daughter. Somebody should caution him that though Hetty is rich, she doesn’t part with her wealth with anything approaching enthusiasm. The outlook for an interesting yacht race in August is not promising, the challenger having been outsailed by the old one on a preliminary trial. We are sorry, Thomas, but we shall have to keep that cup until you come for it in a better boat. If Chili tries to carry her point and fortify the straits of Magellan, she. will find the whole maritime world against her. The straits save 1,000 miles in the trip around the Horn and are miles in width. The naval powers of the world will never consent to their being made a closed sea. THe military authorities in Manila are trying and’ punishing the petty thieves, whose operations were the only foundation for sensational publications about wholesale frauds in the commissary department, with promptness that is commendable, although it is only what was expected of Gen. McArthur. The Cubans had a good time in Washington and left Secretary Root under the impression that the Constitutional Convention would sooner or later accept the Platt amendment. Well, they are free to takeTtimir own time, but the sooner they accept the sooner Cuba will have its own government. We should like to ask in all seriousness if Lord Salisbury is really in earnest in his assertion that the Boer war has dispelled all foreign ideas of British decadence and made her dreaded throughout the world? If chat is really his opinion, there is little wonder that Britian is rapidly falling behind under his guidance. So much has been said of late about the obliteration of the color questio n in the South, that it is interesting to note the abuse heaped upon a recent novel which deals with life in that section during the civil war—A Maryland Manor, by Frederic Emory. The hero of the book, although a member of the plantation aristocracy, is led by conscientious motives to free his slaves and enter the Union army. This is rank treason, from the Maryland point of view, and is so condemned as such in the press. It is a curious instance of the vitality and tenacity of prejudice, and reminds one of the paraphrase of a famous saying—“ Scratch a Southerner and you will find a Bourbon.”

By JAMES RAYMOND PERRY.

[Copyright, 1809, by James Raymond Perry.] 1 first heard of the man from Omaha at the time the monument on the lake front park was dedicated. As will be remembered, there was a parade after the dedication ceremonies at the monument were over. I watched the procession, but of course I could not see every individual tn it, and I didn’t happen to see the man from Omaha. I took no part in the parade, and so I was not a little surprised when on my way home that afternoon an acquaintance said to me: “Bruce, you looked first rate in the Baddie. But how did you happen to be with the Nebraskans?” “Looked first rate in the saddle!” I repeated. “What do you mean? I haven’t been In a saddle for ten years.” “Weren’t you in the parade this afternoon?” he demanded.

“No, sir.” “Why, I saw you. I stood OQ‘ the curb, and you passed within three feet of me. You looked exactly as you do this minute, except for your uniform. And you mean to say it wasn’t you?” I assured my acquaintance that It really and truly wasn’t me. “Well,” he said, “you have got a double, sure enough. I wondered at the time how you happened to be with the governor of Nebraska.” My wife and I live in a boarding house, and at dinner that night some of our fellow boarders entertained a guest from Omaha. He was Dr. Somebody. I do not now recall his name. After being int&duced I caught him eying me curiously. Presently he said: "Mr. Bruce, you bear a most astonishing likeness to a friend of mine in Omaha. If I had met you anywhere else, I should certainly have thought you were Philip Carr. He was here in the parade today, on the staff of our governor.” I did not see the man from Omaha while he was in the city that time. Several weeks passed, and I had quite forgotten that there was a man in Omaha when something happened to remind me of the fact One night on the way from my office to a car I saw a gentleman advancing from the opposite direction. He was smiling toward me in a friendly fashion and, I thought, seemed mighty glad to see me. His hand was extended, and under the Impression that I might have met him before I took it. We shook hands warmly, not to say with fervor. But even while we were doing so and while I was searching in the darker recesses of memory for the man’s name the expression of pleasure on his face changed, and with rather more doubt than conviction he said, “You’re from Omaha, aren’t you?” But he shook his head while he was speaking, his eyes studying my face with great earnestness. “I guess I’ve made a mistake,” he added, continuing to gaze at me wonderingly. “I think you have,” I replied. “At first I thought I had met you before, but I can’t place you.” “I thought you were Mr. Carr, a friend of mine in Omaha. You look very much like him. But I see you’re not.” And he passed on. Some months elapsed, and one noon when I was out for luncheon I felt a touch on my shoulder. Turning, I faced a man with gray hair and mustache. He was a stranger to me, but his hand was extended for a shake. I did not grasp it, and when he looked me full in the face I saw the expression of friendly greeting change to one of hesitation and perplexity. He gazed wistfully Into my face and asked: "You’re —you’re from Omaha, aren’t you?” "No,” I said, “I’m not the man from Omaha. My name is Bruce. You thought ’twas Carr, didn’t you?” “Yes,” he said. “But—how did you know?”

“Oh, I’ve been mistaken for him before,” I said, smiling, and with that I bowed and passed on. It was not long after this that my friend Harry Hull returned from a western,, trip. He had been gone several weeks, and I was very glad to see him and met him warmly. But I thought I detected an unwonted frostiness in his manner. He replied rather coldly to my questions regarding his health and directed most of his conversation to a mutual friend who chanced to be with me. ’This mutual friend withdrew, however, in a few minutes and left Harry alone with me. He seemed rather embarrassed and made brief replies to my inquiries. I began to wonder what the deuce ailed him, and in trying to remember what I could have done to offend him I lapsed into silence myself. Silence seemed to embarrass Harry more than conversation, however, and at length he asked, “Did you haye a pleasant time in Omaha?” The man from Omaha instantly came into my mind, and 1 tnought: “Ah, here lies the secret of’Harry’s coolness! He has seen him and mistaken him for me.” I had a mischievous desire for a little fun now that I suspected what had come between Harry and me. and so, though I hawe never stepped foot inside the limits of Omaha, said: “Yes, quite pleasant. It struck me as a lively and energetic town, and the people there were very cordial. Did you go there while qd your trip?” Harry's face flushed. “Did I go there?” he exclaimed. “Don’t add insult to injury. Bruce. Don’t pretend, now t*at you are back here in Chicago, that you didn’t see me there. There was no occasion for you to feel your importance so much just because you' happened to be hobnobbing with the governor. I wouldn’t have eut you the way you did me if I’d been with the

president of the United States, and yofi know 11 It never entered my head that you were such a despicable snob until you proved it that day.” There was the bitterness of wounded pride in Harry’s tone. I saw that this was no time to carry on the delusion, and so I said quietly: “Harry, you are the victim of a mistaken identity. I have never been in Omaha.” Harry stared at me, and the look of anger on his face changed to a curious expression of disgust. He opened his lips to speak. “Wait,” I said. “Do not say anything you may regret until you have heard me. You think I am not only a snob, but a liar also. I speak the truth, though, when I say I was never in Omaha.” “Then why did you say you were a moment ago?” he interrupted. “You asked me if I had a pleasant time there f and I answered yes. It wasn’t saying in so many words that I had been there, though I admit it was tantamount to it. I beg your pardon for that. I was joking, quite harmlessly, I thought. But let me explain. There lives in Omaha a man who, so far as I can judge, must be my exact double. I heard of him first through an acquaintance, and twice since have I been stopped on the street by men who mistook me for this man from Omaha. When you mentioned that you saw me in Omaha, I at once conjectured that you had seen my double, and I thought I would have a little fun with

She was curious and turned to look back. you. I’m sorry, and here’s my hand. Now tell me about your meeting him.” While I was speaking the expression on Harry’s face changed from anger and disgust to one of wonder and bewilderment. “Honestly, Dick, do you mean to tell me you were not in Omaha last week Thursday?” he asked. “Honestly,” I answered. “It doesn’t seem possible,” he said, “that the man I saw’ wasn’t you. Eyes, nose, mouth, color of hair, cut of beard —everything about the man was an exact duplicate of you. “I was standing with a friend of mine from Lincoln at the corner of Eighteenth and Farnham streets when I saw you coming—your double, I mean. He was with another man, and they were talking and laughing together. I recognized you at once or thought I did. There wasn’t a shadow of doubt in my mind about it being you. I said to my friend: ‘Why, there’s Dick Bruce. I wonder what he’s doing in Omaha!’ “At that moment you—the man, I mean—looked tow’ard me, and I smiled and nodded just as I naturally would, meeting you away from home that way. I was stepping tow’ard you with my hand out when the look on your face made md stop and draw back. You looked squarely at me and cut me dead, never smiled, nodded or anything, just didn’t know me. I don’t think I ever felt much more cut up in my life. My friend grinned a little and remarked, ‘He doesn’t seem to know you very well, Hull.’ Then he asked, ‘Did you know the man with him?’ I said no, and he said: ‘That’s the governor of Nebraska. I see him often on the streets of Lincoln.’ “Then I wondered if you could be such a contemptible snob as to cut me just because you happened to be walking with the chief executive of the state. 1 would have sworn you couldn’t o lf I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.” “Well,” I said, “the man from Omaha must be a dangerous double. I should like to meet him, for then I could see myself as others see me. I suppose when he saw you he probably thought you were bowing to the governor and so didn’t return-your bow.” “Probably,” replied Harry. Some mouths passed, and theTnan from Omaha was forgotten. One evening at the dinner table young Skinner, who takes his meals at the house, but lodges up the street a few doors, remarked with sundry winks in my direction: “Fine looking girl, Bruce, I saw you walking with today. Sister-or cousin?” “Both,” I answered without an idea what he meant. I supposed he was merely following a well known propensity of his for joking. “Both,” he repeated. “How’s that?” “Why,” I replied, “my brother married his cousin, aud that made her my sister.” My wife looked at me reproachfully. She isn’t used to hearing me fib. “Brother live in town?” Skinner asked. “He used to,” I said, “but since he • got married he’s away a good deal. He’s gone Klondike now.” “It’s no such thing, Mr. Skinner,” interposed my wife. “Dick’s brother isn’t married, for he hasn’t got one. But I’m interested in the girl. What did she look like?” “Oli, she was a fine looking girlblond. hair like sunshine, complexion like a peach, blue eyes, height a little nbove medium, age about 25, I should say. Do you recognize the description?” “Skinner,” I said, “I didn’t think you would betray me in this shameless fashion. The only thing that can ex-

cuse you is the fact that you are unmarried. You don’t know what you are doing.” “That’s right,” returned Skinner. “I spoke before I thought. It wasn’t right, and I’m sorry. I beg your pardon, Bruce. It shall not occur again.” “But I want to know more about this peach complexloned blond,” my wife said. “Where were they when you saw them, and what were they doing, Mr. Skinner?” “Really, Mrs. Bruce, you must excuse me. My lips are sealed,” answered Banner. “Good thing,” Remarked the landlady’s daughter, a bright little miss of 10, whereat several of the boarders laughed, for Skinner had the reputation of talking a good deal without saying very much. “Thank you, Miss Amy,” retorted Skinner. “Little girls should be seen and not heard.” When we had gone to our room, my wife asked, “Who was the girl Mr. Skinner saw with you, Dick?” “He didn’t see me with any girl, my dear,” I replied. “It was merely one of Skinner’s exquisitely funny jokes. You know he is always making them.” My wife didn’t laugh, though Skinner’s jokes, so called, were something of a byword with us. “He seemed to give a pretty good description of her for a purely imaginary girl,” she said. “Oh, he may have seen such a girl, but he didn’t see her with me,” I returned. My wife said nothing more, but I thought from the expression on her face that she did not seem quite satisfied. The next day my wife came down town to help select a new hat. She always goes with me when I buy a new hat. I never know what looks well on me, and she has excellent judgment. We had left the hatter’s and were walking toward my office when my wife called my attention to a lady coming across the street. She was a very pretty blond. When I glanced at her, she seemed to be looking toward me, and there was a singular expression on her face, a curious combination of surprise and pain or disapproval. I thought she made a little motion with her hand, but wasn’t sure. As she was an entire stranger to me I supposed I must be mistaken and, looking away, continued on with my wife. My wife had kept her eyes on the woman all the time, and as we passed on she said, “How funny she acted!” She was curious and turned to look back after we had gone a few steps. “She’s standing stock still, looking at us,” she said. “What do you suppose ails her?” “I don’t know, I’m sure. She may have thought she knew us,” I replied. My wife looked back several times, but the throng on the street had come between us and the woman, and we did not see her again. The day following I returned from a difficult and weary day’s work at the office. It should be stated here that my father-in-law, Mr. Noble, is president of the company which employs me. Upon entering our room 4 found my wife coldly scornful, though as bewilderingly pretty as ever. “I am going home to my mother, Richard Bruce,” she said. “It was a sorry day when I ever left her to link my fate to a double faced, deceitful man like yourself.” That I was somewhat taken aback by this greeting may be readily surmised. At first I supposed my wife must be going through a bit of amateur acting, but when I saw the uncompromising look on her face I wondered if she had not suddenly cone crazy. “My dear”— I began, but she interrupted me. "Don’t call me your dear. You ought to be ashamed to speak to me or even to come into my presence. You would be if you were not such a brazen villaln. I shall never again trust any one.

I trusted you, and you have proved false, utterly false.” My wife’s voice trembled, and I thought she was about to break down and weep, but she is a proud woman and controlled herself. As I say, I had come home from a difficult day’s work, and I was not In a very good temper for moods or mysteries. I sank wearily Into a chair. “Have the goodness, Mary,” I said, “to cease this abuse and tell me what has happened.” My voice was stern, and I suppose it also sounded sincere, for she looked at me with some bewilderment intermixed with her scorn and wrath. “Tell you what has happened!” she repeated. “Richard Bruce, are you crazy, or do you think I am a born idiot?” ” “Hitherto I have not thought so, but if compelled to answer either of your questions I should feel inclined to affirm the latter,” was my reply, unquestionably an ill advised one. “That is right. [leap insult upon injury. 1 never thought you would use insulting language to me, but I see anything may be expected from you. I shall leave the room.” “Mary,” I said, rising and placing myself between her and the door, “let us have no more nonsense. If you have not lost your reason, tell me what I have done.” “Very well. I -will, though you know as well what you have done before I tell you as you will after. Yesterday, when we saw that woman on the street, you pretended to the that you didn’t know her, that you had never seen her before, and today, when I met you face to face wjth her and started to speak to you, you turned away, with a laugh, toward the odious creature and utterly ignored me. I was so dumfounded for a moment that I could neither speak nor move, and while I stood there, speechless, you both entered a carriage and were driven away. Now you know what you have done, and if you think your wife is the kind of woman to overlook it you are immensely mistaken. Let me pass, please.” I held out a detaining hand. “Listen to me,” I said. “You are evidently laboring under a delusion. You speak of the woman we saw on the street yesterday and say you saw me with her today. You are mistaken. Yau did not see me with her.” “Mr. Bruce, I say I did see you with her,” said my wife in icy tones. “Do not add lie upon lie in a vain effort to deny it?’ I know you now for the perfidious villain that you are. You have doubtless been meeting this woman for a long time. She is the one Mr. Skinner saw you with the other day. His description of her tallies exactly. I thought so when we saw her yesterday and wondered if she wasn’t the I one, and today I had proof presenter to my own eyes. Do not be so foolish as to think you can deceive me any longer.” I was in despair. What could I say to make.my wife believe me? A happy thought came to me. “At what hour did you see me?” I asked. “It was about 3 o’clock. Would you like to know the day of the month and the year?” she asked sarcastically. “No; the hour is sufficient,” I replied. “Mary, do you think your father would enter into collusion with me to deceive you? Woqld he connive with me in a piece of villainy such as you believe I have practiced upon you?” “My father!” she exlaimed. “Certainily not He is the only man left, since i you have deceived me, in whom I can place confidence. He is a gentleman and would not lie.” “Very well,” I said. “Let us go to him. A moment ago you said you were going home to your mother. You may go, but I am going with you. I have a question to ask your father, and I want to ask it in your presence.” I could see by the look in my wife’s face-that she was much mystified at jmy proposal. She did not demur, how- ! ever, and we were soon on our way to |my father-in-law’s. The distance was ; short, and in 15 minutes we were there. ! I did not wish to expose to Mr. Noble j his daughter’s lack of faith in me and , intimated as much to my wife before ; we entered and asked her to let me do | the talking before she attempted to exi plain matters. She was silent, neither consenting to nor declining my request. “Father,” I began when he met us, “Mary and I have a little wager Which we want you to settle. Mary declares with perfect confidence that she saw me on Washington street at about 3 o’clock this afternoon. I tell her she was mistaken, but I find it hard to convince her. Will you tell her where I was ?” “My dear,” said Mr. Noble to his daughter, “you could not possibly have seeu Richard there at the time he mpntious. He and I were at the office together continuously from 1 o’clock till | 4:30. He did not once leave the room j in which we were working.” [to be continued.]