 The Curious Case of Benjamin Button by F. Scott Fitzgerald of Dramatic Reading Scene and Story Collection, Vol. 2. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Narrator read by James K. White Roger Button, rat by Rob Marland Dr. Keane, rat by Larry Wilson First Nurse, rat by Lynette Coggins Second Nurse, rat by Beth Thomas Benjamin Button, rat by Adrienne Stevens Store Clerk, played by Grace Buchanan Mr. Hart, rat by Kevinus First Undergraduate, rat by Lorda Graduate II, rat by Patrick Lenn Hildegard, rat by Abaii Townspeople, rat by Todd Roscoe Button, rat by Chuck Williamson Sentry, rat by Lorda The Colonel, rat by Scott Calkins Chapter 1 As long ago as 1860 it was the proper thing to be born at home. At present, so I am told, the high gods of medicine have decreed that the first cries of the young shall be uttered upon the anesthetic air of a hospital, preferably a fashionable one. So young Mr. and Mrs. Roger Button were fifty years ahead of style when they decided one day in the summer of 1860 that their first baby should be born in a hospital. Whether this anachronism had any bearing upon the astonishing history I am about to set down or never be known, I shall tell you what occurred and let you judge for yourself. The Roger Buttons held an enviable position, both social and financial, in antebellum Baltimore. They were related to the this family and the that family which, as every Southerner knew, entitled them to membership in that enormous peerage which largely populated the Confederacy. This was their first experience with the charming old custom of having babies. Mr. Button was naturally nervous. He hoped it would be a boy so that he could be sent to Yale College in Connecticut, at which institution Mr. Button himself had been known for four years by the somewhat obvious nickname of Cuff. On the September morning consecrated to the enormous event, he arose nervously at six o'clock, dressed himself, adjusted an impeccable stock, and hurried forth through the streets of Baltimore to the hospital to determine whether the darkness of the night had borne in new life upon its bosom. When he was approximately a hundred yards from the Maryland private hospital for ladies and gentlemen, he saw Dr. Keane, the family physician, descending the front steps, rubbing his hands together with a washing movement as all doctors are required to do by the unwritten ethics of their profession. Mr. Roger Button, the president of Roger Button & Company, Wholesale Hardware, began to run toward Dr. Keane with much less dignity than was expected from a southern gentleman of that picturesque period. Dr. Keane! he called. Oh, Dr. Keane! The doctor heard him, faced around, and stood waiting, a curious expression settling on his harsh, medicinal face as Mr. Button drew near. What happened? Demanded Mr. Button, as he came up in a gasping rush. What was it? How is she? A boy? Who is it? What? Talk sense. Said Dr. Keane sharply. He appeared somewhat irritated. Is the child born? Beg Mr. Button. Dr. Keane frowned. Why, yes, I suppose so, after fashion. Again he threw a curious glance at Mr. Button. Is my wife all right? Yes. Is it a boy or a girl? Here now! cried Dr. Keane in a perfect passion of irritation. I'll ask you to go and see for yourself. Adrigous! He snapped the last word out in almost one syllable. Then he turned away, muttering. Do you imagine a case like this will help my professional reputation? One more would ruin me, ruin anybody. What's the matter? Demanded Mr. Button, appalled. Triplets? No, not triplets. Answered the doctor cuttingly. What's more, you can go and see for yourself, and get another doctor. I brought you into this world, young man, and I've been physician to your family for forty years. But I'm through with you. I don't want to see you or any of your relatives ever again. Goodbye. Then he turned sharply, and without another word climbed into his fate which was waiting at the curb stone, and drove severely away. Mr. Button stood there upon the sidewalk, stupefied and trembling from head to foot. What horrible mishap had occurred. He had suddenly lost all desire to go into the Maryland private hospital for ladies and gentlemen. It was with the greatest difficulty that a moment later he forced himself to mount the steps and enter the front door. A nurse was sitting behind a desk in the opaque gloom of the hall. Swallowing his shame, Mr. Button approached her. Good morning. She remarked, looking up at him pleasantly. Good morning. I—I am Mr. Button. At this a look of utter terror spread itself over the girl's face. She rose to her feet and seemed about to fly from the hall, restraining herself only with the most apparent difficulty. I want to see my child, said Mr. Button. The nurse gave a little scream. Ah! Oh, of course! She cried hysterically. Upstairs! Right upstairs! Go up! She pointed the direction, and Mr. Button bathed in cool perspiration, turned falteringly, and began to mount to the second floor. In the upper hall he addressed another nurse who approached him, basin in hand. I'm Mr. Button. He managed to articulate. I want to see my— Clank! The basin clattered to the floor and rolled in the direction of the stairs. Clank! Clank! It began a methodical dissent, as if sharing in the general terror which this gentleman provoked. I want to see my child! Mr. Button almost shrieked. He was on the verge of collapse. Clank! The basin reached the first floor. The nurse regained control of herself, and through Mr. Button a look of hearty contempt. All right, Mr. Button! She agreed, in a hushed voice. Very well. But if you knew what a state it's put us all in this morning, it's perfectly outrageous. The hospital will never have a ghost of a reputation after. Hurry! He cried hoarsely. I can't stand this. Come this way, then, Mr. Button. He dragged himself after her. At the end of a long haul they reached a room from which proceeded a variety of howls. Indeed, a room which in later parlance would have been known as the crying room. They entered. Well— Gasped Mr. Button. Which is mine? There. Said the nurse. Mr. Button's eyes followed her pointing finger, and this is what he saw. Wrapped in a voluminous white blanket, and partly crammed into one of the cribs, there sat an old man apparently about seventy years of age. His sparse hair was almost white, and from his chin dripped a long, smoke-colored beard, which waved absurdly back and forth, fanned by the breeze coming in at the window. He looked up at Mr. Button with dim, faded eyes, in which lurked a puzzled question. Am I mad? Thundered Mr. Button, his terror resolving into rage. Is this some ghastly hospital joke? It doesn't seem like a joke to us, replied the nurse severely. And I don't know whether you're mad or not, but that is most certainly your child. The cool perspiration redoubled on Mr. Button's forehead. He closed his eyes, and then, opening them, looked again. There was no mistake. He was gazing at a man of three score and ten, a baby of three score and ten, a baby whose feet hung over the sides of the crib in which it was reposing. The old man looked placidly from one to the other for a moment, and then suddenly spoke in a cracked and ancient voice. Are you my father? He demanded. Mr. Button and the nurse started violently. Because, if you are— Went on the old man quarrellessly. I wish you'd get me out of this place, or at least get them to put a comfortable rocker in here. Where in God's name did you come from? Who are you? Burst out Mr. Button frantically. I can't tell you exactly who I am, replied the quarrelous whine. Because I've only been born a few hours, but my last name is certainly Button. You lie! You're an imposter! The old man turned warily to the nurse. Nice way to welcome a newborn child. He complained in a weak voice. Tell him he's wrong. Why don't you? You're wrong, Mr. Button, said the nurse severely. This is your child, and you'll have to make the best of it. We're going to ask you to take him home with you as soon as possible, sometime today. Home? repeated Mr. Button incredulously. Yes, we can't have him here. We really can't, you know. I'm right glad of it. Whine the old man. This is a fine place to keep a youngster of quiet tastes. With all this yelling and howling, I haven't been able to get a wink of sleep. I asked for something to eat. Here his voice rose to a shrill note of protest. And they brought me a bottle of milk. Mr. Button sank down upon a cheer near his son and concealed his face in his hands. My heavens! he murmured in an ecstasy of horror. What will people say? What must they do? You'll have to take him home! insisted the nurse. Immediately! A grotesque picture formed itself with dreadful clarity before the eyes of the tortured man. A picture of himself walking through the crowded streets of the city with this appalling apparition stalking by his side. I can't! I can't! he moaned. People would stop to speak to him. And what was he going to say? He would have to introduce this, this Septigenarian. This is my son, born early this morning. And then the old man would gather his blanket around him and they would plot on, past the bustling stores, the slave market. For a dark instant Mr. Button wished passionately that his son was black, past the luxurious houses of the residential district, past the home for the aged. Come, pull yourself together. commanded the nurse. See here! the old man announced suddenly, If you think I'm going to walk home in this blanket, you're entirely mistaken. Babies always have blankets. With a malicious crackle, the old man held up a small white swaddling garment. Look! he quavered. This is what they had ready for me. Babies always wear those. Said the nurse, primly. Well, said the old man. This baby's not going to wear anything in about two minutes. There's blanket itches. They might at least have given me a sheet. Keep it on, keep it on! said Mr. Button hurriedly. He turned to the nurse. What'll I do? Go downtown and buy your son some clothes. Mr. Button's son's voice followed him down into the hall. And a cane, father. I want to have a cane. Mr. Button banged the outer door savagely. Chapter 2 Good morning. Mr. Button said nervously to the clerk in the Chesapeake Dry Goods Company. I want to buy some clothes for my child. How old is your child, sir? About six hours. Answered Mr. Button without due consideration. Baby's supply department in the rear. Why, I don't think... I'm not sure that's what I want. It's... he's an unusually large-sized child. Exceptionally large. They have the largest child's sizes. Right here. Where is the boy's department? Inquired Mr. Button, shifting his ground desperately. He felt that the clerk must surely sent his shameful secret. Right here. Well... He hesitated. The notion of dressing his son in men's clothes was repugnant to him. If, say, he could only find a very large boy's suit, he might cut off that long and awful beard, dye the white hair brown, and thus manage to conceal the worst and to retain something of his own self-respect, not to mention his position in Baltimore society. But a frantic inspection of the boy's department revealed no suits to fit the newborn Button. He blamed the store, of course. In such cases it is the thing to blame the store. How old did you say that boy of yours was? Demanded the clerk curiously. He's sixteen. Oh, I beg your pardon. I thought you said six hours. You'll find the youth's department in the next aisle. Mr. Button turned miserably away. Then he stopped, brightened, and pointed his finger toward a dressed dummy in the window display. There! he exclaimed. I'll take that suit out there on the dummy. The clerk stared. Why? he protested. That's not a child's suit. At least it is. But it's for fancy dress. You could wear it yourself. Wrap it up! insisted the customer nervously. That's what I want. The astonished clerk obeyed. Back at the hospital, Mr. Button entered the nursery and almost threw the package at his son. Here's your clothes. he snapped out. The old man untied the package and viewed the contents with a quizzical eye. They look sort of funny to me. He complained. I don't want to be made a monkey of. You've made a monkey of me. retorted Mr. Button fiercely. Never you mind how funny you look. Put them on or I'll... or I'll spank you. He swallowed uneasily at the penultimate word, feeling, nevertheless, that it was the proper thing to say. All right, father. This was a grotesque simulation of filial respect. You've lived longer. You know best, just as you say. As before, the sound of the word father caused Mr. Button to start violently. And hurry. I'm hurrying, father. When his son was dressed, Mr. Button regarded him with depression. The costume consisted of dotted socks, pink pants, and a belted blouse with a wide white collar. Over the ladder waved the long whitish beard, drooping almost to the waist. The effect was not good. Wait! Mr. Button seized a hospital shears and with three quick snaps amputated a large section of the beard. But even with this improvement the ensemble fell far short of perfection. The remaining brush of scraggly hair, the watery eyes, the ancient teeth seemed oddly out of tone with the gaiety of the costume. Mr. Button, however, was obdurate. He held out his hand. Come along. He said sternly. His son took the hand trustingly. What are you going to call me, dad? He quavered as they walked from the nursery. Just baby for a while till you think of a better name. Mr. Button grunted. I don't know. He answered harshly. I think we'll call you Mothusola. Chapter 3 Even after the new addition to the Button family had had his hair cut short and then died to a sparse unnatural black had had his face shaved so close that it glistened and had been attired in small-boy clothes made to order by a flabbergasted tailor it was impossible for Button to ignore the fact that his son was a poor excuse for a first family baby. Despite his aged stoop, Benjamin Button, for it was by this name they called him instead of by the appropriate but invidious Mothusola, was five feet eight inches tall. His clothes did not conceal this nor did the clipping and dying of his eyebrows disguise the fact that the eyes under were faded and watery and tired. In fact, the baby nurse who had been engaged in advance left the house after one look in a state of considerable indignation. But Mr. Button persisted in his unwavering purpose. Benjamin was a baby and a baby he should remain. At first he declared that if Benjamin didn't like warm milk he could go without food altogether but he was finally prevailed upon to allow his son bread and butter and even oatmeal by way of a compromise. One day he brought home a rattle and giving it to Benjamin insisted in no uncertain terms that he should play with it whereupon the old man took it with a weary expression and could be heard jingling it obediently at intervals throughout the day. There can be no doubt though that the rattle bored him and that he found other and more soothing amusements when he was left alone. For instance, Mr. Button discovered one day that during the preceding week he had smoked more cigars than ever before. A phenomenon which was explained a few days later when entering the nursery unexpectedly he found the room full of faint blue haze and Benjamin with a guilty expression on his face trying to conceal the butt of a dark Havana. This of course called for a severe spanking but Mr. Button found that he could not bring himself to administer it. He merely warned his son that he would stunt his growth. Nevertheless he persisted in his attitude. He brought home lead soldiers, he brought toy trains, he brought large pleasant animals made of cotton and to perfect the illusion which he was creating for himself at least he passionately demanded of the clerk in the toy store whether the paint would come off the pink duck if the baby put it in his mouth. But despite all his father's efforts Benjamin refused to be interested. He would steal down the back stairs and return to the nursery with a volume of the Encyclopedia Britannica over which he would pour through an afternoon while his cotton cows and his Noah's Ark were left neglected on the floor. Against such a stubbornness Mr. Button's efforts were of little avail. The sensation created in Baltimore was at first prodigious what the mishap would have cost the buttons and their kinsfolk socially cannot be determined for the outbreak of the Civil War drew the city's attention to other things. A few people who were unfailingly polite racked their brains for compliments to give to the parents and finally hit upon the ingenious device of declaring that the baby resembled his grandfather. A fact which, due to the standard state of decay common to all men of seventy could not be denied. Mr. and Mrs. Roger Button were not pleased and Benjamin's grandfather was furiously insulted. Benjamin, once he left the hospital, took life as he found it. Several small boys were brought to see him and he spent a stiff jointed afternoon trying to work up an interest in tops and marbles. He even managed, quite accidentally, to break a kitchen window with a stone from a slingshot a feat which secretly delighted his father. Thereafter Benjamin contrived to break something every day but he did these things only because they were expected of him and because he was by nature obliging. When his grandfather's initial antagonism wore off Benjamin and that gentleman took enormous pleasure in one another's company. They would sit for hours these two so far apart in age and experience and, like old cronies, discuss with tireless monotony the slow events of the day. Benjamin felt more at ease in his grandfather's presence than in his parents. They seemed always somewhat in awe of him and, despite the dictatorial authority they exercised over him, frequently addressed him as Mr. He was as puzzled as anyone else at the apparently advanced age of his mind and body at birth. He read up on it in the medical journal but found that no such case had been previously recorded. At his father's urging he made an honest attempt to play with other boys and frequently he joined in the milder games football shook him up too much and he feared that in case of a fracture his ancient bones would refuse to knit. When he was five he was sent to kindergarten where he initiated into the art of pasting green paper on orange paper of weaving colored maps and manufacturing eternal cardboard necklaces. He was inclined to drows off to sleep in the middle of these tasks, a habit which both irritated and frightened his young teacher. To his relief she complained to his parents and he was removed from the school. The Roger Buttons told their friends that they felt he was too young. By the time he was twelve years old his parents had grown used to him indeed so strong is the force of custom that they no longer felt that he was different from any other child except when some curious anomaly reminded them of the fact. But one day a few weeks after his twelfth birthday while looking in the mirror Benjamin made or thought he made an astonishing discovery. Did his eyes deceive him or had his hair turned in the dozen years of his life from white to iron grey under its concealing dye? Was the network of wrinkles on his face becoming less pronounced? Was his skin healthier and firmer with even a touch of ruddy winter color? He could not tell. He knew that he no longer stooped and that his physical condition had improved since the early days of his life. Can it be? He thought to himself or rather scarcely dared to think. He went to his father. I am grown. He announced determinedly I want to put on long trousers. His father hesitated. Well... He said finally. I don't know. Fourteen is the age for putting on long trousers and you are only twelve. But you'll have to admit protested Benjamin that I'm big for my age. His father looked at him with illusory speculation. Oh, I'm not so sure of that. He said. I was as big as you when I was twelve. This was not true. It was all part of Roger Button's silent agreement with himself to believe in his son's normality. Finally a compromise was reached. Benjamin was to continue to dye his hair. He was to make a better attempt to play with boys of his own age. He was not to wear his spectacles or carry a cane in the street. In return for these concessions he was allowed his first suit of long trousers. Chapter Four Of the life of Benjamin Button between his twelfth and twenty-first year I intend to say little. Suffice to record that they were years of normal ungrowth. When Benjamin was eighteen he was erect as a man of fifty. He had more hair and it was of a dark grey. His step was firm. His voice had lost its cracked quaver and descended to a healthy baritone. So his father sent him up to Connecticut to take examinations for entrance to Yale College. Benjamin passed his examination and became a member of the freshman class. On the third day following his matriculation he received a notification from Mr. Hart, the college registrar, to call at his office and arrange his schedule. Benjamin, glancing in the mirror, decided that his hair needed a new application of its brown dye. But an anxious inspection of the drawer disclosed that the dye bottle was not there. Then he remembered he had emptied it the day before and thrown it away. He was in a dilemma. He was due at the registrars in five minutes. There seemed to be no help for it. He must go as he was. He did. Good morning, said the registrar politely. You've come to inquire about your son. Why? What? My name's Button. Began Benjamin. But Mr. Hart cut him off. I'm very glad to meet you, Mr. Button. I'm expecting your son here any minute. That's me. Burst out Benjamin. I'm a freshman. What? I'm a freshman. Surely you're joking. Not at all. The registrar frowned and glanced at a card before him. At age. Asserted Benjamin, fleshing slightly. The registrar eyed him warily. Now surely, Mr. Button, you don't expect me to believe that. Benjamin smiled warily. I am eighteen. He repeated. The registrar pointed sternly to the door. Get out. He said. Get out of the college and get out of the town. You're a dangerous lunatic. I am eighteen. The idea. He shouted. A man of your age trying to enter here as a freshman. Eighteen years old, are you? Well, I'll give you eighteen minutes to get out of town. Benjamin Button walked with dignity from the room. And half a dozen undergraduates who were waiting in the hall followed him curiously with their eyes. When he had gone a little way, he turned around, faced the infuriated registrar who was still standing in the doorway and repeated in a firm voice, I am eighteen years old. To a chorus of titters which went up from the group of undergraduates, Benjamin walked away. But he was not fated to escape so easily. On his melancholy walk to the railroad station, he found that he was being followed by a group, then by a swarm, and finally by a dense mass of undergraduates. The word had gone around that a lunatic had passed the entrance examinations for Yale and attempted to palm himself off as a youth of eighteen. A fever of excitement permeated the college. Men ran headless out of classes. The football team abandoned its practice and joined the mob. Professors' wives with bonnets awry and bustles out of position ran shouting after the procession, from which proceeded a continual succession of remarks aimed at the tender sensibilities of Benjamin Button. He must be the wandering Jew. He ought to go to the prep school at his age. Look, at the infant prodigy. He thought this was the old man's home. Go up to Harvard. Benjamin increased his gate and soon he was running. He would show them. He would go to Harvard and then they would regret these ill-considered taunts. Safely on board the train for Baltimore, he put his head from the window. You'll regret this. He shouted. The undergraduates laughed. It was the biggest mistake that Yale College had ever made. Chapter 5 In 1880 Benjamin Button was twenty years old and he signalized his birthday by going to work for his father in Roger Button & Company Wholesale Hardware. It was in that same year that he began going out socially. That is, his father insisted on taking him to several fashionable dances. Roger Button was now fifty and he and his son were more and more companionable. In fact, since Benjamin had ceased to dye his hair, which was still grayish, they appeared about the same age and could have passed for brothers. One night in August they got into the faten, attired in their full dress suits and drove out to a dance at the Chevlin's Country House, situated just outside of Baltimore. It was a gorgeous evening. A full moon drenched the road to the lustrous color of platinum and late blooming harvest flowers breathed into the motionless air aromas that were like low, half-herd laughter. The open country, carpeted for rods around with bright wheat, was translucent as in the day. It was almost impossible not to be affected by the sheer beauty of the sky. Almost. There's a great future in the dry goods business, Roger Button was saying. He was not a spiritual man. His aesthetic sense was rudimentary. Old fellows like me can't learn new tricks. He observed profoundly. It's you youngsters with energy and vitality that have the great future before you. Far up the road, the lights of the Chevlin's Country House drifted into view, and presently there was a sighing sound that crept persistently toward them. It might have been the fine plank of violins or the rustle of the silver wheat under the moon. They pulled up behind a handsome brohame whose passengers were disembarking at the door. A lady got out, then an elderly gentleman, then another young lady, beautiful as sin. Benjamin started. An almost chemical change seemed to dissolve and recompose the very elements of his body. A rigor passed over him. Blood rose into his cheeks, his forehead, and there was a steady thumping in his ears. It was first love. The girl was slender and frail, with hair that was ashen under the moon and honey-coloured under the sputtering gas lamps of the porch. Over her shoulders was thrown a Spanish mantilla of softest yellow, butterflyed in black. Her feet were glittering buttons at the hem of her bustled dress. Roger Button leaned over to his son. That, he said, is young Hildegard Moncrief, the daughter of General Moncrief. Benjamin nodded coldly. Pretty little thing, he said, indifferently. But when the negro boy had led the buggy away, he added, Dad, you might introduce me to her. They approached a group of which Miss Moncrief was the centre. Reared in the old tradition, she curtsied low before Benjamin. Yes, he might have a dance. He thanked her and walked away, staggered away. The interval until the time for his turn should arrive dragged itself out interminably. He stood close to the wall, watching with murderous eyes the young Bloods of Baltimore as they eddied around Hildegard Moncrief, passionate admiration in their faces. How obnoxious they seemed to Benjamin, how intolerably rosy their curly brown whiskers aroused in him a feeling equivalent to indigestion. But when his own time came and he drifted with her out upon the changing floor to the music of the latest waltz from Paris, his jealousies and anxieties melted from him like a mantle of snow. Blind with enchantment, he felt that life was just beginning. You and your brother got here just as we did, didn't you? Asked Hildegard, looking up at him with eyes that were like bright blue enamel. Benjamin hesitated. If she took him for his father's brother would it be best to enlighten her? He remembered his experience at Yale so he decided against it. It would be rude to contradict a lady. It would be criminal to mar this exquisite occasion with the grotesque story of his origin. Later perhaps. So he nodded, smiled, listened, was happy. I like men of your age, Hildegard told him. Young boys are so idiotic. They tell me how much champagne they drink at college and how much money they lose playing cards. Men of your age know how to appreciate women. Benjamin felt himself on the verge of a proposal. With an effort he choked back the impulse. You're just a romantic age. She continued. Fifty. Twenty-five is too worldly wise. Thirty is apt to be pale from overwork. Forty is the age of long stories that take a whole cigar to tell. Sixty is... Oh, sixty is too near seventy. But fifty is the mellow age. I love fifty. Fifty seemed to Benjamin a glorious age. He longed passionately to be fifty. I've always said, went on Hildegard, that I'd rather marry a man of fifty and be taken care of than marry a man of thirty and take care of him. For Benjamin, the rest of the evening was bathed in a honey-coloured mist. Hildegard gave him two more dances and they discovered that they were marvelously in accord on all the questions of the day. She was to go driving with him on the following Sunday and then they would discuss all these questions further. Going home in the faton just before the crack of dawn when the first bees were humming and the fading moon glimmered vaguely that his father was discussing wholesale hardware. And what do you think should merit our biggest attention after hammers and nails? The elder button was saying. Laugh. replied Benjamin absentmindedly. Logs. exclaimed Roger Button. Why, I've just covered the question of Logs. Benjamin regarded him with dazed eyes just as the eastern sky was suddenly cracked with light and an Oreo yawned piercingly in the quickening trees. When six months later the engagement of Miss Hildegard Moncrief to Mr. Benjamin Button was made known I say made known for General Moncrief declared he would rather fall upon his sword than announce it, the excitement in Baltimore society reached a feverish pitch. The most forgotten story of Benjamin's birth was remembered and sent out upon the winds of scandal in picaresque and incredible forms. It was said that Benjamin was really the father of Roger Button. That he was his brother who had been in prison for forty years. That he was John Wilkes Booth in disguise. And finally that he had two small conical horns sprouting from his head. The two members played up the case with fascinating sketches which showed the head of Benjamin Button attached to a fish, to a snake, and finally to a body of solid brass. He became known journalistically as the mystery man of Maryland, but the true story, as is usually the case, had a very small circulation. However everyone agreed with General Moncrief that it was criminal for a lovely girl who could have married any bow in Baltimore to throw herself into the arms of a man who was assuredly fifty. In vain, Mr. Roger Button published his son's birth certificate in large type in the Baltimore blaze. No one believed it. You had only to look at Benjamin and see. On the part of the two people most concerned there was no wavering. So many of the stories about our fiance were false that Hildegard refused stubbornly to believe even the true one. In vain General Moncrief pointed out to her the high mortality among men of fifty or at least among men who looked fifty. In vain he told her of the instability of the wholesale hardware business. Hildegard had chosen to marry for mellowness and marry she did. Chapter 7 In one particular, at least, the friends of Hildegard Moncrief were mistaken. The wholesale hardware business prospered amazingly. In the fifteen years between Benjamin Button's marriage in 1880 and his father's retirement in 1895 the family fortune was doubled and this was due largely to the younger member of the firm. Needless to say Baltimore eventually received the couple to its bosom. Even old General Moncrief became reconciled to his son-in-law when Benjamin gave him the money to bring out his history of the Civil War in twenty volumes which had been refused by nine prominent publishers. In Benjamin himself fifteen years had wrought many changes. It seemed to him that the blood flowed with new vigor through his veins. It began to be a pleasure to rise in the morning to walk with an active step along the busy sunny street to work untiringly with his shipments of hammers and his cargoes of nails. It was in 1890 that he executed his famous business coup. He brought up the suggestion that all nails used in nailing up the boxes in which nails are shipped are the property of the shipee. A proposal which became a statute was approved by Chief Justice Fossil and saved Roger Button and Company wholesale hardware more than six hundred nails every year. In addition Benjamin discovered that he was becoming more and more attracted by the gay side of life. It was typical of his growing enthusiasm for pleasure that he was the first man in the city of Baltimore to own and run an automobile. Meeting him on the street his contemporaries would stare inviously at the picture he made of health and vitality. He seems to grow younger every year. They would remark that Roger Button, now sixty-five years old, had failed at first to give a proper welcome to his son. He atoned at last by bestowing on him what amounted to adulation. And here we come to an unpleasant subject which it will be well to pass over as quickly as possible. There was only one thing that worried Benjamin Button. His wife had ceased to attract him. At that time Hildegard was a woman of seventy-five, with a son, Roscoe, fourteen years old. In the early days of their marriage Benjamin had worshipped her. But as the years passed her honey-colored hair became an unexciting brown. The blue enamel of her eyes assumed the aspect of cheap crockery. Moreover, and most of all she had become too settled in her ways too placid, too content, too anemic in her excitements and too sober in her taste. As a bride it had been she who had dragged Benjamin to dances and dinners. Now conditions were reversed. She went out socially with him but without enthusiasm. Devoured already by that eternal inertia which comes to live with each of us one day and stays with us to the end. Benjamin's discontent waxed stronger. At the outbreak of the Spanish-American war in 1898 his home had for him so little charm that he decided to join the army. With his business influence he obtained a commission as captain and proved so adaptable to the work that he was made a major and finally a Lieutenant Colonel just in time to participate in the celebrated charge of San Juan Hill. He was slightly wounded and received a medal. Benjamin had become so attached to the activity and excitement of his life that he regretted to give it up but his business required attention so he resigned his commission and came home. He was met at the station by a brass band and escorted to his house. Chapter 8 Hildegard waving a large silk flag greeted him on the porch and even as he kissed her he felt with a sinking of the heart that these three years had taken their toll. He was a woman of forty now with a faint skirmish line of gray hairs in her head. The sight depressed him. Up in his room he saw his reflection in the familiar mirror. He went closer and examined his own face with anxiety comparing it after a moment with a photograph of himself in uniform taken just before the war. Good Lord! he said aloud. The process was continuing. There was no doubt of it. He looked now like a man of thirty. Instead of being delighted he was uneasy. He was growing younger. He had hitherto hoped that once he reached a bodily age equivalent to his age in years the grotesque phenomenon which had marked his birth would cease to function. He shuddered. His destiny seemed to him awful. Incredible. When he came downstairs she appeared annoyed and he wondered if she had at last discovered that there was something amiss. It was with an effort to relieve the tension between them that he broached the matter at dinner in what he considered a delicate way. Well he remarked lightly Everybody says I look younger than ever. Hildegard regarded him with scorn. She sniffed. Do you think it's anything to boast about? I'm not boasting. He asserted uncomfortably. She sniffed again. The idea. She said, and after a moment I should think you'd have enough pride to stop it. How can I? He demanded. I'm not going to argue with you. She retorted. But there's a right way of doing things and a wrong way. If you've made up your mind to be different from everybody else I don't suppose I can stop you. But Hildegard I can't help it. You can too. You're simply stubborn. You think you don't want to be like anyone else. You always have been that way and you always will be. But just think how it would be if everyone else looked at things as you do. What would the world be like? As this was an inane and unanswerable argument Benjamin made no reply. And from that time on a chasm began to widen between them. He wondered what possible fascination she had ever exercised over him. To add to the breach he found, as the new century gathered headway, that his thirst for gaiety grew stronger. Never a party of any kind in the city of Baltimore, but he was there dancing with the prettiest of the young married women, chatting with the most popular of the debutantes and finding their company charming while his wife a dowager of evil omen sat among the chaperones now in haughty disapproval and now following him with solemn puzzled and reproachful eyes. Look, people would remark. What a pity. A young fellow that age tied to a woman of forty-five. He must be twenty years younger than his wife. They had forgotten, as people inevitably forget, that back in eighteen-eighty, their mamas and papas had also remarked about this same ill-matched pair. Benjamin's growing unhappiness at home was compensated for by his many new interests. He took up golf and made a great success of it. He went in for dancing. In nineteen-o-six he was an expert at the Boston, and in nineteen-o-eight he was considered proficient at the Maxine, while in nineteen-o-nine his castle-walk was the envy of every young man in town. His social activities, of course, interfered to some extent with his business, but then he had worked hard at wholesale hardware for twenty-five years, and felt that he could soon hand it on to his son, Roscoe, who had recently graduated from Harvard. He and his son were, in fact, often mistaken for each other. This pleased Benjamin. He soon forgot the insidious fear of him when his return from the Spanish-American War, and grew to take a naive pleasure in his appearance. There was only one fly in the delicious ointment. He hated to appear in public with his wife. Hildegard was almost fifty, and the sight of her made him feel absurd. Chapter Nine One September day in nineteen-ten, a few years after Roger Button and company wholesale hardware had been handed over to young Roscoe Button, a man, apparently about twenty years old, entered himself as a freshman at Harvard University in Cambridge. He did not make the mistake of announcing that he would never see fifty again, nor did he mention the fact that his son had been graduated from the same institution ten years before. He was admitted and almost immediately attained a prominent position in the class, partly because he seemed a little older than the other freshman, whose average age was about eighteen. But his success was largely due to the fact that in the football game with Yale he played so brilliantly, with so much dash and with such a cold, remorseless anger, that he scored seven touchdowns and fourteen field goals for Harvard, and caused one entire eleven of Yale men to be carried singly from the field unconscious. He was the most celebrated man in college. Strange to say, in his third or junior year, he was scarcely able to make the team. The coaches said that he had lost weight, and it seemed to the more observant among them that he was not quite as tall as before. He made no touchdowns. Indeed he was retained on the team chiefly in hope that his enormous reputation would bring terror and disorganization to the Yale team. In his senior year he did not make the team at all. He had grown so slight and frail that one day he was taken by some sophomores for a freshman, an incident which humiliated him terribly. He became known as something of a prodigy, a senior who was surely no more than sixteen, and he was often shocked at the worldliness of some of his classmates. His studies seemed harder to him. He felt that they were too advanced. He had heard his classmates speak of Saint Midas's, the famous Preparatory School, at which so many of them had prepared for college, and he determined, after his graduation, to enter himself at Saint Midas's, where the sheltered life among boys his own size would be more congenial to him. Upon his graduation in 1914 he went home to Baltimore with his Harvard diploma in his pocket. Hildegard was now residing in Italy, so Benjamin went to live with his son, Roscoe. But though he was welcomed in a general way there was obviously no hardiness in Roscoe's feeling toward him. There was even perceptible a tendency on his son's part to think that Benjamin, as he moped about the house in adolescent mooniness, was somewhat in the way. Roscoe was married now and prominent in Baltimore life, and he wanted no scandal to creep out in connection with his family. Benjamin, no longer persona grata with the debutantes and younger college set, found himself left much done, except for the companionship of three or four fifteen-year-old boys in the neighborhood. His idea of going to Saint Midas's school recurred to him. Say, he said to Roscoe one day, I've told you over and over that I want to go to prep school. Well, go then. replied Roscoe shortly. The matter was distasteful to him, and he wished to avoid a discussion. I can't go alone. said Benjamin helplessly. You'll have to enter me and take me up there. I haven't got the time. declared Roscoe abruptly. His eyes narrowed and he looked uneasily at his father. As a matter of fact, he added, you'd better not go on with this business much longer. You'd better pull up short. You'd better... You'd better... He paused and his face crimsoned as he sought for words. You'd better turn around and start right back the other way. This has gone too far to be a joke. It isn't funny anymore. You... You behave yourself. Benjamin looked at him on the verge of tears. And another thing. continued Roscoe. When visitors are in the house, I want you to call me Uncle. Not Roscoe, but Uncle. Do you understand? It looks absurd for a boy of fifteen to call me by my first name. Perhaps you'd better call me Uncle all the time. So you'll get used to it. With a harsh look at his father, Roscoe turned away. Chapter 10 At the termination of this interview, Benjamin wandered dismally upstairs and stared at himself in the mirror. He had not shaved for three months, but he could find nothing on his face but a faint white down with which it seemed unnecessary to meddle. When he had first come home from Harvard, Roscoe had approached him with the proposition that he should wear eyeglasses and imitation whiskers glued to his cheeks. And it had seemed for a moment that the farce of his early years was to be repeated. But whiskers had itched and made him ashamed. He wept and Roscoe had reluctantly relented. Benjamin opened a book of boys' stories. The boy scouts in Bimini Bay and began to read. But he found himself thinking persistently about the war. America had joined the Allied cause during the preceding month and Benjamin wanted to enlist. But alas, 16 was the minimum age and he did not look that old. His true age, which was 57, would have disqualified him anyway. There was a knock at his door and the butler appeared with a letter bearing a large official legend in the corner and addressed to Mr. Benjamin Button. Benjamin tore it open eagerly and read the enclosure with delight. It informed him that many reserve officers who had served in the Spanish-American War were being called back into service with a higher rank and it enclosed his commission as Brigadier General in the United States Army with orders to report immediately. Benjamin jumped to his feet fairly quivering with enthusiasm. This was what he wanted. He seized his cap and ten minutes later he had entered a large tailoring establishment on Charles Street on certain treble to be measured for a uniform. Want to play soldier, sonny? Demanded a clerk casually. Benjamin flushed. Say, never mind what I want. He retorted angrily. My name's Button and I live on Mount Vernon Place so you know I'm good for it. Well... Admitted the clerk hesitantly. If you're not, I guess your daddy is all right. Benjamin was measured and a week later his uniform was completed. He had difficulty in obtaining the proper general's insignia because the dealer kept insisting to Benjamin that a nice VWCA badge would look just as well and be much more fun to play with. Saying nothing to Roscoe he left the house one night and proceeded by train to Camp Mosby in South Carolina where he was to command an infantry brigade. On a sultry April day he approached the entrance to the camp paid off the taxicab which had brought him from the station and turned to the sentry on guard. Get someone to handle my luggage! He said briskly. The sentry eyed him reproachfully. Say, he remarked. Where are you going with the general's thoughts, sonny? Benjamin, veteran of the Spanish-American war whirled upon him with fire in his eye but with, alas, a changing, trouble voice. Come to attention! He tried. He paused for breath then suddenly he saw the sentry snap his heels together and bring his rifle to the present. Benjamin concealed a smile of gratification but when he glanced around his smile faded. It was not he who had inspired obedience but an imposing artillery colonel who was approaching on horseback Colonel called Benjamin shrilly. The colonel came up, drew rain and looked coolly down at him with a twinkle in his eyes. Who's little boy are you? He demanded kindly. I'll soon darn well show you who's little boy I am. Retorted Benjamin in a ferocious voice. Get down off that horse! The colonel roared with laughter. You want him, eh, general? Here. Cried Benjamin desperately. Read this. And he thrust his commission toward the colonel. The colonel read it, with eyes popping from their sockets. Where'd you get this? He demanded, slipping the document into his own pocket. I got it from the government as you'll soon find out. You come along with me, said the colonel with a peculiar look. We'll go up to headquarters and talk this over. Come along. The colonel turned and began walking his horse in the direction of headquarters. There was nothing for Benjamin to do but follow with as much dignity as possible. The colonel, however, had no idea what he was doing while promising himself a stern revenge. But this revenge did not materialize. Two days later, however, his son Roscoe materialized from Baltimore, hot and cross from a hasty trip, and escorted the weeping general, Sans Uniform, back to his home. Chapter 11 In 1920, Roscoe Button's first child was born. However, no one thought it the thing to mention that the little grubby boy, apparently about ten years of age, who played around the house with lead soldiers and a miniature circus, was the new baby's own grandfather. No one disliked the little boy whose fresh, cheerful face was crossed with just a hint of sadness. But to Roscoe Button, his presence was a source of torment. In the idiom of his generation, Roscoe did not consider the matter to be efficient. It seemed to him that his father, and refusing to look sixty, had not behaved like a red-blooded he-man. This was Roscoe's favorite expression, but in a curious and perverse manner. Indeed, to think about the matter for as much as half an hour drove him to the edge of insanity. Roscoe believed that live wires should keep young, but carrying it out on such a scale was inefficient. And there Roscoe rested. Five years later, Roscoe's little boy had grown old enough to play childish games with little Benjamin, under the supervision of the same nurse. Roscoe took them both to kindergarten on the same day, and Benjamin found that playing with little strips of colored paper, making mats and chains and curious and beautiful designs, was the most fascinating game in the world. Once he was bad and had to stand in the corner, then he cried. But for the most part, there were gay hours in the cheerful room, with the sunlight coming in the windows, and Miss Bailey's kind hand resting for a moment now and then in his tousled hair. Roscoe's son moved up into the first grade after a year, but Benjamin stayed on in the kindergarten. He was very happy. Sometimes when other tots talked about what they would do when they grew up, a shadow would cross his little face, as if in a dim, childish way he realized that those were things in which he was never to share. The days flowed on in monotonous content. He went back a third year to the kindergarten, but he was too little now to understand what the bright shining strips of paper were for. He cried because the other boys were bigger than he, and he was afraid of them. But though he tried to understand, he could not understand at all. He was taken from the kindergarten. His nurse, Nana, in her starched gingham dress, became the center of his tiny world. On bright days they walked in the park. Nana would point at a great grey monster and say, Elephant, and Benjamin would say it after her. And when he was being undressed for bed that night, he would say it over and over, to her. Elephant, elephant, elephant. Sometimes Nana let him jump on the bed, which was fun. Because if you sat down exactly right, it would bounce you up on your feet again. And if you said, for a long time, while you jumped, you got a very pleasing broken vocal effect. He loved to take a big cane from the hat rack and go around hitting chairs and tables with it, saying, fight, fight, fight. When there were people there, the old ladies would cluck at him, which interested him. And the young ladies would try to kiss him, which he submitted to with mild boredom. And when the long day was done at five o'clock, he would go upstairs with Nana and be fed on oatmeal and nice soft mushy foods with a spoon. There were no troublesome memories of him, of his brave days at college, of the glittering years when he flustered the hearts of many girls. There were only the white, safe walls of his crib, and Nana, and a man who came to see him sometimes. And a great big orange ball that Nana pointed at just before his twilight bed-hour and called son. When the son went, his eyes were sleepy. There were no dreams, no dreams to haunt him. The wild charge at the head of his men up San Juan Hill, the first years of his marriage when he worked late into the summer dusk down in the busy city for young Hildegard whom he loved. The days before that when he sat smoking far into the night in the gloomy old button-house on Monroe Street with his grandfather, all these had faded, like unsubstantial dreams from his mind as though they had never been. He did not remember. He did not remember clearly whether the milk was warm or cool at his last feeding or how the days passed. There was only his crib and Nana's familiar presence and then he remembered nothing. When he was hungry he cried. That was all. Through the noons and nights he breathed and over him there were soft mumblings and murmurings that he scarcely heard and faintly differentiated smells and light and darkness. Then it was all dark and his white crib and the dim faces that moved above him and the warm sweet aroma of the milk faded out all together from his mind. End of the Curious Case of Benjamin Button by F. Scott Fitzgerald in dramatic reading scene and story collection Volume 2. The Tale of the Pie and the Patty Pan by Beatrix Potter Section 9 of the dramatic reading scene and story collection Volume 2. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Narrated by Andrew Nixon by Beth Thomas Cousin Tabitha Twitchit a cat read by Devora Allen Old Rime Once upon a time there was a pussycat called Ribby who invited a little dog called Duchess to tea. Come in good time, my dear Duchess. Said Ribby's letters and we will have something so very nice. I am baking it in a pie dish. A pie dish with a pink rim. You never tasted anything so good and you shall eat it all. I will eat muffins, my dear Duchess. Wrote Ribby. I will come with much pleasure at a quarter past four but it is very strange. I was just going to invite you to come here to supper, my dear Ribby, to eat something most delicious. I will come very punctually, my dear Ribby. Wrote Duchess and then at the end she added I hope it isn't Mouse. And then she thought that did not look quite polite so she scratched out. Isn't Mouse. And changed it too. And she gave her letter to the postman. But she thought a great deal about Ribby's pie and she read Ribby's letter over and over again. I am dreadfully afraid it will be Mouse. Said Duchess to herself. I really couldn't, couldn't eat a Mouse pie and I shall have to eat it because it is a party and my pie was going to be veal and ham. A pink and white pie dish. And so is mine. Just like Ribby's dishes they were both bought at Tabatha Twitchet's. Duchess went into her lada and took the pie off the shelf and looked at it. It is all ready to put in the oven. Such a lovely pie crust. And I put in a little tin patty pan to hold up the crust and I made a hole in the middle with a fork to let out the steam. Oh, I do wish I could eat my own pie instead of a pie made of Mouse. Duchess considered and considered and read Ribby's letter again. A pink and white pie dish and you shall eat it all. You means me. Then Ribby is not going to even taste the pie herself. A pink and white pie dish. Ribby is sure to go out and buy the muffins. Oh, what a good idea. Why shouldn't I rush along and put my pie into Ribby's oven when Ribby isn't there? Duchess was quite delighted with her own cleverness. Ribby in the meantime had received Duchess's answer and as soon as she was sure that the little dog could come she popped her pie into the oven. There were two ovens, one above the other. Some other knobs and handles were only ornamental and not intended to open. Ribby put the pie into the lower oven. The door was very stiff. The top oven bakes too quickly, said Ribby to herself. It is a pie of the most delicate and tender Mouse minced up with bacon and I have taken out all the bones because Duchess did nearly choke herself with a fishbone last time I gave a party. She eats a little fast, rather big mouthfuls with this gentile and elegant little dog, infinitely superior company to cousin Tabitha, twitch it. Ribby put on some coal and swept up the half. Then she went out with a can to the well for water to fill up the kettle. Then she began to set the room in order for it was the sitting room as well as the kitchen. She shook the mats out at the front door and put them straight. The half rug was a rabbit skin. She dusted the clock in the ornaments on the mantelpiece and she polished and rubbed the tables and chairs. She had a very clean white table cloth and set out her best china tea set which she took out for a walk up near the fireplace. The tea cups were white with a pattern of pink roses and the dinner plates were white and blue. When Ribby had laid the table she took a jug and a blue and white dish and went out down the field to the farm to fetch milk and butter. When she came back she peaked into the bottom oven. The pie looked very comfortable. Ribby put on her shawl and bonnet and went out again with a basket and the village shop did buy a packet of tea, a pound of lump sugar and a bottle of marmalade. And just at the same time Duchess came out of her house at the other end of the village. Ribby met Duchess halfway down the street also carrying a basket covered with a cloth. They only bowed to one another. They did not speak because they were going to have a party. As soon as Duchess had got round the corner out to the site she simply ran straight away to Ribby's house. Ribby went into the shop and came out after a pleasant gossip with cousin Tabatha Twitchit. Cousin Tabatha was disdainful afterwards in conversation. A little dog indeed, just as if there were no cats in Sorry and a pie for afternoon tea, the very idea. Said cousin Tabatha Twitchit. Ribby went on to Timothy Baker's and bought the muffins. Then she went home. There seemed to be a sort of scuffling noise in the back passage as she was coming in at the front door. I trust it is not that pie. The spoons are locked up, however. Said Ribby. But there was nobody there. Ribby opened the bottom oven door with some difficulty and turned the pie. There began to be a pleasing smell of baked mouse. Duchess, in the meantime, had slipped out at the back door. It is a very odd thing that Ribby's pie was not in the oven when I put mine in and I can't find it anywhere. I had looked all over the house. I put my pie into a nice hot oven at the top. I could not turn any of the other handles. I think that they are all shams. Said Duchess. But I wish I could have removed the pie made of mouse. I cannot think what she has done with it. I heard Ribby coming and had to run out by the back door. Duchess went home and brushed her beautiful black coat and then she picked a bunch of flowers in her garden as a present for Ribby and passed the time until the clock struck four. Ribby, having assured herself by careful search that there was really no one hiding in the cupboard or in the larder, went upstairs to change her dress. She put on a lilac silk gown for the party and an embroidered muslin apron and tippin'. It is very strange, said Ribby. I did not think I left that drawer pulled out. Has somebody been trying on my mittens? She came downstairs again and made the tea and put the teapot on the hob. She peeped again into the bottom oven. The pie had become a lovely brown and it was steaming hot. She sat down before the fire to wait for the little dog. I am glad I used the bottom oven, said Ribby. The top one would certainly have been much too hot. I wonder why that cupboard door was open? Can there really have been someone in the house? Very punctually at four o'clock Duchess started to go to the party. She ran so fast through the village that she was too early and she had to wait a little while in the lane that leads down to Ribby's house. I wonder if Ribby has taken my pie out of the oven yet? Said Duchess. And whatever can have become of the other pie made of mouse? At a quarter past four to the minute there came the most gentile little tap-tapity. Is Mrs Ribston at home? Inquired Duchess in the porch. Come in and how do you do my dear Duchess? Cried Ribby. I hope I see you well. Quite well I thank you and how do you do my dear Ribby? Said Duchess. I've brought you some flowers. What a delicious smell of pie. Said Duchess. Oh what lovely flowers. Yes it is mouse and bacon. Said Ribby. Do not talk about food my dear Ribby. Said Duchess. What a lovely white tea cloth. Is it done to a turn? Is it still in the oven? I think it wants another five minutes. Said Ribby. Just a shade longer. I will pour out the tea while we wait. Do you take sugar my dear Duchess? Oh yes please my dear Ribby I have a lump on my nose. With pleasure my dear Duchess. How beautifully you beg. Oh how sweetly pretty. Duchess sat up with the sugar on her nose and sniffed. How good that pie smells. I do love veal and ham. I mean to say mouse and bacon. She dropped the sugar in confusion and had to go hunting under the tea table. So did not see which oven Ribby opened in order to get out the pie. Ribby set the pie upon the table. There was a very savoury smell. Duchess came out from under the table with the munching sugar and sat up on a chair. I will first cut the pie for you. I am going to have muffin and marmalade. Said Ribby. Do you really prefer muffin? Mind the patty pan. I beg your pardon. Said Ribby. May I pass you the marmalade? Said Duchess hurriedly. The pie proved extremely toothsome and the muffin is light and hot. They disappeared rapidly, especially the pie. I think. It would be wiser if I helped myself to pie. Though Ribby did not seem to notice anything when she was cutting it. What very small fine pieces it has cooked into. I do not remember that I had minced it up so fine. I suppose this is a quicker oven than my own. How fast Duchess is eating. Thought Ribby to herself as she buttered her fifth muffin. The pie dish was emptying rapidly. Duchess had had four helps already and was fumbling with the spoon. A little more bacon, my dear Duchess. Said Ribby. Thank you, my dear Ribby. I was only feeling for the patty pan. The patty pan, my dear Duchess? The patty pan that held up the pie crust. Said Duchess, blushing under her black coat. Oh, I didn't put one in, my dear Duchess. Said Ribby. I don't think that it is necessary in pies made of mouse. Duchess fumbled with the spoon. I can't find it. She said anxiously. There isn't a patty pan. Said Ribby, looking pokelax. Where could it have gone to? Said Duchess. There most certainly is not one, my dear Duchess. I disapprove of tin articles in puddings and pies. It is most undesirable, especially when people swallow in lumps. She added in a lower voice. Duchess looked very much alarmed and continued to scoop the inside of the pie dish. My great-aunt Squintina, grandmother of cousin Tabitha Twitchit, died of a thimble in a Christmas plum pudding. I never put any article of metal in my puddings or pies. Duchess looked aghast and tilted up the pie dish. I have only four patty pans and they are all in the cupboard. Duchess said like a howl. Oh, I shall die. I shall die. I have swallowed a patty pan. Oh, my dear Ribby. I do feel so ill. It is impossible, my dear Duchess. There was not a patty pan. Duchess moaned and whined and rocked herself about. Oh, oh, oh, oh. I feel so dreadful. I have swallowed a patty pan. There was nothing in the pie. Said Ribby severely. Yes, there was, my dear Ribby. I am sure I have swallowed it. Let me prop you up with a pillow, my dear Duchess. Where do you think you feel it? Oh, I do feel so ill all over me, my dear Ribby. I have swallowed a large tin patty pan with a sharp scalloped edge. Shall I run for the doctor? I will just lock up the spoons. Oh, yes, yes. Fetch Dr. Magady, my dear Ribby. He is a pie himself. He will certainly understand. Ribby settled Duchess in an armchair before the fire and went out and hurried to the village to look for the doctor. She found him at the smithy. He was occupied in putting rusty nails into a bottle of ink, which he had obtained at the post office. A guy, man? Ha-ha! Said he, with his head on one side. Ribby explained that her guest had swallowed a patty pan. Spirit! Ha-ha! Said he, and accompanied her with alacrity. He hopped so fast that Ribby had to run. It was most conspicuous. All the village could see that Ribby was fetching the doctor. I knew they would overeat themselves! Said Cousin Tabitha, the twitchit. But while Ribby had been hunting for the doctor, a curious thing had happened to Duchess, who had been left by herself sitting before the fire, sighing and groaning and feeling very unhappy. How could I have swallowed it? Such a large thing! She got up and went to the table and felt inside the pydish again with a spoon. No. There is no patty pan. And I put one in, and nobody has eaten pie except me, so I must have swallowed it. She sat down again and stared mournfully at the grate. The fire crackled in dance and something sizzled. Duchess started. She opened the door of the top oven. Out came a ripped steamy flavour of beer and ham, and there stood a fine brown pie. And through a hole in the top of the pie crust there was a glimpse of a little tin patty pan. Duchess drew a long breath. I must have been eating mouse. No wonder I feel ill. But perhaps I should feel worse if I had really swallowed a patty pan. Duchess reflected. What a very awkward thing to have to explain to Ribby. I think I will put my pie on the backyard and say nothing about it. When I go home I will run round and take it away. She put it outside the back door and sat down again by the fire and shut her eyes. When Ribby arrived with the doctor she seemed fast asleep. German haha! said the doctor. I am feeling very much better. Said Duchess, waking up with a jump. I am truly glad to hear it. He has brought you a pill, my dear Duchess. I think I should feel quite well because I only felt my pulse. Said Duchess, backing away from the magpie who sidled up with something in his beak. It is only a bread-pill. You had much better take it. Drink a little milk, my dear Duchess. German! German! Said the doctor while Duchess coughed and choked. Don't say that again! Said Ribby, losing her temper. Here, take this bread and jam and get out into the yard. German and spinach haha! I am feeling very much better, my dear Ribby. Said Duchess, do you not think I had better go home before it gets dark? Perhaps it might be wise, my dear Duchess. I will lend you a nice warm shawl and you shall take my arm. I would not trouble you for worlds. I feel wonderfully better. One pill of Dr. Magedy. Indeed, it is most admirable if it has cured you of a patty-pan. I will call directly after breakfast to ask how you have slept. Ribby and Duchess said goodbye affectionately and started home. Halfway up the lane, she stopped and looked back. Ribby had gone in and shut her door. Duchess slipped through the fence and ran round to the back of Ribby's house and peeped into the yard. Upon the roof of the pigsty sat Dr. Magedy and the three Jackdaws. The Jackdaws were eating pie crust and the Magpie was drinking gravy out of her patty-pan. He shouted when he saw Duchess's little black nose peeping round the corner. Ribby was very silly. When Ribby came out for a pale full of water to wash up the tea-things she found a pink and white bydish lying smashed in the middle of the yard. The patty-pan was under the pump where Dr. Magedy had considerably left it. Ribby stared with amazement. Did you ever see the like? So there really was a patty-pan. But my patty-pans are all in the kitchen cupboard. Well, I never did. Next time I want to give a party I will invite cousin Tabitha to watch it. The end of the tale of the pie and the patty-pan. Red by Rob Marland Ben Pierce Red by Java Man Boy Red by Larry Wilson Annabelle Red by T.J. Burns Mr. Adams Red by Todd Agatha's mother Red by Beth Thomas Narrator A guard came to the prison shoe shop where Jimmy Valentine was assiduously stitching uppers and escorted him to the front office. There the warden handed Jimmy his pardon which had been signed that morning by the governor. Jimmy took it in a tired kind of way. He had served nearly ten months of a four-year sentence. He had expected to stay only about three months at the longest. When a man with as many friends on the outside as Jimmy Valentine had is received in the stir it is hardly worthwhile to cut his hair. Now Valentine said the warden will go out in the morning. Brace up and make a man of yourself. If you're not a bad fellow at heart stop cracking safes and live straight. Me? said Jimmy in surprise. Why? I never cracked a safe in my life. Oh no! Laughed the warden. Of course not. Let's see now. How was it you happened to get up on that Springfield drop? Was it because you wouldn't prove an alibi for fear of compromising somebody in extremely high-toned society? Or was it simply a case of a mean older jury that had it in for you? It's always one or the other with you innocent victims. Me? said Jimmy still blankly virtuous. Why warden? I never was in Springfield in my life. Take him back Cronin. said the warden. And fix him up without going clothes. Unlock him at seven in the morning and let him come to the bullpen. Better think over my advice Valentine. At a quarter past seven on the next morning Jimmy stood in the warden's outer office. He had on a suit of the villainously fitting ready-made clothes and a pair of the stiff squeaky shoes that the state furnishes to its discharged compulsory guests. The clerk handed him a railroad ticket and the five-dollar bill with which the law expected him to rehabilitate himself into good citizenship and prosperity. The warden gave him a cigar and shook hands. Valentine nine seven six two was chronicled on the books pardoned by Governor and Mr. James Valentine walked out into the sunshine. Disregarding the song of the birds the waving green trees and the smell of the flowers Jimmy headed straight for a restaurant. There he tasted the first sweet joys of liberty in the shape of a broiled chicken and a bottle of white wine followed by a cigar a great better than the one the warden had given him. From there he proceeded leisurely to the depot. He tossed a quarter into the hat of a blind man sitting by the door of his train. Three hours set him down in a little town near the state line. He went to the café of one Mike Dolan and shook hands with Mike who was alone behind the bar. Sorry we couldn't make it sooner Jimmy me boy. Said Mike. But we had that protest from Springfield to buck against and the Governor nearly balked. Feeling all right? Fine. Said Jimmy. He got his key and went upstairs unlocking the door of a room at the rear. Everything was just as he had left it. There on the floor was still Ben Price's collar button that had been torn from that imminent detective's shirt band when they had overpowered Jimmy to arrest him. Pulling out from the wall a folding bed Jimmy slid back a panel in the wall and dragged out a dust-covered suitcase. He opened this and gazed fondly at the finest set of burglars tools in the East. It was a complete set made of specially tempered steel. The latest designs in drills, punches, braces and bits, jimmies, clamps and augers with two or three novelties invented by Jimmy himself in which he took pride. Over nine hundred dollars they had cost him to have made a place where they make such things for the profession. In half an hour Jimmy went downstairs and threw the café. He was now dressed in tasteful and well-fitting clothes and carried his dusted and cleaned suitcase in his hand. Got anything on? Asked Mike Dolan, genially. Me? Said Jimmy in a puzzled tone. I don't understand. I'm representing the New York Russell Week Company. This statement delighted Mike to such an extent that Jimmy had to take a seltzer and milk on the spot. He never touched hard drinks. A week after the release of Valentine, 9762 there was a neat job of safe burglary done in Richmond, Indiana with no clue to the author. A scant eight hundred dollars was all that was secured. Two weeks after that a patented, improved burglar-proof safe in Logan's Port was opened like a cheese to the tune of fifteen hundred dollars currency, securities and silver untouched. That began to interest the rogue catchers. Then an old fashioned bank safe in Jefferson City became active and threw out of its crater an eruption of bank notes amounting to five thousand dollars. The losses were now high enough to bring the matter up into Ben Price's class of work. By comparing notes a remarkable similarity in the methods of the burglaries was noticed. Ben Price investigated the scenes of the robberies and was heard to remark, That's Dandy Jim Valentine's autograph. He's resumed business. Look at that combination knob. Jerked out as easy as pulling up a radish in wet weather. He's got the only clamps that can do it. And look how clean those tumblers punched out. Jimmy never has to drill but one hole. Yes, I guess I want Mr. Valentine. He'll do his bit next time without any short-timer clemency foolishness. Ben Price knew Jimmy's habits. He had learned them while working up the Springfield case. Long jumps, quick getaways, no confederates, and a taste for good society. These ways had helped Mr. Valentine a successful dodger of retribution. It was given out that Ben Price had taken up the trail of the elusive cracksman and other people with burglar-proof safes felt more at ease. One afternoon, Jimmy Valentine and his suitcase climbed out of the mail-hack in Elmore, a little town five miles off the railroad down in the Blackjack country of Arkansas. Jimmy, looking like an athletic young senior just home from college, went down the board sidewalk toward the hotel. A young lady crossed the street, passed him at the corner and entered a door over which was the sign the Elmore Bank. Jimmy Valentine looked into her eyes, forgot what he was, and became another man. She lowered her eyes and colored slightly. Young men of Jimmy's style and looks were scarce in Elmore. Jimmy collared a boy that was loafing on the steps of the bank, as if he were one of the stockholders, and began to ask him questions about the town, feeding him dimes at intervals. By and by the young lady came out, looking royally unconscious of the young man with the suitcase, and went her way. Isn't that the young lady Polly Simpson? Asked Jimmy with specious guile. Nah. Said the boy. She's Annabelle Adams. Her pa wants this bank. What'd you come to Elmore for? Is that a gold watch chain? I'm going to get a bulldog. Got any more dimes? Jimmy went to the planter's hotel, registered as Ralph B. Spencer, and engaged a room. He leaned on the desk and declared his platform to the clerk. He said he had come to Elmore to look for a location to go into business. How was the shoe business now in the town? He said he had come to Elmore to look for a shoe business now in the town. He had thought of the shoe business. Was there an opening? The clerk was impressed by the clothes and manner of Jimmy. He himself was something of a pattern of fashion to the thinly gilded youth of Elmore, but he now perceived his shortcomings. While trying to figure out Jimmy's manner of tying his foreign hand, he cordially gave information. Yes, there ought to be a good opening in the shoe line. There wasn't an exclusive shoe store in the place. The dry goods and general stores handled them. Business in all lines was fairly good. Hoped Mr. Spencer would decide to locate in Elmore. He would find it a pleasant town to live in and the people very sociable. Mr. Spencer thought he would stop over in the town a few days and look over the situation. No, the clerk didn't call the boy. He would carry up his suitcase himself. Mr. Ralph Spencer, the phoenix that arose from Jimmy Valentine's ashes, ashes left by the flame of a sudden and alternative attack of love, remained in Elmore and prospered. He opened a shoe store and secured a good run of trade. Socially he was also a success and made many friends and he accomplished the wish of his heart. He met Miss Annabelle Adams and became more and more captivated by her charms. At the end of the year the situation of Mr. Ralph Spencer was this. He had won the respect of the community. His shoe store was flourishing and he and Annabelle were engaged to be married in two weeks. Mr. Adams, the typical plodding country banker approved of Spencer. Annabelle's pride in him almost equaled her affection. He was as much at home in the family of Mr. Adams and that of Annabelle's married sister as if he were already a member. One day Jimmy sat down in his room and wrote this letter which he mailed to the safe address of one of his old friends in St. Louis. Dear old pal I want you to be at Sullivan's place in Little Rock next Wednesday night at nine o'clock. I want you to wind up some little matters for me and also I want to make you a present for my kit of tools. I know you'll be glad to get them. You couldn't duplicate the lot for a thousand dollars. Say Billy I've quit the old business a year ago. I got a nice store. I'm making an honest living and I'm going to marry the finest girl on earth two weeks from now. It's the only life Billy, the straight one. I wouldn't touch a dollar of another man's money now for a million. After I get married I'm going to sell out and go west for the future of having old scores brought up against me. I tell you Billy, she's an angel. She believes in me. I wouldn't do another crooked thing for the whole world. Be sure to be at Sally's for I must see her. I'll bring along the tools with me. Your old friend, Jimmy. On the Monday night after Jimmy wrote this letter Ben Price jogged unobtrusively into Elmore in a livery buggy. He lounged about town in his quiet what he wanted to know. From the drugstore across the street from Spencer's shoe store he got a good look at Ralph D. Spencer. Going to marry the banker's daughter, are you Jimmy? Said Ben to himself, softly. Well, I don't know. The next morning Jimmy took breakfast at the Adams's. He was going to Little Rock that day to order his wedding suit and buy something nice for Annabelle. That would be the first time he had left town since he came to Elmore. It had been more than a year now since those last professional jobs and he thought he could safely venture out. After breakfast, quite a family party went downtown together. Mr. Adams, Annabelle, Jimmy and Annabelle's married sister with her two little girls aged five and nine. They came by the hotel where Jimmy still boarded and he ran up to his room and brought along his suitcase. Then they went on to the bank. There stood Jimmy's horse and buggy and Dolph Gibson who was going to drive him over to the railroad station. All went inside the high carved oak railings into the banking room. Jimmy included for Mr. Adams's future son-in-law was welcome anywhere. The clerks were pleased to be greeted by the good-looking, agreeable young man who was going to marry Miss Annabelle. Jimmy set his suitcase down. Annabelle, whose heart was bubbling with happiness and lively youth, put on Jimmy's hat and picked up the suitcase. Wouldn't I make a nice drummer? Said Annabelle. My Ralph! How heavy it is! Feels like it was full of gold pricks. Lot of nickel-plated shoe-horns in there. Said Jimmy coolly that I'm going to return. Thought I'd save express charges by taking them up. I'm getting awfully economical. The Almor Bank had just put in a new safe and vault. Mr. Adams was very proud of it and insisted on an inspection by everyone. The vault was a small one, but it had a new patented door. It fastened with three solid steel bolts thrown simultaneously with a single handle and had a time lock. Mr. Adams beamingly explained its workings to Mr. Spencer, who showed a courteous but not too intelligent interest. The two children, May and Agatha, were delighted by the shining metal and funny clock and knobs. While they were thus engaged, Ben Price sauntered in and leaned on his elbow, looking casually inside between the railings. He told the teller that he didn't want anything. He was just waiting for a man he knew. Suddenly there was a scream or two from the women and a commotion. Unperceived by the elders, May, the nine-year-old girl in a spirit of play, had shut Agatha in the vault. She had then shot the bolts and turned the knob of the combination as she had seen Mr. Adams do. The old banker sprang to the handle and tugged at it for a moment. The door can't be opened. He groaned. The clock hasn't been wound, nor the combination set. Hush. Said Mr. Adams, raising his trembling hand. I'll be quiet for a moment. Agatha? He called as loudly as he could. Listen to me. During the following silence, they could just hear the faint sound of the child wildly shrieking in the dark vault in a panic of terror. My precious darling! Wailed the mother. She will die of fright. Open the door! Oh, break it open! Why can't you men do something? There isn't a man nearer than Little Rock who can open that door. Said Mr. Adams in a shaky voice. My God! Spencer, what shall we do? That child she can't stand it long in there. There isn't enough air. And besides, she'll go into convulsions from fright. Agatha's mother, Frantic now, beat the door of the vault with her hands. Somebody wildly suggested dynamite. Annabelle turned to Jimmy, her large eyes full of anguish but not yet despairing. To a woman, nothing seems quite impossible to the powers of the men she worships. Can't you do something, Ralph? Try, won't you? He looked at her with a queer, soft smile on his lips and in his keen eyes. Annabelle. He said, Hardly believing that she heard him a right, she unpinned the bud from the bosom of her dress and placed it in his hand. Jimmy stuffed it into his vest pocket, threw off his coat and pulled up his shirt sleeves. With that act, Ralph D. Spencer passed away and Jimmy Valentine took his place. Get away from the door, all of you! He commended, shortly. He set his suitcase on the table and opened it out flat. From that time on, he was unconscious of the presence of anyone else. He laid out the shining queer implements, swiftly and orderly, whistling softly to himself as he always did when at work. In a deep silence and immovable, the others watched him as if under a spell. In a minute, Jimmy's pet drill was biting smoothly into the steel door. In ten minutes, breaking his own burglarious record, he threw back the bolts and opened the door. Agatha, almost collapsed but safe, was gathered into her mother's arms. Jimmy Valentine put on his coat and walked outside the railings towards the front door. As he went, he thought he heard a far away voice that he once knew, called Ralph, but he never hesitated. At the door, a big man stood somewhat in his way. Hello, Ben. Said Jimmy, still with his strange smile. Got around at last, have you? Well, let's go. I don't know that it makes much difference now. And then, Ben Price acted rather strangely. Yes, you're mistaken, Mr. Spencer. Don't believe I recognize you. Your buggy's waiting for you, and Ben Price turned and strolled down the street. End of A Retrieved Reformation by O'Henry.