Part 1

THE BEGGAR’S PURSE

A Fairy Tale of Familiar Finance

By Samuel Hopkins Adams

1918

NOTICE

IT was our original intention to print and distribute a small number of these booklets gratuitously among our Mends with the hope that this story might aid in the sale of War Savings Stamps.

However, before the booklet was finished we had a number of requests from large firms who desired to purchase them in quantities for distribution among their own people. This we had not planned on.

In taking the matter up with Samuel Hopkins Adams, the author, he suggested that he was willing to forego any remuneration if we would furnish these books at cost. This we gladly consented to do, and we will print and deliver any size edition, selling them at actual cost.

We are glad to do this, for we will feel well repaid for our efforts, if every book is the means of selling one War Savings Stamp.

SMITH & PORTER PRESS, INC.

530 ATLANTIC AVENUE, BOSTON, MASS.

Foreword

The thought in mind that this story might suggest a way to increase the sale of War Savings Stamps, the publishers and the author, who receive no remuneration, have kindly consented to allow us to print and distribute gratuitously this booklet.

Smith & Porter Press, Inc.

THE BEGGAR’S PURSE

VAN TENNER was a man who pursued his way through life by fixed habits. He lived in Philadelphia. That was one of the habits. He ate regularly, slept regularly, rose regularly, worked regularly and went to the club regularly; all this within the limits of a very comfortable income. He never overstrained this income. That’s what kept it so comfortable. It also kept E. Van Tenner comfortable. They were very comfortable together, which is fortunate, as there were only the two of them to look after each other. That is to say, E. Van Tenner was a bachelor. As to his age, face, form and apparel, the illustrator may, if he will, apprise you. Not I. They have no essential bearing upon this, my tale, which is no love story, for love and E. Van Tenner were strangers.

But though love had passed him by, war came home to him, touching him with intimate shock upon the income and then upon his habits; but this he endured, not without discomposure, indeed, but without resentment, for one of his best habits was to be honestly and thoroughly patriotic. In sundry phases war came to him; but the particular phase which, at the time of the beginning of this chronicle, interrupted him in the task of figuring up personal accounts, wore white whiskers and an ingratiating expression and was a professional beggar, not for pay but for patriotism.

The professional and patriotic beggar fixed E. Van Tenner with a bright and amiable eye and said--that is, he would have said if E. Van Tenner hadn’t first said:

“No.” And then repeated it with level and considered firmness: “No. No. No.”

“But----” began the professional beggar.

“I subscribed liberally to the first Liberty Loan.”

“I know. But----”

“More liberally to the second Liberty Loan.”

“Exactly. Nevertheless----”

“As for War Saving Stamps--I see them in your glittering eyes--I know all the arguments----”

“Except one,” interrupted the beggar. “Quite useless,” said E. Van Tenner firmly. “However, proceed!”

“My argument,” said the beggar, “is based upon the word ‘savings’. War _Savings_ Stamps. I propose that you shall start modestly with one of these stamps, purchased out of what you save on current expenses without giving up anything that you need or want or aren’t better off without.”

“That,” commented E. Van Tenner, smiling, “suggests magic.”

“Magic, pure, deep and white,” confirmed the beggar promptly. “What are your plans for to-day?”

“A trip on business to New York.”

“Good! How long?”

“Twenty-four hours,” said the precise E. Van Tenner.

“Do you carry a pocketbook--or your money loose?”

“Loose.”

“Take this purse. It calls for but one condition: That you keep all your money--bills and change--in it and spend only from it. If this is faithfully done, within twenty-four hours you will have saved enough to buy one--no, two stamps; which at the present price will come to eight dollars and twenty-eight cents.”

To Van Tenner’s skeptical eye the purse placed in his hand seemed an ordinary-enough affair--a cheap, flattish wallet, without distinguishing mark until he opened it and found, set into the flap, a celluloid tablet flanked by a small pencil. Across the top of the tablet ran the legend “What’s the good?”

“A colloquial expression of the philosophy of indifference,” observed E. Van Tenner with a smile.

“On the contrary,” retorted the beggar, “it is a serious and profound inquiry into first causes. The magic inheres in it. Under-stand, now: You are not to scrimp and scrooge at all. Parsimony by people who can afford to spend does harm, not good. And this magic, being white magic, works only for good. But if you undertake to remove money from that purse for any purely wasteful purpose the magic will be loosed; and you shall see what you shall see--or, more accurately, feel what you shall feel.”

“The purse will stir in my pocket, I suppose,” laughed E. Van Tenner.

“Much deeper,” replied the beggar gravely. “In your conscience.”

“I accept your challenge,” said the other. He emptied his pockets and deposited all his money under the guardianship of the inquiry “What’s the good?”

“To start from the moment when I leave my office for the train.”

“I shall expect to hear from you on your return,” replied the beggar, and vanished by the magical process of stepping into a bewitched compartment which, at the touch of a brass-buttoned wizard’s hand upon a lever, dropped harmlessly down a frightful chasm and disgorged him unharmed upon the street.

On the punctual fifteen minutes before train time E. Van Tenner picked up his small, light traveling bag and walked the two blocks to the station. There he was met by an obsequious porter to whom he mechanically surrendered the insignificant burden. Instinctively he felt in his change pocket to see whether he had any silver. None. Nor in his trousers pocket. Why, what had he--

Oh, of course. The beggar’s purse, in his breast pocket. He reached in for it and the purse bit him. At least that was his first startled thought, so queer and unpleasant a thrill ran up his finger. Then it was the porter’s turn to be startled, for E. Van Tenner, retrieving his luggage, addressed to him a positive monosyllable: “None.”

“Wha’--wha’ that you say, suh?”

“Didn’t you just ask me ‘What’s the good?’”

“Me? Lawd! No, suh!”

“Well, somebody did,” asserted E. Van Tenner, vague but emphatic. “I’ll carry my own bag, thank you.”

“Ghos’es! He’s hearin’ ghos’es,” surmised the alarmed African, staring after his escaped patron as that haunted gentleman made his way to the Pullman window.

Here he again felt for the wallet. Though there was no shock this time it seemed to come forth reluctantly, and the magic phrase as it met his eyes took on a quality of insistence.

“Well, what is the good?” repeated E. Van Tenner.

“Beg your pardon?” said the astonished agent from his window.

“I--that is to say--have you a chair for New York on this train?”

“Just one left, sir.”

“Keep it!” the horrified Van Tenner heard himself say. Or was it himself that had said it? At any rate he was ten paces from the window on his way to a day coach before he recovered. Not until then did it occur to him that on his last trip the parlor car had been so hot and stuffy as to leave him with a headache all day. Perhaps he would be just as well off in a day coach; even better, possibly. He found a seat, disposed himself in it and essayed to return the beggar’s purse to his pocket. It resisted. Its reluctance was quite uncanny until E. Van Tenner observed that in some way the pencil had got afoul of the pocket flap.

“Oh, that’s it!” said he, enlightened, and proceeded to make the following entries of cash saved, on the magic tablet:

Station porter Parlor car $0.55 Pullman porter .15

Hardly had he settled in his place when he heard a familiar voice behind him. He turned. It was Welland, a near neighbor to his apartment. Welland was in the automobile business, from which he was reputed to draw from twenty-five to thirty thousand dollars a year in commissions. It was a surprise to E. Van Tenner to find so glossily prosperous a person, with a reputation as a free spender, in the day coach. He mentioned his surprise.

“War, my dear sir, war,” said Welland. “This nation is at war. I haven’t ridden in a parlor car since last summer.”

“Economy?”

“Principle.”

“I see no principle involved except economy.”

“Don’t you? The fewer heavy parlor cars the less demand on coal and rolling stock. Here I am, unable to get my normal supply of automobiles from the factory, because the railroads can’t handle them. And, mind you, they’re a necessity. They relieve the strain of suburban railway traffic. Men in every other line of necessary business are up against the same thing. So I’m doing my part to relieve the situation by riding in a light day coach, which seats a hundred or so passengers instead of a heavy Pullman, which seats maybe forty.”

E. Van Tenner glowed inwardly with self-satisfaction in that he had taken the unaccustomed and plebeian coach. He felt sure that the beggar’s purse would warmly approve of Welland, When that gentlemen, on his suggestion, moved forward to share his seat he anticipated a pleasanter journey than he would have enjoyed in the parlor car. On the outskirts of the city the train was halted for a minute. Welland pointed out of the window to a great mass of scrap iron which was being pulled apart and loaded on flat cars by a busy gang of workers. To his astonishment he perceived that the workers were women.

“You see that,” said his companion. “Why do you think they put women on such rough work?”

“Because they can be had for lower wages, I suppose.”

“Not at all. They’re getting men’s pay; have been for months. I saw the advertisements in the papers, offering it. No, sir! It’s because the railroad can’t find men enough. Yet back in the parlor car there’s a husky roust-about picking up towels and flicking dust off chair backs for tips, while those women hustle iron. He gets none of my money!”

The trip to New York was exceptionally brief, E. Van Tenner thought. At the terminus two Red-Caps swooped upon Welland and himself, only to be repelled in disorder.

“As long as women handle bulk metal I guess I can carry my own suit case,” observed Welland, stepping easily along under the burden of a week-end trunk. “You’ve no idea how much good muscle one puts on, juggling weights like this. Regular traveling gymnasium. Well; here’s where I leave you.”

Bidding his companion good-by E. Van Tenner committed the following entry to his celluloid:

Red-Cap...........$0.15

He made his way to the outer air, where a waiting chorus celebrated his arrival by bursting, full-throated, into song:

“Taxi! Taxi! Taxi, sir! Taxi t’yer hotel. Here y’are, taxi!” The familiar sounds led him unthinkingly to the nearest cab, operated by a youthful bruiser with the arms of an ape and the jaw of an alligator.

“Where to?” he growled.

E. Van Tenner laid a hand on his purse, drew it forth and----

“What’s the good?” it demanded in black and authoritative print.

“How much to the Hotel Von Gorder?”

“’Bout forty cents,” returned the tough, as one disdaining such petty considerations.

“Thank you,” returned E. Van Tenner politely, and entered the amount on his tablet. “I’ll walk.”

“Walk!” bellowed the outraged chauffeur. “Whaddaya tryin’ to do--kid me?”

The protrusive jaw was thrust up under E. Van Tenner’s retiring nose.

The small, greenish eyes bored into his. “Yuh took me,” snarled their owner. “Now gidin!”

Ordinarily a pacifist in all personal relations E. Van Tenner would, unsupported by ulterior influences, have meekly obeyed rather than risk a verbal or possibly physical encounter. But magic is magic and will carry him whom it upholds by its might through the imminent deadly breach even to the cabby’s mouth. Something tingled upward from the hand that held the beggar’s purse; something that snapped back E. Van Tenner’s spare shoulders to a springy squareness and fired his brain and nerved his voice; and with unutterable surprise he heard himself speak in tones that were more than peremptory, that had the flick and sting of a military command: “Where is your draft registration card?” The red and savage face turned pallid and receded. The gorilla frame drooped away, then gathered itself and sprang--not upon E. Van Tenner but upon the driver’s seat of the taxi, which straightway departed with snorts of pain and terror.

“Well, well!” thought E. Van Tenner, inexpressibly shocked at his newself. “In another moment I should have hit that fellow upon the nose. I am sure that I should.”

A wild, infuriated yell from the motorman of a cable car, which the routed taxi had missed by a scant inch, drew E. Van Tenner’s eyes to the legend on the car, which, he perceived, ran within one block of his hotel. To save time he jumped aboard, and reached his destination as quickly as he would have done in the taxicab. On the way he corrected his entry by deducting five cents for fare; then on reflection added fifteen cents as the probable tip to the chauffeur, this representing the sheer blackmail of the dread of being considered a short sport. At the journey’s end his account read:

Station porter $0.15 Parlor car .55 Pullman porter .25 Red-Cap .15 Cable car vs. taxi .35 Chauffeur’s blackmail .15

Making a promising total of $1.60 already. E. Van Tenner perceived that instead of by a beggar he had been visited by one who was perhaps a prophet. The last item in the account particularly pleased the accountant. He began to suspect that much of the change that he systematically dribbled out was simply the blackmail paid by vanity to extortion. At once he was to meet with a double verification of this. At the hotel desk he asked for room with bath.

“Something about five dollars, Mister--er--er?” inquired the official behind the register.

“Yes,” assented E. Van Tenner, and instantly felt a pang in the purse. “That is--ah--haven’t you anything for four dollars?”

“Oh, yes; we have some as low as that,” returned the clerk superciliously; “if----”

He left unfinished a conditional clause that obviously was designed to conclude--“you don’t feel that you can afford a good room.” So frail was E. Van Tenner’s humanity--let him that is without vanity cast the first stone--that he hesitated. He didn’t dare take out the beggar’s purse and look it in the face. But, then, neither did he dare look the supercilious hotel clerk in the face; that is, until----

“Reservation for J. Q. Smith; room and bath, three dollars,” said a brisk newcomer at his side; and another clerk answered promptly: “Yes, Mr. Smith; Room 1118.”

“I’ll take the four-dollar room,” said E. Van Tenner firmly; and the clerk, whose supercilious expression was worth thousands per year to the hotel, admitted defeat for once and said: “Very well; will you go up now?”

No; he decided that he would lunch at once; but first he would wash up. In the washroom he was beset by a human bluebottle who buzzed round him with a futile and superfluous whisk broom, despite his protests, and all but blocked his way when he sought an egress without paying for it in the form of a tip. But the spirit in the purse was having its way with E. Van Tenner now, and an inspired inquiry as to whether the brush brigand was of military age removed him from the path.

The next obstacle was more formidable. The door of the café was guarded by two young and unbeautiful descendants of the horseleech’s daughters. Always before he had contributed automatically in response to their unspoken “Give! Give!” though he knew that he was only enriching some unknown capitalist in the background who rented this particular blackmailing privilege from the hotel for eight thousand dollars per year. But--what would the fearsome beggar’s purse say or do should he attempt to extract the minimum of ten cents to protect him from their cackle of disdain? Fortified as he was he could now face the contempt of man but not of these befrizzled Amazons. Yet to pass them while retaining possession of hat and coat was impossible. Already their grasping hands were extended for his apparel. E. Van Tenner turned and fled.

Do not assume, however, that his retreat was caused by cowardice alone. Ingenuity, doubtless instigated by the beggar’s purse, is entitled to half credit. E. Van Tenner took the elevator--free--to his room and hung his hat and coat--gratis--in the clothes press. The room, he noted with satisfaction, was precisely the same as the five-dollar variety except that it was a few floors higher. He entered one dollar saved on room, ten cents each on washroom and coat check; and descending passed, unarmored but unscathed, the gantlet of the disarmed horseleech’s great-granddaughters. Already his total was two dollars and eighty cents. Good progress toward one stamp!

Upon his return to the room to resume his cast-off garments some indefinite discomfort in the region of his left big toe attracted E. Van Tenner’s unfavorable notice. Could the magic wallet have established connections in that quarter? It seemed highly improbable. Investigation supplied a simpler reason--a large hole yawned in his sock. A block distant was a high-class department store. Thither he made his way, and was presently applying a rather exigent taste in hosiery to the consideration of some chastely fancy designs in striped silk. Three dollars was about his usual price. But, came the chilling thought, what would the purse say or do? Tentatively he drew it forth. It made no protest. The legend “What’s the good?” had lost its accusing aspect.

“After all,” reflected E. Van Tenner, “the beggar said that I wasn’t to scrimp myself.” Then to the clerk: “I’ll take this pair.”

Still maintaining, strict neutrality the wallet gave of its wealth. He returned it to his breast pocket.

“Will you take them with you, sir?” asked the salesman.

“No. Send them to----Ouch!”

“To where?” The man lifted startled eyes above a poised pencil.

“I’ll have them sent to the----Ugh!”

It was most astounding! The magic purse, quiescent during the deal, was now catching at his breath like an ice-water douche over the heart. Had it gone back on the bargain? Must he give up those chaste yet sprightly socks? Not without a struggle.

“Could you deliver them this afternoon?”

“We could if it isn’t too far.”

“Then have them sent to----Oh, Lord! No use!”

“Are you ill, sir?” asked the floorwalker, approaching anxiously.

Some unknown incitement forced a question to E. Van Tenner’s lips: “See here, does it cost you anything to deliver goods?”

“Certainly. In time and labor from twelve cents per package upward.”

So that was it! The magic was working beyond the limits of his own exchequer. Obviously it didn’t propose to sit by and watch him waste anybody’s money, even a store’s.

“I’ll take them with me,” said he. “Thank you, sir,” said the floorman.

As he departed with his purchase E. Van Tenner felt a sensation as if a very soft and satisfied kitten were purring against his chest. “All right,” said he, speaking down his shirt front; “but don’t you get too dictatorial.” Business took up the rest of the afternoon; business in which the purse played an honorable and unprotesting part, though its course at one point called for a taxi expenditure of something more than two dollars. That, however, was to save necessary time. E. Van Tenner was relieved to find the magic receptacle so reasonable. He began to feel that he could live on terms of amity and confidence with it indefinitely. But when he came to pay the chauffeur the wallet produced the exact amount with a precision that he could not but feel to be significant. In vain did he search for a tip.

“What’s the good?” demanded his mentor. “What’s the good of making a present to a man in whom you have no possible interest and who hasn’t done anything that he isn’t paid to do by his employer?”

“Not the slightest,” admitted E. Van Tenner in the face of the disgusted taxi man; and even added cheerfully: “That’s the precise amount, I believe.”

So swiftly and blithely does one become hardened to impotent scorn! Thus was twenty-five cents added to the mounting record.

His evening was free. He decided upon a light and hasty dinner, followed by the theater--if the magical arbiter would permit. By repeating his simple expedient of leaving his outer apparel in his room he eluded the coat-check impost, and genially smiled at the disgruntled Amazons, who seemed to be asking each other whether this comparatively nude intruder had perhaps pawned his overcoat.

“Dry Martini,” ordered E. Van Tenner upon seating himself. Instantly and miraculously the beggar’s wallet seemed to have dropped from his vest pocket to the pit of his stomach, upon which it pressed with a destructive insistence.

“Wait a moment!” said its proprietor slave hastily to the waiter; then added in a low but indignant undertone: “See here! It isn’t your affair to censor my morals and habits. You’re a committee on finance, and that’s all!” He plucked forth the purse into the light of day. “What’s the good?” it inquired with an air of sweet reasonableness.

E. Van Tenner reflected. After all, what was the good? Either he had an appetite for dinner, in which case he didn’t need the cocktail; or else he needed the cocktail to create an appetite for dinner, in which case it was high time that he quit the habit. Hadn’t the beggar distinctly told him that he needn’t give up anything which he wouldn’t be better off without. “Never mind the Martini,” said he wearily? During dinner he looked over the theatrical advertisements in his paper, and hesitating between those classically named productions whereto a discriminating public taste is addressed, Atta Boy, Oh, Slush, and Gertie’s Green Garters, fixed upon the latter. He must now retrieve his coat and hat, upon which he had saved another dime. Ascending to his room he switched on the lights, got into his outer garments, locked his door and started for the elevator. A slight but insistent cramp in the pocketbook halted him. What could that mean? He wasn’t spending any money. If it was a protest against theatergoing it was premature. Let it wait till he got to the theater! He started again, and caught his breath over a more pronounced pang. His eyes, turning upward, were arrested by the glowing glass of his transom. To be sure! He had left the lights on, thereby wasting coal for the hotel--upon which he had already saved a dollar and fifty-five cents.

“You are certainly some little economist!” he murmured to the occupant of his pocket as he returned and left the room in darkness.

At the theater a ducal personage behind a grille negligently informed him that there was nothing available in the orchestra before a week from Wednesday; but an undistinguished individual in the lobby--who may or may not have been there for that very purpose--mentioned that the Bilbosh Agency had some good seats. Thither went E. Van Tenner. Yes; the agency had a few seats left. There was one in the eighth row, three dollars and thirty cents, please. At the mention of the price the beggar’s purse leaped from E. Van Tenner’s hand and fell flat on its face upon the floor.