The Fighting Chance
Public-domain ebook
The Fighting Chance
Language: en1,030 downloads on Project Gutenberg
Subjects
In: Bestsellers, American, 1895-1923·Novels
Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #7492.
About this book
The Fighting Chance is a social‑fiction vignette set against the bustling bustle of a New York train station in early autumn. The narrative opens with an absent‑minded young man, Mr Siward, alighting from a Pullman car, his gun case and suitcase in hand, as a chorus of “Shotover!” echoes through the platform. He wanders amid a kaleidoscope of wagons, omnibuses, and gleaming automobiles while a garden of geraniums and cannas frames the scene. A frantic white setter in a travel crate draws his attention, leading to a comic exchange with a bewildered groom and the arrival of Miss Landis in a phaeton. Their brief conversation about the dog, the crate, and the logistics of travel quickly gives way to a light‑hearted partnership as Siward secures the animal, climbs aboard, and the carriage lurches away, setting the stage for a tale of acquaintances, sport, and the subtle intrigues of upper‑class leisure.
The prose reflects the turn‑of‑the‑century American style, with a leisurely, dialogue‑driven rhythm and a touch of colloquial dialect that captures the era’s social manners. Its detailed description of the station’s mechanical bustle, combined with the witty banter between Siward and Miss Landis, creates a vivid portrait of genteel recreation and the quirks of a society preoccupied with hunting, dogs, and polite flirtation. Readers who enjoy period pieces that blend social observation with light adventure, particularly those fascinated by early 1900s New York life, the rituals of country sport, and the charm of character‑driven dialogue, will find this opening inviting.
Characters in The Fighting Chance
- Mr SiwardYoung gentleman in early‑1900s tailcoat, waistcoat, bowler hat, holding leather gun case and suitcase
- Miss LandisElegant lady in Edwardian day dress, wide‑brimmed hat with feather, stepping from a phaeton
The opening · free to read
“Shotover! Shotover!” rang the far cry along the cars; and an absent-minded young man in the Pullman pocketed the uncut magazine he had been dreaming over and, picking up gun case and valise, followed a line of fellow-passengers to the open air, where one by one they were engulfed and lost to view amid the gay confusion on the platform.
The absent-minded young man, however, did not seem to know exactly where he was bound for. He stood hesitating, leisurely inspecting the flashing ranks of vehicles--depot wagons, omnibusses, and motor cars already eddying around a dusty gravel drive centred by the conventional railroad flower bed and fountain.
Sunshine blazed on foliage plants arranged geometrically, on scarlet stars composed of geraniums, on thickets of tall flame-tinted cannas. And around this triumph of landscape gardening, phaeton, Tilbury, Mercedes, and Toledo backed, circled, tooted; gaily gowned women, whips aslant, horses dancing, greeted expected guests; laughing young men climbed into dog-carts and took the reins from nimble grooms; young girls, extravagantly veiled, made room in comfortable touring-cars for feminine guests whose extravagant veils were yet to be unpacked; slim young men in leather trappings, caps adorned with elaborate masks or goggles, manipulated rakish steering-gears; preoccupied machinists were fussing with valve and radiator or were cranking up; and, through the jolly tumult, the melancholy bell of the locomotive sounded, and the long train moved out through the September sunshine amid clouds of snowy steam.
And all this time the young man, gun case in one hand, suit case in the other, looked about him in his good-humoured, leisurely manner for anybody or any vehicle which might be waiting for him. His amiable inspection presently brought a bustling baggage-master within range of vision; and he spoke to this official, mentioning his host's name.
“Lookin' for Mr. Ferrall?” repeated the baggage-master, spinning a trunk dexterously into rank with its fellows. “Say, one of Mr. Ferrall's men was here just now--there he is, over there uncrating that there bird-dog!”
The young man's eyes followed the direction indicated by the grimy thumb; a red-faced groom in familiar livery was kneeling beside a dog's travelling crate, attempting to unlock it, while behind the bars an excited white setter whined and thrust forth first one silky paw then the other.
The young man watched the scene for a moment, then:
“Are you one of Mr. Ferrall's men?” he asked in his agreeable voice.
The groom opened his mouth to speak, but Siward took the crate key from his fingers, knelt, and tried the lock. It resisted. From the depths of the crate a beseeching paw fell upon his cuff.
“Certainly, old fellow,” he said soothingly, “I know how you feel about it; I know you're in a hurry--and we'll have you out in a second--steady, boy!--something's jammed, you see! Only one moment now! There you are!”
The dog attempted to bolt as the crate door opened, but the young man caught him by the leather collar and the groom snapped on a leash.
“Beg pardon, Sorr,” began the groom, carried almost off his feet by the frantic circling of the dog--“beg pardon, Sorr, but I'll be afther seem' if anny of Mr. Ferrall's men drove over for you--”
“Oh! Are you not one of Mr. Ferrall's men?”
“Yis, Sorr, but I hadn't anny orders to meet anny wan--”
“Haven't you anything here to drive me in?”
“Yis, Sorr--I'll look to see--”
The raw groom, much embarrassed, and keeping his feet with difficulty against the plunging dog, turned toward the gravel drive where now only a steam motor and a depot-wagon remained. As they looked the motor steamed out, honking hoarsely; the depot-wagon followed, leaving the circle at the end of the station empty of vehicles.
“Didn't Mr. Ferrall expect me?” asked Siward.
“Aw, yis, Sorr; but the gintlemen for Shotover House does ginerally allways coom by Black Fells, Sorr--”
“Oh, Lord!” said the young man, “I remember now. I should have gone on to Black Fells Crossing; Mr. Ferrall wrote me!” Then, amused: “I suppose you have only a baggage-wagon here?”
“No, Sorr--a phayton”--he hesitated.
“Well? Isn't a phaeton all right?”
“Yis, Sorr--if th' yoong lady says so--beg pardon, Sorr, Miss Landis is driving.”
“Oh--h! I see. … Is Miss Landis a guest at Shotover House?”
“Yis, Sorr. An' if ye would joost ask her--the phayton do be coming now, Sorr!”
The phaeton was coming; the horse, a showy animal, executed side-steps; blue ribbons fluttered from the glittering head-stall; a young girl in white was driving.
Siward advanced to the platform's edge as the phaeton drew up; the young lady looked inquiringly at the groom, at the dog, and leisurely at him.
So he took off his hat, naming himself in that well-bred and agreeable manner characteristic of men of his sort,--and even his smile appeared to be part and parcel of a conventional ensemble so harmonious as to remain inconspicuous.
“You should have gone on to Black Fells Crossing,” observed Miss Landis, coolly controlling the nervous horse. “Didn't you know it?”
He said he remembered now that such were the directions given him.
The girl glanced at him incuriously, and with more curiosity at the dog. “Is that the Sagamore pup, Flynn?” she asked.
“It is, Miss.”
“Can't you take him on the rumble with you?” And, to Siward: “There is room for your gun and suit case.”
“And for me?” he asked, smiling.
“I think so. Be careful of that Sagamore pup, Flynn. Hold him between your knees. Are you ready, Mr. Siward?”
So he climbed in; the groom hoisted the dog to the rumble and sprang up behind; the horse danced and misbehaved, making a spectacle of himself and an agreeable picture of his driver; then the pretty little phaeton swung northward out of the gravel drive and went whirling along a road all misty with puffs of yellow dust which the afternoon sun turned to floating golden powder.
“Did you send my telegram, Flynn?” she asked without turning her head.
“I did, Miss.”
It being the most important telegram she had ever sent in all her life, Miss Landis became preoccupied,--quite oblivious to extraneous details, including Siward, until the horse began acting badly again. Her slightly disdainful and perfect control of the reins interested the young man. He might have said something civil and conventional about that, but did not make the effort to invade a reserve which appeared to embarrass nobody.
A stacatto note from the dog, prolonged infinitely in hysterical crescendo, demanded comment from somebody.
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