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Updated: June 28, 2025
"About a thousand, Gideon." "Well, I'd moughty like five hun'red of it, ef that's 'greeable to yo'." Felix whistled. "Five hundred? Pork-chops must be coming high. You don't want to carry all that money around, do you?" Gideon did not answer; he looked very gloomy. Stuhk hastened to cheer him. "Of course you can have anything you want. Wait a minute, and I will get it for you.
Off stage Gideon was watched over like a child and a delicate investment, but once behind the footlights he was allowed to go his own triumphant gait. It was small wonder that Stuhk deemed himself one of the cleverest managers in the business; that his narrow, blue-shaven face was continually chiseled in smiles of complacent self-congratulation.
Stuhk became a sort of vicarious neurotic, eternally searching for symptoms in his protégé; Gideon's tongue, Gideon's liver, Gideon's heart were matters to him of an unfailing and anxious interest. And of late of course it might be imagination Gideon had shown a little physical falling off. He ate a bit less, he had begun to move in a restless way, and, worst of all, he laughed less frequently.
"Gideon posi-tive-ly his las' puffawmunce." Turning, he dashed for a passing trolley, and, still laughing, swung aboard. He was naturally honest. In a land of easy morality his friends had accounted him something of a paragon; nor had Stuhk ever had anything but praise for him. But now he crushed aside the ethics of his intent without a single troubled thought.
Running away has always been inherent in the negro. He gave one regretful thought to the gorgeous wardrobe he was leaving behind him; but he dared not return for it. Stuhk might have taken it into his head to go back to their rooms. He must content himself with the reflection that he was at that moment wearing his best.
Ever since Stuhk had found him, life had had an unreal quality for him. His Monte Cristo wealth was too much like a fabulous, dream-found treasure, money that could not be spent without danger of awakening. And he had dropped into the habit of storing it about him, so that in any pocket into which he plunged his hand he might find a roll of crisp evidence of reality.
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