One day in May Hans came into Hal’s room with a letter from his sister who had come to New York to be present at the wedding of a former schoolmate to take place in Brooklyn, the next week. She asked Hans to come down to New York the following Thursday and accompany her to the wedding. She was visiting some friends who lived in one of the New York suburbs and wrote that she would meet him at the Grand Central Station at two o’clock in the afternoon, and he could then take her over to Brooklyn to be present at the wedding, which was to be at four o’clock.

Hans had never been in New York before, and hesitated quite a little about making the trip alone, and wanted Hal to go along. Hal couldn’t afford to spend the time or money just then, and reminded Hans that his sister had been in New York before and probably knew how to get around the best way, and he needn’t be nervous. He thought all Hans’ sister wanted him for anyhow, was as escort.

So Hans wrote he would be there on time and made his preparations for the trip to the big city. While he was getting ready he got more and more excited. Like most boys he didn’t care anything about the wedding, in fact, he’d rather be going for most any other reason, but he thought he might stay over Sunday if he got along all right, and see some of the shows.

“Perhaps I’ll have time to see the Out Door Weekly and get a job for both of us canvassing for subscriptions in our spare time,” he said.

On Thursday morning, bright and early, he took the train for New York, which left at five o’clock, but he was not so early but that Hal was up also to bid him good-by.

“Look out for the confidence men,” said Hal, as Hans was leaving the house. “If any fellow walks up to you at the station down there and says, ‘Well! Well! if it isn’t my old friend Hagner’s son Hans! How are you, Hans?’ you’d better just walk by and not notice him.”

“Oh! I know those fellows,” said Hans. “I’ll see you Monday, and if I don’t have any other trouble but confidence men, it will be easy.”

But when Hal was going out to chapel the next morning whom should he meet on the doorstep but Hans with his grip in his hand, and looking glum and discouraged.

“What! did they get you so soon as all this?” asked Hal.

“Oh! don’t talk to me any more about the delights of New York,” answered Hans, and that was all Hal could get out of him about his trip for nearly three days.

By Sunday evening, though, things began to thaw out with Hans. The boys were both in Hagner’s room, writing their weekly letters home, telling the folks all about the troubles of the past few days, and also some of the good things that had happened during the week.

Hans had finished his letter with a sigh, as he evidently wasn’t quite over his New York experience, and had leaned his head back against the cushions in the Morris chair and was thinking. All at once he said, “I have a letter here from my sister which I got yesterday, but haven’t opened yet, because it probably has a lot in it about my trip to New York, and I don’t care to hear any more about that.”

“Better read it,” said Hal. “It isn’t fair to people who write you letters not to at least read them.”

“I suppose I’ll have to read it some time,” said Hans, and he opened the letter and started to read it. Hal went on with his writing for a while undisturbed, and then he heard Hans begin to chuckle to himself. From chuckling he turned to laughing to himself and finally to laugh out loud. Then he said, “Well, I guess it depends altogether on how you put it. This letter from my sister tells something about my trip to New York. It puts it in an altogether different light than I had thought of it before, and come to think of it, it’s really funny, after it is all over.”

“I’ve been dying to ask you what happened,” said Hal, “but your face during the past three days has been dark enough to keep anyone from asking questions. I suppose father’s friends from way back home got you anyhow.”

“No, I didn’t see any confidence men,” answered Hans. “What got me was that I went all the way to New York to attend a wedding and to see some of the sights of the town over Sunday and here I am back at Lowell again within twenty-four hours, without seeing either the wedding or any of the sights and just about $25 to the bad.”

“How could that happen?” asked Hal, showing much interest.

“Well, it was this way,” said Hans. “I got to the Grand Central Station all right about one o’clock. The sun was shining and I was feeling pretty good. There were lots of people coming and going, and the streets outside were so crowded I thought sure there was going to be a parade. About half past one it started to rain and it rained harder than it ever rains in Texas. Of course I didn’t have any rubbers or umbrella along, and when my sister got there she didn’t have any either. It wasn’t raining and didn’t look like rain when she left the house where she was visiting.

“She was all dressed up in her finest dress, with big hat, and looked very pretty, but I couldn’t take her on a street car in that kind of weather, and so I said, ‘I guess we’ll have to take a cab.’ She said under the circumstances she would go in a cab, but that she would pay for it, because she knew I couldn’t have very much money, I guess, and she gave me her pocketbook with some money in it. I told her she had better come with me and we would find the best way to get there. She said we had better take the Twenty-third Street Ferry to Broadway, Brooklyn, and thought it would be cheaper to take one cab to the ferry, then ride across on the boat, and get another cab on the other side. So I asked a cabby to take us to the Twenty-third Street Ferry and after we had been riding for about ten minutes we got there, and when I asked him how much I owed him he said ‘Three Aces,’ and I said ‘What?’ and he said ‘Three Dollars.’ So I paid the three dollars out of sister’s money (she had fifteen dollars), though I felt like fighting, and we rode across the East River on the ferryboat.

“When we got over on the Brooklyn side it was raining harder than ever, and I went out to look for a cab. There was none in sight, so I telephoned to six livery stables, but there wasn’t any to be had. And there we were, stuck in Brooklyn in the ferryhouse and the rain coming down like anything, and no cabs.

“I said ‘we better walk,’ but sis said ‘no, she had an idea’; and she started for the entrance to the ferryhouse, where I saw a string of carriages approaching. When I caught up to her I saw it was a lot of carriages bringing people back from a funeral, and sister was busy talking to the driver of one of them. Finally we explained things to the people inside, and they consented to let us have their carriage, and they thought they could get a carriage on the New York side, although it was queer to change a funeral carriage into one to go to a wedding. When we got in I told the driver where we wanted to go, and he sort of smiled, but, of course, I didn’t know what about. I soon found out though, as after he had gone about four blocks and turned one corner the carriage stopped, and the driver got down and opened the door, saying we were there. I hadn’t asked him how much it would be, but told him to wait for us, as it was time for the wedding and we only expected to be there for a little while.

“The building was one of those apartment houses, my sister told me—a brand new building with elevators and boys with brass buttons, and all that. This was my first sight of an apartment house—this was the kind which had little apartments—four rooms and bath, and the young couple who were getting married had furnished it up very nicely, and were going to start housekeeping right after the wedding. Because they had only a little room, they had rented or obtained the use of the apartment next door, for people to leave their wraps. The boy showed us in there.

“A maid showed sister into one room and me into another, and said, ‘There is a brush and comb and clothesbrush in the bath-room if you need one.’ I needed it because I was pretty wet, and my hair was rumpled. I went into the bath-room, and, of course, turned the bolt in the door. I brushed my clothes and combed my hair, and then started to get out. When I tried to turn the bolt it wouldn’t budge. You see this apartment had never been occupied and this bolt in the door had never been tried, so when I had turned it to lock it, it had worked all right, but when I tried to unlock it, it had stuck tight in the door and I couldn’t budge it. I tried and tried until my fingers were worn sore and still I was in there.

“The weather was warm and I was perspiring like a horse after a race. I pounded on the door but nobody could hear me, because everybody but sister and the maid had gone in to the wedding. Sister and the maid were waiting in the other end of the apartment for me and didn’t hear me. After about fifteen minutes I began to kick the door and holler. By that time sister had begun looking for me, and came to the door. She asked me why I didn’t come out, and I said I was locked in, and I told her to find somebody. I saw at once that I might be in there an hour or two, so I said she had better go down and pay off the cabby.

“She said I had all the money, so I slipped a ten-dollar bill (hers) under the door and she went downstairs to pay him off. He took the ten dollars and drove off, and that’s the last we saw of him or any part of the ten dollars, as he took advantage of the rain and my sister to drive away. Sister came up excited and told me about that and I commenced to get madder than ever. Also I kept getting warmer. Finally sister came and said that she had sent for the janitor to come up with a monkey-wrench.

“While we were waiting for the janitor the wedding had taken place and the news got around that one of the guests was locked in the bath-room. That broke up the reception more or less and the whole crowd came over to the other apartment, and stood in front of the bath-room door, to advise me how to get out. After half an hour, the janitor came, but there was no way for him to get the monkey-wrench to me. Finally, he said he would go round to the other apartment across the airshaft and if I would hang out of the window on one side, he would do the same on the other and I could reach the monkey-wrench. We did this, and both of us got soaked good and hard by the rain, but I managed to get hold of the wrench by hanging onto the window-sill by my toes. I was pretty mad by that time, but I knew I’d get out quick now, so I walked up to the door, put the wrench on the knob which was flat on both sides, and gave her a mighty twist, and crack! the knob broke off, and I was worse off than ever.

“Then the people outside suggested taking the hinges off the door, which was a good idea, but it would take more than a wrench to get the pins out, so the janitor started for a screw-driver. After another half hour he appeared at the window across the airshaft again, and I got the screw-driver and another ducking from the rain, and started to work on the pins.

“They had been put in to stay, but I managed to get them out in three quarters of an hour, and told the folks outside to push. They pushed, but the door wouldn’t budge. You see the bolt in the other side of the door was just long enough to hold the door tight and it couldn’t be opened even then.

“By that time it was seven o’clock and the janitor got an axe and broke out the lower panels with that, and I finally crawled out. Just as I did so three policemen came into the apartment and outside I could hear the fire gongs. Somebody looked out of the window and there was a hook and ladder company, which had come in answer to the telephone call of one of the guests, and were going to get me out by way of the bath-room window. The wedding, however, was over, the bride was in hysterics, and there was nothing left to do, since it was still raining hard, but to get another cab back to New York in the hope of getting to the station in time to enable sister to catch the 8.03 train for Westchester, the town she was visiting in, and where they were giving a card party in her honor that night. I was to go, too.

“We arrived at the station at exactly 8.04 P. M. The cab fare was five dollars. The next train she could get would be 9.30, and we hadn’t had a bite to eat since noon. There was nothing to do but have some dinner, which I was in no mood for. We went to one of the hotels near by and ate a little something. When the waiter brought the bill, it was nine dollars and eighty cents, and I never paid over fifty cents for a good dinner in my life. I had paid out eighteen dollars in cash for three different cab rides—one of ten minutes, three dollars; one of five minutes, ten dollars; and one of an hour, five dollars. Fifteen dollars of this was sister’s money. The dinner cost me nine dollars and eighty cents, which made twelve dollars and eighty cents of my own money I had spent on a wedding which I didn’t see, and on a trip to New York on which I saw nothing but a lot of thieving cabbies.

“By that time I was so angry I was red in the face, and the madder I got the more sister laughed, until I got out of patience with her and put her on the train, while I took the sleeper for Lowell, and I have been mad at things in general ever since, until now I begin to think it was laughable myself, after it is all over, though it cost a lot of money, and I didn’t see much of the big city.”

While Hans was telling this Hal sat in his chair and roared and laughed until he couldn’t laugh any more. It must have been awfully funny with Hans telling it in his own peculiar way. Hal said finally he thought Hans had had a pretty good time riding around in cabs all day just like a real New Yorker, but Hans said he had enough of riding in cabs, and he didn’t like weddings anyhow.

After a little while, Hal finished his letter and went into his own room. Then he sat down to write the story of Hans’ experience in New York to his folks. He started in with a new sheet of paper and just for fun he wrote it out like a story, heading and all. The heading was like this:

Going to a Wedding in Brooklyn from New York, U. S. A.

By Harold Case

Then he wrote out the story very much as Hans had told it to him, adding a touch here and there as the funny side of it occurred to him again, and when he had finished it he started to put it in the letter which he had written to his folks at home. What he really did, however, was to make a mistake through pure carelessness which, had he only known it, was to cause him not only a lot of joy but a great deal of happiness.

He had addressed a letter to the editor of the Out Door Weekly in New York for terms to agents soliciting subscriptions to the magazine, as Hans and he had talked about before Hans’ trip to New York. The scheme was for Hans and himself to try to get orders for the magazine by the year from the people who lived in near-by towns, and the letter had to be written, now that Hans had come back from New York without seeing the people. Now when he came to put the story about Hans, intended only for his folks, in the letter he had written them, he picked up the wrong envelope and stuck the story in the envelope addressed to the editor of the Out Door Weekly, and the letter he intended for the editor he put in the envelope addressed to his folks along with his regular letter. Then he mailed them and went to bed.

About a week later, among the letters received by Hal was one from the Out Door Weekly, and Hal opened it to see what they had to say about the job of getting subscriptions which they had asked for. When he opened the letter something dropped out of it to the floor, and upon picking it up found it was a check for $250, made out to Harold Case. Of course, he didn’t understand this so he opened the letter, and this is what he read:

Hal couldn’t understand it and so he took the letter, check and all, into Hans’ room, and asked him what he made out of it.

“Guess somebody made a $250 mistake,” said Hans.

“They certainly have got me mixed up with some author,” answered Hal. “I didn’t send them any story. The only thing I have sent to this magazine is the letter which you asked me to write about the job as agents for their magazine.”

“Well, have you written any stories to anybody?” asked Hans.

“Not that I know of,” answered Hal. “The only story I have written lately was this. When you told me the tale of your New York visit the other night I sat down in my room afterwards and wrote it all out, and sent it to the folks, thinking they would enjoy it. They feel as though they know you as well as I do by this time.”

“I have it,” said Hans. “I’ll bet I know what you have done. You went and put the letter for the magazine in the letter to your folks and you put the story about me in the envelope addressed to the magazine, and they’re going to publish that story about me all over the country.”

“I don’t suppose I could make a mistake like that,” said Hal.

“Well, I don’t suppose you could either. But say, wouldn’t it be a lucky mistake if you had done it. Think of making a mistake like that and getting $250 for it. Think of being an author and not knowing it. That would be rich. If you did make that mistake I think I ought to lick the stuffing out of you for advertising me all over the country.”

“All right; but say, maybe I did make that mistake. Guess I am not entitled to this check unless I did do something for it, but what on earth anybody would want to pay $250 for that kind of a story for, I don’t quite see. Now if I did make that mistake and they think enough of the story to pay $250, it would look foolish, wouldn’t it, for me to write them now and tell them they made a mistake. Wouldn’t the best way be to wait until Saturday when the next number of the Weekly appears, and we can then see what story they refer to. And say, if that should be so, and I made the mistake the way you guess, I’ll give you half of the profits provided you agree not to lick me. Anyway, there’s no other name mentioned but just Hans.”

So they decided to hold the check and wait for the next number of the magazine which was five days off. They were very much excited about it. They could hardly wait until Saturday came. On Friday Hal got a letter from his folks in answer to the one he had mailed ten days before, and in it his father returned him the letter addressed to the magazine in which they had asked for a job as agents.

Hal then knew he had made a mistake in inclosing the letters and had sent the story about Hans to the magazine. It began to look like the $250 check was really his, by the greatest possible luck. The next morning they could hardly wait for the news store to open. They were both on hand before the doors were unlocked. When the place was opened they found the magazine wouldn’t arrive until ten o’clock. That was four hours to wait. They went home to breakfast but were on hand promptly when the package arrived from the depot, and eagerly bought a copy. Hal turned the pages one after the other until he came to a story headed:

“To a Brooklyn Wedding and Back Again”

A Story from Real Life about Hans

By Harold Case

“There she is,” said Hal. “Now what do you think of that?” They read it through together. Eight whole pages. It was almost exactly as Hal had written it. The editor had changed a word here and there and it was illustrated with imaginative pictures of Hans at the Grand Central, Hans dealing with the driver of the funeral coach, Hans hanging out of the bath-room window, and every kind of way.

“By George,” said Hans. “You are an author and it would be rude to lick an author, but you won’t have to canvass for the magazine subscribers for a month or two anyhow.”

“Well, you won’t either,” said Hal. “We’ll divide it up and when the money’s spent, I’ll send you on another trip to New York, and if you can get something else to happen to you, I may be able to get another story.”

Then they went down to the bank and had the check cashed and Hal counted out one hundred and twenty-five dollars which he gave to Hans who immediately put his in the bank again, to his own credit, while Hal rolled his up, put a rubber band around it and stuffed it in his trousers’ pocket.