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The Naked Man
by
The ethics of the question did not concern Fred. He did not weigh his duty to the State of New York, or to society. One day, when he had visited “the institution,” as a somewhat sensitive neighborhood prefers to speak of it, he was told that the chance of a prisoner’s escaping from Sing Sing and not being at once retaken was one out of six thousand. So with Fred it was largely a sporting proposition. Any man who could beat a six-thousand-to-one shot commanded his admiration.
And, having settled his own course of action, he tried to imagine himself in the place of the man who at that very moment was endeavoring to escape. Were he that man, he would first, he decided, rid himself of his tell-tale clothing. But that would leave him naked, and in Westchester County a naked man would be quite as conspicuous as one in the purple-gray cloth of the prison. How could he obtain clothes? He might hold up a passer-by, and, if the passer-by did not flee from him or punch him into insensibility, he might effect an exchange of garments; he might by threats obtain them from some farmer; he might despoil a scarecrow.
But with none of these plans was Fred entirely satisfied. The question deeply perplexed him. How best could a naked man clothe himself? And as he sat pondering that point, from the bushes a naked man emerged. He was not entirely undraped. For around his nakedness he had drawn a canvas awning. Fred recognized it as having been torn from one of the row-boats in the lake. But, except for that, the man was naked to his heels. He was a young man of Fred’s own age. His hair was cut close, his face smooth-shaven, and above his eye was a half-healed bruise. He had the sharp, clever, rat-like face of one who lived by evil knowledge. Water dripped from him, and either for that reason or from fright the young man trembled, and, like one who had been running, breathed in short, hard gasps.
Fred was surprised to find that he was not in the least surprised. It was as though he had been waiting for the man, as though it had been an appointment.
Two thoughts alone concerned him: that before he could rid himself of his visitor his wife might return and take alarm, and that the man, not knowing his friendly intentions, and in a state to commit murder, might rush him. But the stranger made no hostile move, and for a moment in the moonlight the two young men eyed each other warily.
Then, taking breath and with a violent effort to stop the chattering of his teeth, the stranger launched into his story.
“I took a bath in your pond,” he blurted forth, “and–and they stole my clothes! That’s why I’m like this!”
Fred was consumed with envy. In comparison with this ingenious narrative how prosaic and commonplace became his own plans to rid himself of accusing garments and explain his nakedness. He regarded the stranger with admiration. But even though he applauded the other’s invention, he could not let him suppose that he was deceived by it.
“Isn’t it rather a cold night to take a bath?” he said.
As though in hearty agreement, the naked man burst into a violent fit of shivering.
“It wasn’t a bath,” he gasped. “It was a bet!”
“A what!” exclaimed Fred. His admiration was increasing. “A bet? Then you are not alone?”
“I am NOW–damn them!” exclaimed the naked one. He began again reluctantly. “We saw you from the road, you and a woman, sitting here in the light from that room. They bet me I didn’t dare strip and swim across your pond with you sitting so near. I can see now it was framed up on me from the start. For when I was swimming back I saw them run to where I’d left my clothes, and then I heard them crank up, and when I got to the hedge the car was gone!”