O. Henry, The Man Who Hid His Name

He wrote under the pseudonym to escape the disgrace of once being jailed for bank fraud. He fled to Honduras on the eve of his trial for embezzlement, but returned to the States when he heard his wife was dying. Post editor George Horace Lorimer bought “The Ransom of Red Chief” from Porter in 1907. He was so eager to get an O. Henry story that he broke his own rule of never paying an author in advance. The story is told by one of a pair of crooks who plan to kidnap a child and collect an easy thousand dollars in ransom — until they find out what a demon the boy is. The boy continually pesters the men with his slingshot and practical jokes. He wants to play Indian, insists on being called Red Chief, and tries to scalp one of the kidnappers. While Sam awaits the payoff, Bill has the unpleasant job of keeping Red Chief amused.

“The Ransom of Red Chief: The Tale of a Reformed Kidnapper” by O. Henry

I opened the note, got near the lantern and read it to Bill. It was written with a pen in a crabbed hand, and the sum and substance of it was this:

Two Desperate Men.

Gentlemen: I received your letter today by post, in regard to the ransom you ask for the return of my son. I think you are a little high in your demands, and I hereby make you a counter-proposition, which I am inclined to believe you will accept. You bring Johnny home and pay me two hundred and fifty dollars in cash, and I agree to take him off your hands.

You had better come at night, for the neighbors believe he is lost, and I couldn’t be responsible for what they would do to anybody they saw bringing him back.

Very respectfully,
EBENEZER DORSET.

“Great pirates of Penzance!” says I; “of all the impudent —”

But I glanced at Bill, and hesitated. He had the most ­appealing look in his eyes I ever saw on the face of a dumb or talking brute.

“Sam,” says he, “what’s two hundred and fifty dollars, after all? We’ve got the money. One more night of this kid will send me to a bed in Bedlam. Besides being a thorough gentleman, I think Mr. Dorset is a spendthrift for making us such a liberal offer. You ain’t going to let the chance go, are you?”

“Tell you the truth, Bill,” says I, “this little he ewe lamb has somewhat got on my nerves, too. We’ll take him home, pay the ransom and make our get-away.”

We took him home that night. We got him to go by telling him that his father had bought a silver-mounted rifle and a pair of moccasins for him, and we were going to hunt bears the next day.

It was just twelve o’clock when we knocked at Ebenezer’s front door. Just at the moment when I should have been abstracting the fifteen hundred dollars from the box under the tree, according to the original proposition, Bill was counting out two hundred and fifty dollars into Dorset’s hand.

When the kid found out we were going to leave him at home he started up a howl like a calliope and fastened himself as tight as a leech to Bill’s leg. His father peeled him away gradually, like a porous plaster.

“How long can you hold him?” asks Bill.

“I am not as strong as I used to be,” says old Dorset, “but I think I can promise you ten minutes.”

“Enough,” says Bill. “In ten minutes I shall cross the Central, Southern and Middle Western States, and be legging it trippingly for the Canadian border.”

And, as dark as it was, and as fat as Bill was, and as good a runner as I am, he was a good mile and a half out of Summit before I could catch up with him.

— Excerpted from The Saturday Evening Post short story originally published on July 6, 1907

This article is featured in the January/February 2026 issue of The Saturday Evening Post. Subscribe to the magazine for more art, inspiring stories, fiction, humor, and features from our archives.